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˗ˏˋ ★ ― milly‼✦. ENFP ◞ 19!!

[therealflickerman]

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Hi!! my name is Milly, (19, she/her.) I’m an INFP, taurus, lover of 80's scifi horror and nerds.

thank you so much for supporting my work!!

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[luveline]

It's me again, sorry

I don't know if this is something you'd be interested in writing but I feel like I vaguely remember you having a fic with an autistic reader, and I was wondering if it would be okay for me to request something similar?

I don't have anything super specific in mind-maybe reader being diagnosed and how the boys react or reader dealing with sensory issues? Although I'm partial to Eddie, Steve, and Clark, it can be with any of the boys. I honestly love everything you write so you'll have no complaints from me.

thank you for taking the time to read this. I hope you have a wonderful week lovely girl

for you, my angel, you and steve cope with a ton of your sensory issues the best way you can. 1.7k, fem

Steve can’t pinpoint when it happens, it just happens. Slowly, over the course of the day, he can see your mood changing. One minute you’re there and the next minute you’ve gone into yourself, eyes glazed, your head downturned, sitting on the side of the bathtub as it fills with your hands clenched on your thighs. 

He stops brushing his teeth. 

Steve isn’t stupid. Not dumb, not half as unworldly as people assume. His dorks all think he’s the idiot of the group because he doesn’t know what a necromancer is, but Steve has actual real life experience, and he’s loved you for a little while now. He might not have understood the extra care you needed when you first met, but Steve’s your guy. He gets this. 

He spits and rinses his mouth, dries his hands on the towel. Then he reaches around you to turn off the faucet, returning the room to some semblance of silence. 

You make a hoarse humming sound, the meat of your palm digging into your thigh. 

Steve kneels down in front of you. He’s smiling at you before you find his gaze. You don’t smile back. 

“Too loud?”

You wet your lips. “It’s too everything,” you say. 

You warned him once that overstimulation makes you unkind. You’ll get annoyed at the world and it’ll sound like you blame him. It did break his heart, the first time it happened, but it’s not about him. He realised that pretty quickly, that you’re just not built for the amount of things you’ve experienced in one day sometimes. Steve thinks of it like this: throughout the day, he experiences a sensation and he puts it back down, while you experience sensation and aren’t able to put it down, not without the time and space to register that it needs to be put down in the first place. You end up carrying everything with you, all day long. Steve would be tired too. He’d need quiet, too, if it felt like everything that happened to him was happening all day long. 

You don’t sound mad, but you’re tight-voiced. Almost like the question annoyed you. It hasn’t, is the thing. Steve gives your knee a tiny stroke. When you don’t flinch, he rests his hand there. 

“Maybe you don’t need to have a bath tonight,” he says. “It can wait until the morning if the noise is gonna be too much, or you could wear your plugs or your defenders–”

“Can’t get them wet,” you say.

“Right, of course not. Sorry. Do you know what you need to do to feel better?” he asks hopefully.

“I need to not be warm, and to not be loud, and I need you to squeeze me,” you say, rubbing your thigh harder. Your eyelashes flutter. “Would that be okay?” you add quietly. 

“Yeah. I think that’s something we can do. Which one is the most important?"

“The sounds are most important.” You sniffle suddenly, your eyes filling with tears. “Sorry. Thank you. I just need it to be quiet for a bit.”

“I know, honey. I won’t talk, kay? Ear defenders first, everything else can wait.”

Steve’s pleasantly surprised when you slip your fingers between his. There are sensations you can deal with sometimes but not others, and his touch tends to be a no-go when you’re shutting down, so he’s happy you aren’t too deep into things to be able to stay connected. He guides you into your bedroom, pulling back the sheets on the bed right to the end so you can sit against a pillow with nothing else touching you. You climb into bed and start to take off your socks, bunching your legs up toward you. 

Steve fishes your ear defenders out of his nightstand and kneels beside you, careful not to make the mattress dip down. He slips them over your head and lines them up, and then he turns your face gently with his pinky finger. “Cold pack?” he murmurs. 

You read his lips, nodding. 

Steve gets the cold pack from the fridge. You’re out of your t-shirt when he returns, leaving you in your sweatpants and a vest. Steve wonders if you want out of the sweatpants, too, but if you have any leg hair it’ll annoy you, so he keeps his suggestions to himself and presses the cold pack to your tummy. You hold it right to your navel and sigh. There are tears in your eyes again, but Steve doesn’t wanna wipe them and be the overbearer who doesn’t trust you to look after yourself. Then he realises he’s the boyfriend who loves you and does it anyhow, so, so gently. 

You nod at him. “Can you squeeze me, please?” you ask, your voice gone to scratch paper. “If I can– if you can lie down, and I’ll lie on top of you, and you can squeeze me until it stops?” 

You sound like a ‘no’ would tear you to pieces. Steve just wants you to feel better. “Of course I can do that. Can you move over? Make me some room, honey.” 

Steve lays flat on the bed in the space you’ve made and you rush to lay yourself on top of him, forcing the cold pack into his stomach as well. It’s weird. Not you, not the experience, but the pressure. You’re not anything he’d ever want off of him, you could live like this for all Steve cares, but you’re a rigid weight from his chest to his ankles and he wonders if that’s what you feel like too. 

Steve gets his arms around your waist, crosses them, and takes a deep breath for you to copy. Then he squeezes you so hard that the air is forced out of both of you, and you nearly laugh. He does this five times in a row, until you rush out, “No, no more, please,” with a straggly breath. 

“Did I hurt you?” he asks. 

You push a cup from your defenders off of your ear. “Huh?”

“Sorry, honey, I’m just asking if I hurt you?”

“No.”

Steve relaxes. You replace the defender and lay yourself back down, slinky now, breathing hard like you’ve been holding your breath. In a way, you had been. Steve held it for you. The cold on his tummy emanates. 

He doesn’t love squeezing you so hard, but he knows how fast it works for you, and you like it. You’ll ask him to do it on good days, too, so he figures it’s no different to a massage for relief. You pant a couple times into his neck before laying your arms over his shoulders and against the side and top of his head, hugging him. 

Steve rubs your back. 

He thinks you're sleeping, staying very still, but after ten more minutes you take your defenders off and put them on his nightstand. “They really work, but they’re not comfortable,” you tell him softly.

“Could’ve got you your plugs.”

“They’re not as good.”

“You feeling any better?” he asks, though he can tell that you are. 

You sigh into his skin. “So much. But… can we be quiet, still? Just for now?”

If it means you won’t try to give yourself a bruise, he’ll glue his lips shut. “Sure, baby. I can be quiet. Can I rub your back more?” 

“Please. Can you dig your knuckles in?” 

Not as much as you might want him to, but sure. Steve’s happy to oblige you. “Mm-hm.”

It takes a full half an hour and all the cold of the cold pack before you’re regulated. Back to a baseline that isn’t tears. You shuffle up to move the cold away from both of your tummies and wrap him up in a cuddle so soft-hearted at its core that Steve wants to sweep you up and keep you by his chest forever. He holds you by the thigh to bring you upwards, your faces touching, your nose just above his and dragging into his skin. 

“You did such a great job,” he says under his breath. 

You fluster. “Don’t, I’m not a kid.”

“I know you’re not, but you did good. Yeah? You let yourself take the time you needed, and you didn’t get frustrated.” Didn’t try to rough yourself up, and didn’t cry more than a few (awful, heart-hurting) tears. You handled it really well. 

“Sorry it took me so long, Stevie,” you murmur. 

“I don’t care at all, not for you to be sorry, and not that it took a while. All I wanted was for you to feel like yourself again. You can’t do that if you’re worried about having to do that in a certain time period.”

You smile and press it into his cheek. “You’re being kind of perfect.” 

“It’s literally the minimum of what you deserve. You know that? I can take half an hour out of my day if it means you get to have a good one.”

“Always have a good day with you,” you say, clutching his neck and shoulders in your arm and your calmed hand. 

“That’s the goal.” 

“… was more than half an hour. Thank you. It’s good of you.” 

Steve sighs because he never wins this argument, but he doesn’t mind. You’re too pretty to fight with for long, and you must be so tired, even with your freshly regulated nervous system. He turns to get you on your side and kicks the blankets up until he can pull them over your waist, before he lays his hand over the centre of your belly, still cold. He’ll trace a shape there until your breathing evens. Steve has a ton of tricks to get you sleeping. 

“Why don’t you tell me about something?” he says behind the shell of your ear, his hand waving gently into your navel. “Tell me something fun.” 

“Are you trying to get me to sleep?”

“To rest, sure, but I wanna know, too. Tell me something fun,” he insists, before pressing a kiss behind your ear. “Or I can tell you something?” 

You twine your fingers over his warm hand and give in. “Okay, lovely boy. Tell me something about you.” 

[mrbusinessman-deactivated202603]

Are you still mine?

✧.* Jason Todd x afab!Reader

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ summary: On a peaceful quiet night, curled up in bed and content listening to the sound of rain patter outside, the last thing you expect is to have your soul jump out of your skin when a bloody hand slaps against your window. What you expect less is your boyfriend, Jason, to be on the other side bruised and bloodied and..wearing Red Hoods mask?

W.C: 2.4k (I don't know what happened.)

Peace in Gotham city is about as common as Batman dressed in a pink dress. Rare.

Tonight with the calm pitter-patter of rain falling against your bedroom window and being comfortably curled up in your blankets with a book in your lap and your cat curled up beside you, you suspect that this might be one of those rare times where peace has found you.

You flip a page in your book, it's one Jason recommended you. The story of two lovers being put through trial after trial in a test of love and strength. You and Jason traded books every week, it was one of many of your favorite things about your relationship with Jason.

Your radio plays a song softly beside you on your nightstand and you tap your finger on the back of your book in tempo with the song, humming the lyrics quietly to yourself.

The only thing that would make this night perfect is your boyfriend being in bed with you. You and Jason had been together for the last 3 months and he'd started staying over a few days a week, he was supposed to be there tonight but you figured he might have gotten busy and forgot to text you.

Your cat, Martin, shifts quickly. You pause as Martin's head lifts from his pillow and he abruptly jumps up, causing you to furrow your eyebrows.

"What's the matter Martin?" You speak gently, petting behind your cat's ear but his full attention is on your window on your side of the bed. You turn to gaze out of it, pulling your blankets back and standing cautiously before slowly walking towards your window.

Gazing out of it curiously, you see nothing out of the ordinary. The same grimey alleyway that your room faces, the familiar flickering streetlight at the end of the alleyway and the occasional stranger walking past the entrance to the alley.

Turning back to Martin, your lips curl up into a smile. Feeling a little better after checking for yourself that nothing was amiss.

"It's alright Martin, it's just a little thunder-"

A loud bang interrupts you, causing your heart to stop and you turn back to the window. A hand rests against the surface, big and bleeding and you let out a scream as you back away from the window.

The hand taps relentlessly against your window and you freeze, breaths escaping in quick, panicked puffs as you grab the baseball bat you keep by your dresser. Living in Gotham, you weren't dumb enough not to have a weapon in every room.

Slowly, you walk back to the glass. Hands wrapped firmly around the base of the bat as you quietly step up to the window. Your heart stops a second time at the sight of Red Hood holding on to the fire escape ladder and rapping his fist against your window now.

You don't let go of your bat but the fear you'd felt only moments ago slowly drifted away and you reached up to unlock the sliding glass.

Sliding the window open, you peek your head out and furrow your eyebrows at Red Hood who, to your surprise doesn't lean away and instead places one hand on your window sill as if he wants to pull himself in.

"What are you doing?" You ask confused, hand wrapping tighter around your baseball bat as Red Hood tilts his head up to look at you. You can't see his eyes with the mask on but if you could you'd imagine he was squinting right now.

"M' coming in? I'm feeling a little lightheaded out here so would you mind moving to the left?" His voice is a little drawled, as if he's slurring his words and a part of you wants to let him in just because he looks rather pitiful soaked through with rain.

You gnaw on your lip, eyes narrowing slightly as you consider the pros and cons of letting a vigilante into your apartment. It's only then you notice him using one hand to clutch his side and you gasp as blood seeps through his fingers.

Maybe it's the way you can hear his breathing hitch with every breath, maybe it's the way the wind picks up outside and you watch him away on the fire escape as if he's moments from falling or maybe you're just a little bit foolish but you slide the window open further and step away from the window.

Red Hood easily heaves himself into your room and for a second you swear you feel deja vu watching him land on your fluffy carpet as if he's done so a thousand times before.

The vigilante sways on his feet as his hands reach up to his mask and you watch him with bated breaths, hands loosening around the baseball bat as he seems to struggle with removing the mask before a quiet click sounds in the otherwise silent room and the mask lands on your floor with a dull thud.

You freeze, vision narrowing on the man standing in your room. Hands going slack around the baseball bat and lips parting as your boyfriend stands in front of you holding his bleeding side.

~

Jason had planned on telling you he was Red Hood, maybe not that moment but he'd known if there was anyone he felt deserved to know, it was you.

You, sweet and always willing to listen to him and always so calm and patient with him. The woman he doesn't know what he did to earn the right of calling you his but always makes it known when you both are out shopping or at your local library, whether that be by keeping a possessive hand on your waist or simply holding your hand while you both read in silence.

He'd known he could trust you with all his secrets the moment you'd looked at his scars not with fear or pity but with reverence. You'd run your fingers over the raised skin and pressed a kiss to each scar as if they were only another part of him you wanted to worship, and to you they were.

Now standing in front of you with a stab wound leaking blood all over your carpet, he hadn't quite thought about the aftermath of removing his mask in favor of simply wanting to see you clearly. Looking at you now, your eyes wide and slack-jawed, maybe he'd have thought it through a little better and maybe he would look back on this moment and wonder why you bothered with him at all.

Right now, all he wanted was to hold you, and maybe kiss you a little bit.

He took a swaying step towards you, wincing slightly as the wound in his side stretched with the movement. It wasn't particularly deep and it'd missed any vital entry points but it hurt like hell.

You're frozen in place, hands around the bat he'd bought you slack and he swallows roughly. Maybe this was the limit for you, maybe the idea of dating a vigilante who has enough blood on his hands to last a lifetime is the line you won't cross.

The thought made him pause, of course he'd thought about it, he'd had nightmares of you turning him away with a look of disgust or no expression at all, swearing that being with him was the biggest mistake of your life.

Jason's hand tightens around his side, the pain grounding him to the present. His jaw clenches and his eyes fall to the carpet under his feet, letting you study him and absorb the fact you've been dating one of Gotham's most feared vigilante's.

He hears the bat hit the floor with a quiet thud and still he doesn't raise his gaze in fear of the look on your face he's pictured so many times.

The quiet sound of your footsteps drawing closer makes him tense and he feels the urge to leave, to escape back through your window and disappear. Cursing himself silently for coming here in the first place, he hadn't thought about it, he'd just wanted you.

The feeling of your hands tugging on his hand over his wound draws him from his head and he blinks the dark spots from his vision in favor of finally sparing a glance at your face.

You don't look disgusted, your eyes are a little glassy but bright staring at the still bleeding wound his hand can't hide and then you're looking up at him. Those beautiful eyes that he's been drawn to from the start are staring up at him with concern and maybe it's just the blood loss making him feel hopeful but there's love in your gaze too, eyes shining with the emotion.

"We can talk about it, I want to talk about this, but I need to see the wound first." You say quietly, eyes flicking to his hand and back to his face and he sucks in a quiet breath before nodding.

Jason lets you lead him out of your room, half expecting you to walk him to the door instead of into your small bathroom but as you help him out of his torn leather jacket and out of his shirt, he slowly lets his muscles relax. You're not pushing him away, yet.

~

You rummage around under your sink, chewing on your lip as you pull out your first aid kit, thankful that Jason had convinced you to buy one after you'd fallen and hit your leg and didn't have anything to clean and wrap the wound with.

Your head is still reeling on the fact that your boyfriend is Red Hood, things slowly falling into place. All the times Jason had a nasty bruise or cut that he'd brush off as a work accident, the times he'd be late to pick you up from work and then there were the times he'd sneak out of bed late at night thinking you were asleep.

It all related back to Jason being Red Hood.

You push the mind explosion to the back of your mind, forcing yourself to focus on the current dilemma. Your boyfriend bleeding out on the side of your bathtub.

You don't know how long he's been bleeding, the wound looks shallow but still any amount of blood loss isn't good and with it still bleeding, your main worry is him losing anymore blood. You grab the needle and sutures, you'd taken a handful of first aid classes in college and were fairly confident in your ability to stitch a wound.

Jason eyes the needle for a moment before he drops his gaze back to the tile and you feel a crack in your chest at the way he seems to be anticipating something. Is he expecting you to be angry? To shout and kick him out?

You swallow and open an alcohol wipe packet, wiping down the needle then opening another one before moving over to your boyfriend.

"I'm gonna clean the wound and then I'll do my best to stitch it up, okay?" You hum lowly, crouching in front of him and you watch his breath hitch slightly as he raises his gaze to yours and you see it. The vulnerability, the fear, the longing. Jason nods once and turns slightly so you have a clear view of the cut.

It looks like he was stabbed, and if you think about it, you imagine he was. Pushing the horrific image from your mind, you work at cleaning the wound. Jason barely flinches, remaining perfectly still and the only way you know it affects him is the way his jaw clenches and unclenches.

Discarding the bloodied wipes, you wash your hands and return to his side with the needle and sutures. He sucks in a breath after the second stitch and you grimace slightly, sending him an apologetic glance but his greenish-blue eyes are fully on you, soft and still full of vulnerability.

"M' sorry, for not telling you sooner. I didn't want you to find out this way." Jason mutters lowly, you pause briefly. Jason's voice is rough and a little slurred as he fists his hands and you breathe in a deep breath before continuing the task of closing his wound.

"I wish you could've trusted me sooner with this, but I get it. This isn't exactly the easiest thing to just come out and explain, right?" You say lightly, trying to find a little humor in your situation but Jason looks past your head, looking out into the hallway.

Silence reclaims its spot in the bathroom as you quietly finish up stitching his wound shut and Jason makes no sound, you'd think he wasn't breathing if not for the steady rise and fall of his chest.

You place the first aid kit back under the sink and wash your hands again before returning to your boyfriend, you cup his cheeks and gently tilt his head up, capturing his eyes. Smoothing your thumbs across his cheekbones, you study his face quietly, there's a bruise rapidly blooming under his eye and you lightly run a thumb over the purple mark.

Leaning down, you press a kiss to the bruise and feel Jason let out a small breath. You pull back just enough to run your nose against his and looking into his eyes, you feel your heart swell for this man. The way he seems to be holding his breath as if you'd push him away any second when all you want to do is hold him closer.

"I'm not going anywhere Jay, you being Red Hood doesn't change the man I fell for. I was shocked, unbelievably so, but this doesn't change the way I feel about you." You say softly, brushing another kiss to his brow this time and he breathes out a shaky breath, as if your words are a balm to his heart and maybe they are.

You feel his hands pressing against your hips, holding you as if maybe you'd change your mind if he let you go and you let him press his head to your chest, letting him feel the way your heart beats steadily, determinedly.

You don't know how long you both stay there, it could've been minutes or it could have been an hour but when Jason finally looks up at you, you know he believes you.

"'M keeping you, you're stuck with me for good." He breathes out, his cheeks and ears stained an adorable shade of pink and your heart squeezes at the declaration.

Lips curling up into a small smile, you press a kiss to his lips, his hands squeeze your hips slightly and you sigh softly against his mouth. Pulling back, you run a hand through his jet black and messy hair.

"You're mine, Jason Todd. Don't forget it."

~

A few weeks later, you're surprised a second time when you meet Jason's family for the first time just to learn that they're all vigilante as well. Not only that but you learn that Batman is the Bruce Wayne.

You suppose crime fighting runs in the family and you find that you don't mind that one bit.

⋆.˚ Hi guys!! I hope you all liked this self indulgent fic as much as I liked writing it, something about an emotionally vulnerable Jason gets me all in my feelings every time.

This was NOT proofread ᡣ𐭩

c. @.mrbusinessman, 2026. Do not steal my work!

Divider by @.enchanthings

[dunirunn]

WIP!!

[hawkinsindiana]

happy now?

ALMOST PARADISE: PART FIVE - CHAPTER FOUR

pairing: steve harrington x henderson!reader

word count: 6.3k >:)

a/n: a true return to form.... an angsty as fuck long ass chapter. i am so sorry.

masterlist

—

The familiar landscape of Hawkins shifts between shades of blues and greys like a monotone kaleidoscope; with your head resting against the car window, the rolling hills are all you can see. It’s peaceful, almost serene, until a streak of red lightning splits the sky in two. You sigh, pinching your eyes shut as you remember — this isn’t your Hawkins. 

Steve speeds through the twisted Indiana countryside, his foot rarely leaving the gas pedal as the group tracks a Demogorgon through the Upside Down. The signal on the telemetry tracker Dustin pilots has stayed strong for the last fifteen minutes, keeping the rest of you on the edge of your seats. You still don’t know how Dustin managed to convince Steve to attach that damn thing to his precious BMW — correction, you know he didn’t. You’ll never forget the look on Steve’s face as he watched your brother lug the antenna onto the roof of his car, hands fisted into his hair.

You’re not sure what the plan is when you finally catch up to the creature and hypothetically find Holly, but you’re positive it has something to do with the shotgun Nancy has wedged between her legs. Just being near the weapon makes your shoulders tense; you hope Nancy, squeezed next to you in the backseat, doesn’t take your rigid body as a sign of discomfort towards her. It doesn’t help that you’re still reeling from coming face to face with another Demogorgon, a bit of adrenaline still threaded in your veins. You’re not prepared to meet the monster in your dreams again. 

You and Nancy have actually made pretty good strides in your friendship over the last several months. Between Jonathan, Steve, and Robin’s antics at the radio station, sometimes it feels like you’re the only two with your heads screwed on the right way. Many annoyed looks are shared on a daily basis, which are usually followed by a laugh or two. As much as you love your band of misfits, they do like to get themselves into trouble. 

You can’t believe she agreed to Mike’s idea of kidnapping the Turnbow family. No matter how successful the plan ended up being, that was easily the most idiotic thing you’ve ever done. 

“Do you guys think we’re going to prison?” 

Steve’s brow pinches in confusion, his focus leaving the road for only a second to glance at you in the rear view mirror, “What’re you talking about?”

Your eyes widen, “Uh we stole a bunch of pills, broke into the Turnbow’s home, drugged them all against their will, vandalized their house, and kidnapped them…” 

The silence in the car is deafening as you trail off, letting what you imply sink into the others. Although it was the general consensus from the group that yes, Mike’s plan was definitely not the most ethical one, the benefits outwayed the risks to get Derek out alive. Out of everything you’ve gotten wrapped up into, you never thought you’d be adding several felonies to the list. You were prepared for scars and nightmares, but never a jail cell.

“Well, when you put it like that…” Jonathan mumbles.

“Am I the only one worried about this?” You ask, your gaze darting between the rest of them in disbelief. Steve sighs before removing a hand from the wheel, using it to massage the crease in his forehead. How the hell did his life end up here?

“You are,” Dustin replies quickly as he readjusts his grip on the tracker’s wheel, “Because we’re losing the Demo’s signal fast.”

Your shoulder uncomfortably presses into Nancy’s as you try to get a better look, your head just barely poking around the corner of the passenger’s seat, “Are you sure? It was stable just a second ago!”

“Pretty sure!” Dustin shouts back, watching as the numbers decrease exponentially. Steve curses, dropping a hand from the wheel to grip the stick shift, and switches the car into a lower gear. Immediately you feel yourself propelled forward as you gain speed, the tires burning rubber against the asphalt; the speedometer’s reaching eighty miles per hour. 

Your brother has gone silent, staring down at the monitor with confusion in his eyes. Steve glances over to him, worry beginning to creep into his tone, “What’s goin’ on, Henderson? C’mon talk to me!”

No response. When Dustin goes quiet, that’s not a good sign, especially during tense moments like these — but you know your brother. By the way he’s staring off into nothing, he’s slotting puzzle pieces together inside his mind. You grab his arm and shake slightly, “Dustin, what is it?”

Your voice and touch jerks him out of it; he blinks, turning slightly so you can hear him better, “There’s interference… I can’t hear anything over it. It’s drowning the signal out.” 

“Interference?” You mumble, losing yourself in thought as well, “Like what we heard yesterday?”

Dustin nods, moving a hand to press the headphones closer to his ear, “It’s getting louder!”

“Louder? What do you mean it’s getting louder?”

“How is any of that important right now?” Steve looks at you, his frustration growing, “This isn’t the time for one of your little Henderson brainstorming sessions, okay? We’re gonna lose it!”

Your eyes could roll back into your skull — right now, seriously? You nearly groan, annoyance bubbling up beneath your skin as you squirm in your seat, trying to get as close to the tracker as possible, “It’s important, Harrington, because if we can’t hear anything, we can’t get a signal, and then we don’t find Holly!”

“Yeah, Steve, want to give it a try?” Dustin adds, now focused on riling up the boy in the driver’s seat.

Steve gestures out to the road, “I’m driving, man!”

“Then let me navigate! You do the driving, and I’ll tell you where to go!”

Before you get a chance to fire back something in their direction, Nancy’s finger pushes through the chaos to point straight ahead, forcing your attention past the windshield. At first, you don’t notice anything, the corner of your lip pinching into your cheek as you try to understand her panic. That hazy fog is always there, and then there’s something behind it. You can’t tell exactly what it is… but it’s massive, shrouded in shadow, and you’re headed straight at it. 

You curse under your breath and reach over to grab onto Steve’s shoulder, hoping your strong grip will distract him from bickering with Dustin, “Steve! Stop the car!”

By the time Steve registers the pressure from your hold, it’s already too late. The car is moving far too fast to slow down, despite his best efforts to slam on the breaks. The object was closer than you thought; your body jostles unexpectedly as the hood slams into something sturdy, a loud crash echoing as darkness overtakes you.

For a few seconds, there’s nothing but the quiet. Then the ringing starts, filling your ears with obnoxious noise as you get your bearings. Your eyelids flutter several times, barely able to hear Steve’s voice through it all. Your head hurts, prompting you to bring a palm up to your forehead. 

“Everybody okay?” 

A smattering of yeses and groans fill the car, except for yours. 

“No…” You mumble weakly, a hiss escaping past your lips as your palm brushes a tender patch of skin. Your response lights a spark of worry in Steve’s chest; he glances back and watches you lower your hand, which is now slick with crimson. Your expression visibly drops as your heart sinks to the pit of your stomach. His jaw slacks. You’re bleeding… like a lot.

“Oh jeez, here—”

Nancy reaches across your lap to pop the door open; your fingers had been blindly fumbling for the handle with no luck. She gently ushers you out of the car with her hands hovering over your shoulders, carefully ensuring you’re not going to hit your head while sliding out of the seat. Without Nancy for balance, you’re confident you would’ve fallen flat on your face. 

It takes a couple of seconds to inch your way to the back of the car, the soles of your sneakers squelching against the strange substance that coats the ground. The other girl quickly pops the trunk open and rummages for the first aid kit as you lean back against the tail light; her hands push past extra sets of clothes, flashlights, and plastic water bottles until spying the bright red box. A drop of blood falls from the line of your jaw.

“Use this instead,” Jonathan mutters, snagging one of the spare t-shirts from the assorted pile. You swiftly do as he suggests, balling up the fabric and pressing it firmly into the wound. You try not to get too upset that he grabbed one of your favorites; you can worry about getting the stain out later. 

Dustin appears in your peripheral vision as concern warps his face into a wince, his eyes pinching at the corners. 

“How bad is it?” He asks as Nancy continues to sort through the medical supplies. It’s almost comical how many first aid kits you’ve bought over the years and stashed in various places. After last time, you’re not willing to be left unprepared again. There’s at least two stowed away at the Squawk — you’ve lost count at this point. 

“I’ll live,” You reply, crossing your ankles as you attempt to put on a brave face. Considering the mission, the last thing you want is to be the liability that slows everyone down. If you were the reason that Holly ended up as another one of Vecna’s victims, you would never forgive yourself.

But man, this fucking hurts. The adrenaline from the crash is beginning to subside, leaving you with that awful sensation where all your limbs feel like they’re full of lead. You can feel where your skin split open; there’s a gash between your temple and cheekbone from knocking your head against that stupid telemetry tracker. You should’ve had your seatbelt on, but Steve shouldn’t have allowed himself to get so easily distracted. Hindsight is 20/20.

Your lips purse as you think of Steve’s outright refusal to maintain his short fused temper. While Steve’s attitude has been wearing you down over the last few hours, resulting in you retreating further away each chance you can get, his recklessness has really pissed you off this time. What you said to him earlier has clearly not penetrated through his thick skull. It’s incredibly lucky that your injury was the only one sustained by the group; with your track record, it’s a goddamn miracle none of you were hurt more severely. Well… except for the precious Beemer.

You cannot understand why he continues to agitate you and your brother, coming up with just the right thing to say that will set either of you off. The only explanation you can entertain is that Steve wants a fight. If he says something inflammatory enough, it’ll warrant a response and get you to notice him. You quickly shove away that thought away — it seems incredibly immature, even for Steve.

You miss when everything with him was simple, when you could merely glance in his direction and immediately know whatever was bothering him. Now, when you’re met with one of his scowls, you might as well be looking at a stranger. A stranger that you, funnily enough, still know like the back of your hand.

There are some things that never change. He’s still ridiculously stubborn, a fact that he’s been insistent on reminding you of. He’s reckless, choosing to drive straight through an inter-dimensional portal without taking no for an answer. His tendency to default towards impulsive decisions makes you want to pull out your own hair. 

Under a different lens, those traits could be viewed as positives. He’s passionate and dedicated to ensuring his opinion is heard — a likely side effect of being neglected by his parents for so long. He’s brave, willing to jump head first into another life or death situation if it means you’re one step closer to being free.

Most confusing of all is even after months of growing apart, it’s clear Steve still cares for you. He could’ve let you wander around town by yourself, but instead volunteered to join the search for Dustin without giving you an opportunity to turn him away. He defends you when your brother shows disrespect. Despite your rocky relationship, he’s able to recognize when you’re lost in a memory and takes the time to comfort you.

Your twisted brain loves to take advantage of a terrible situation — this is the worst time for doubt to rear its ugly head. You need to be trusting Steve right now, not questioning him. 

Is it you that’s changed? 

After everything that’s happened, you’re not sure you know who you are anymore. Can you even picture a version of yourself without Steve? Is that good or bad?

Thankfully, Nancy interrupts before your swirling thoughts can become a full-fledged storm; it feels like an elephant is sitting on your chest. She gently grabs the shirt and lifts it away from the wound, relieved that the bleeding has appeared to slow down. Her shoulders raise into a light shrug, “Not too bad, but might need a stitch or two.”

Great. You’d normally enlist Steve’s help with that, but you don’t particularly feel like asking. Steve’s not interested in chatting either, but for one very different reason. 

He did this.

His mind drowns as the memories flood in. The visions are overwhelming: your broken fingers, the raised crescent moons on your bicep where the bullet pierced your skin, the indent below your shoulder blade. It’s nauseating how much your body has survived and sacrificed for the greater good.

Now there’s this, an injury caused by his hand. His negligence. If he’s the reason a new scar has been added to your body, he’ll never be able to move on. How could he have been so stupid?

Steve watches from a distance as Nancy instructs you to keep pressure on the cut until the bleeding’s stopped completely. A hint of jealousy stirs in his chest — he should be the one patching you up. He recalls all the times you’ve let him tend to you over the years, an intimate ritual that you’ve grown to share after being dragged through hell and back. The thought of those soft touches and whispers makes the tips of his fingers ache as he imagines caressing your skin, an itch that yearns to be scratched. Seeing Nancy provide this care to you instead is unsettling, and only makes his desire for normalcy grow. 

As the thought crosses his mind, Steve realizes something’s missing; he shoves his hands into his pockets to confirm his suspicion. He immediately jogs towards the passenger’s side of the car, earning himself a confused glare from Dustin when he begins rooting around through the glovebox. Your brother scoffs as Steve finds what he had been looking for, a familiar wad of leather in his hand after shutting the door.

“Your wallet… are you serious?” He asks bitterly, turning away from you to face Steve properly. You roll your eyes at his tone, a deep sigh escaping past your lips. Here we go again.

Dustin shrugs and crosses his arms over his chest, “What, is Vecna going to need your driver’s license to let us past the giant fucking wall? What’s the thought process, Steve, huh?”

“Giant wall?” 

The words are punched out of you, the idea so baffling that your brain can barely comprehend it. As you turn to the boys, intent on asking them to elaborate, you answer your own question. The BMW is sticking out of, quite literally, a massive wall that spans as far as you can see in every direction; it terrifies you that there’s no limit to the height, especially considering that it appears to be formed from vines and other organic material. A shiver rolls up your spine — you don’t want to know what’s on the other side, but your intuition tells you that’s where your troupe needs to go.

“So… the Demogorgon disappeared into the wall?” You hypothesize, pushing yourself off the car’s taillight and towards your brother, “Think it can create portals through it like it does to Hawkins?”

Jonathan’s face twists at your theory, “What makes you think it went through the wall?”

“The signal was pointing this way before we lost it,” Dustin adds, “I couldn’t pick it up in any other direction, so it’s gotta be through!”

“Maybe… there’s a way around?” Nancy says as she wipes off her hands, “Steve, try getting the car out. We need to keep moving so we don’t lose it.”

“On it,” Steve nods, pulling the keys from his pocket. When he brings his gaze up to your face as he passes, your eyes don’t meet his. He swallows harshly, but the lump in his throat persists.

Nancy’s plan doesn’t work; the car won’t budge even if the gas pedal is flat against the floor. The tires churn with no luck, unable to dislodge from the wall, which only grows more and more grotesque the longer you stand next to it. The smell is vile, like sweat mixed with rotting meat; your stomach swirls with nausea as you start to clean yourself up, wiping blood from where it cascaded down your cheek. It’s not much, but a couple of butterfly bandages across the wound will work for now. 

Dustin has the brilliant idea to contact Hopper, knowing that he never made it back from the Upside Down after the crawl went sideways. A wave of relief washes over the group as the chief’s voice crackles through the radio, followed closely by El’s. A spark of hope ignites — maybe you do still have a chance at finding Holly.

It’s quickly squashed; not only are Hopper and El on the other side of town, but they happened to encounter the wall too. With each new development, you only grow more and more confused. Does the wall cut through town? How big is this thing? 

Hopper instructs you to stay put until all of you can rendezvous at the cemetery, which does not go over well with Nancy. She is determined to rescue Holly as soon as possible and understandably so. With her parents in surgery at Hawkins Memorial and her younger sister missing, you can’t imagine the pressure she’s feeling. It’s a disgusting thought, but you grow very thankful that your brother isn’t young enough to be targeted by Vecna this time.

If The Mind Flayer had captured Dustin, you would move mountains to ensure he was safely brought back home, or any of the kids for that matter. No one would be able to stand in your way. You refuse to let it happen again.

As Nancy storms off towards the church, Jonathan and Steve trailing behind, an idea pops into your head. Your pace slows as you attempt to connect the dots, “Dustin, what if the interference we’ve been hearing is from the wall?”

“Think about it,” You continue, your hands moving animatedly through the air as he stops to listen, “We’ve only heard it when we’re on the outskirts of town, in areas that we’ve never searched—”

“And we have three locations,” He interrupts as his eyes widen, immediately following your train of thought. Without another moment to lose, Dustin starts sprinting back to the car; the sound of receding footsteps makes Steve spin around to the sight of you two retreating from the group.

“What are you doin’? We need to come up with a plan,” Steve says as he follows the pair of you, his feet propelling him in the same direction.

“Just give us a couple of minutes, okay?” You reply quickly, “Maybe Dustin and I can figure out a way around this thing.”

Steve shakes his head, confusion leaking into his tone, “With what?”

“Algebra, Steve,” You answer as you begin to grow frustrated with his questioning. Why can’t he just trust you? He places his hands on his hips, watching as you try to leave the conversation, your fingers reaching for the door handle while Dustin slips into the driver’s seat. There’s got to be something he can do to keep you two close to him. 

“We should be sticking together, it’s not safe,” Steve says as you pop open the passenger’s door. You freeze, presumably thinking through his words more carefully before turning back towards him. Assuming that he’s managed to convince you to stay with the group, he’s proven wrong when you pass by and head straight for the trunk. After lifting the door, there’s rustling for several seconds; your spine straightens as you reach a hand up to slam the trunk closed. You shrug, swinging the nail bat over your shoulder.

“Happy now?”

You sigh, trying to prevent yourself from getting too worked up, “We’ll be fine, Steve. A few minutes is all we need.”

Despite the best intentions, your tone is still quite bitter and annoyed. It cuts straight through to Steve’s heart as you walk forwards, firmly set on joining your brother to pursue your theory. 

He needs to try and fix this before it’s too late.

“Hey, wait,” Steve’s hand shoots out, his fingers wrapping around your bicep before you can move past him, your feet stopping abruptly. His voice is low, irises focused onto the ground by your sneakers as he tries to figure out what else to say. Words have never been his strong suit.

“Look I’m—”

“Just… let us do this, please.”

When you interrupt, Steve’s eyes dart up to meet yours; it’s obvious that fatigue is beginning to take over your body. Maybe some of the blood loss is catching up to you. Your glare is sluggish and your voice sounds exhausted. Steve is aware enough to understand that you’re not just tired of the situation you’ve found yourselves in. His gaze settles onto the fresh cut above your cheek. His chest hurts.

If you weren’t standing so close together, his nod would be imperceptible. Steve drops his hand from your arm, but you don’t move away immediately, instead taking a moment to observe him. You have to resist the urge to tuck a stray chunk of brunette hair behind his ear, knowing that an action that gentle will only spawn more uncertainty. You try not to overthink the hopeless expression on his face, his lips pressed into a firm line; you hate when his brown eyes carry that level of anguish in them. 

Have you both gone too far?

“We’ll come get the rest of you when we have something,” You say, finally dragging your focus from Steve as you step towards the open car door. He doesn’t start walking back to the others until you’ve slid into the passenger’s seat, the sound of the door shutting echoes through the air. The further he moves away from you, the emptier he feels.

—

In all your years fighting creatures from the Upside Down, it’s alarming that the basement of Hawkins National Laboratory is the most unsettling place you’ve ever been. You’re beginning to regret not volunteering to go up instead. 

The walls and floors are coated in vines; you can nearly feel the phantom sensation of them creeping up your body and squeezing firmly around your throat. Your fingernails dig sharply into the palm of your hand to try and force the memory away, with only minor luck. Every time you blink, the feeling comes right back. Your grip on the bat tightens.

It’s an endless maze, each corner you turn yields the same result — more neverending hallways and twisting corridors. You briefly wonder if you’re going to get lost, trapped down here forever with Steve, Dustin and their incessant bickering. You note to bring earplugs the next time you’re stuck with just the two of them. 

It wasn’t easy to convince the others that there is something hiding here, but the math doesn’t lie. You know that somewhere in this building is the clue that’ll unlock the secret of where Vecna’s been hiding; it’s far too much of a coincidence for the lab to be the center of the fleshy wall that surrounds Hawkins. Hopefully you get back to the church before Hopper and El do.

Your flashlight bounces across the tiled walls as Steve enters a room on the left, his elbow pressing hard into the door to force it open. The paranoia in your veins grows when you register the multi-colored stripes across the walls, an eerie attempt at brightening the atmosphere of the space. There’s a section for toys and board games, along with stuffed animals and various building blocks. You visibly shudder when the lens of a camera mounted to the wall meets the beam from your flashlight. 

“Wow, free daycare,” Steve mutters, glancing around in awe as Dustin joins the pair of you, “That’s a pretty good employee perk.”

You bite back the instinct to say something snarky in response, instead opting for the more patient answer, “I think this is where Brenner kept them, Steve.”

Aside from Dustin’s footsteps, it’s silent for a couple of seconds as the meaning behind your words sinks in.

“Jesus.”

A bad taste coating your tongue while the weight of this room bears down on you. The air suddenly feels a lot thicker; you wish you could wrap El into a hug. Thank god that bright, shining girl escaped from this awful place. 

“Alright, we should split up to cover more ground,” Dustin says to you, breaking the awkward tension, “I’ll go right, you take left?”

You nod in agreement, but Steve’s brow pinches, “What about me?”

Dustin smiles smugly as he takes a step closer, “I think this is the perfect place for you to stay while the adults try to find the shield generator.”

Steve scoffs as he licks his bottom lip, “Y’know what, Henderson—”

“Stop it, both of you,” You intervene, that firm tone of voice stopping their squabble before it can begin. You glance between the two of them and hope that your icy glare is enough to get your seriousness across — they’re on razor thin ice. Wielding a weapon with Demodog blood still caked to it helps too.

“I’m going to keep looking,” You say as you begin to back out of the room. You can’t handle another moment with either of them right now; your frustration is going to bubble over sooner rather than later if you don’t get some space.

“If something’s wrong…” You trail off, taking one last opportunity to shoot harsh looks into the boys as a warning, “Just yell.”

With that, you finally turn on your heel and disappear into the dark hallway beyond the nightmarish  rainbow room. Steve and Dustin scowl at each other for a final time before your brother follows and vanishes in the opposite direction, leaving Steve alone. 

“Unbelieveable,” Steve whispers to himself. He’ll never understand where Dustin inherited that attitude from, since it was certainly not from your mother.

Steve supposes he’d rather be stuck in here than out wandering. With all the walking to actually get to the lab, his feet are feeling rather sore; he should’ve changed into a better pair of shoes. He decides to hop up onto one of the shelves until either you or Dustin return, a deep breath expelled from his lungs when he settles.

With how chaotic and eventful the last two days have been, he’s barely had a chance to digest everything that’s happened. The quiet provides an excellent opportunity to think, and Steve has no limit to the amount of topics he could pick apart while he waits. But of course, there’s only one thing at the forefront of his mind.

Steve’s fingers search for his wallet wedged into the front pocket of his jeans. He has to maneuver awkwardly to free it, but manages to do so without looking like a total fool. As he flips it open, your beaming smile greets him, frozen in the photo and protected behind the small plastic sleeve. It’s the same photo he’s kept in there for years, the two of you crowded into the small photobooth after a late night working at Scoops. He had been in the middle of cracking a joke when the first flash went off, and the camera caught your authentic reaction. That lifeguard uniform still takes his breath away.

God, that summer at Starcourt Mall feels like a lifetime away now. It’s only been about a year and a half, but so much is different now. Both of you have changed so much that it’d be difficult to recognize your old selves, back when the world still had a hint of innocence and you didn’t have to harden your hearts to survive. This photo is one of the few snapshots of time taken before the Fourth of July; he sighs at the mere thought of that awful day. Neither of you enjoy fireworks anymore, but you especially have a tough time with them. He’d been sure his right eardrum had been damaged after using those rockets to destroy the Flayed, and the government’s health check-ups confirmed it — the hearing loss is getting worse over time. 

It’s repulsive how much you two have been through, and for what? It’ll be for nothing if the group can’t take down Vecna once and for all. After that… then maybe you two could get back to normal. Well, your idea of normal. Maybe that little apartment in Chicago is still possible. Maybe everything else is still possible.

He swallows harshly as he fully unfolds the wallet, his eyes peering into the middle pocket. A glint of metal sticks out between two ten dollar bills. Steve clenches his jaw as he reaches for it, a horrible heaviness spreading through his chest when the silver ring settles into the palm of his hand. 

He’s been saving the question for a rainy day, or rather a partly cloudy one. It’s hard to predict when your sadness will let some sunshine peak through, so he decided that he better be prepared. For months he’s been carrying it, praying that a day would come where a glimmer of your old self would return. 

Though he remains hopeful, your relationship has been so unsteady over the last couple of days that he has no idea when things may finally even out. There’s so many words that never should have been said, and it eats away at Steve’s soul. He should’ve known better; trying to get a reaction out of you in exchange for attention was never the right way.

How could he have been so angry with you? It’s not a secret that you’ve been struggling ever since the Mayfield girl was taken. He should’ve been a better partner, refused to let you drown and carried you back to shore if he had to. Hell, he’s brought you back from the dead before, beating compressions into your chest like his life depended on it — and it did. 

Steve forms a fist around the ring. What changed?

Your flashlight catches another child-sized bedframe within its beam and you immediately exit the room; that’s the twelfth one you’ve found so far. It’s only been about ten minutes, and searching this floor is starting to get really depressing. With no sign of anything that could remotely resemble whatever’s creating the massive wall, you feel like you pulled the short straw. Hopefully the others are having better luck. 

A crash echoes from down the hall, then a shout. 

Immediately you begin to sprint, your sneakers squeaking against the tile as you race to find the source of the noise. The sounds grow louder and more frequent the closer you get, and you can tell now that the yells are coming from Steve and Dustin. Your adrenaline spikes, preparing to turn the corner and see a Demogorgon or some other hideous creature, but you watch instead as Dustin’s fist lands right onto Steve’s jaw. 

Before you have a chance to react, your brother wraps his arms around Steve’s waist and shoves him into the wall. Steve manages to spot you as he tries to loosen Dustin’s hold, “A little help here!”

“What the hell is going on?” You drop your flashlight and the bat without a second thought and run to break them apart, compartmentalizing your confusion for a later time. Your hands grab onto Dustin and you pull as hard as you can, but he doesn’t budge. This… blind anger fuels his every movement, each punch that connects with Steve’s ribs. You can hear your brother crying as he does it.

“Dustin, let go! Stop!” You shout, trying to get a better grip as you tug desperately, anchoring your feet to the floor for better support. With your strength to help, Steve manages to finally shove Dustin away from him, but it doesn’t deter him. You try to buy Steve some time to get away as you drag your brother backwards. There’s chaos made of limbs; Dustin’s swinging wildly, his legs kicking against you, Steve’s trying to avoid errant punches and hold his arms down. You’re unable to resist the urge to cry, overwhelmingly upset at the scene that unfolds before you as unbreakable bonds shatter. 

More chaos. Steve swaps with you and weasels behind Dustin to put him into a chokehold, hoping to subdue him at least a bit. Dustin swings wide — it’s not Steve’s face his fist collides with. 

Your vision is askew, and you’re on the ground. You blink to dispel the black dots from your eyes, and for a moment, you forget where you are. The Byers’ kitchen. You remember this… you just got thrown into the china cabinet. The ringing in your ears subsides as you look up to see the face of the Hargrove boy; his smirk sends a shiver up your spine. 

The back of your hand twinges, and then the pain is immense. You cry out, pulling your hand into your chest as the nerves in your arm light up in agony. It’s too familiar and yet brand new — you’re having a difficult time determining what’s happening. The last thing you remember is Dustin’s fist clipping your jaw, but Billy Hargrove’s evil grin is burned behind your eyes. 

He’s not real… he’s been dead for years. You’re safe. He’s not real. The words Steve used to repeat to you echo in your mind.

You blink again, and you’re back in the rainbow room. Steve’s got Dustin pinned to the wall, both his hands fisted into your brother’s collar. Their voices are muffled, until they’re not — your hearing comes back all at once. Steve is enraged, shouting into Dustin’s face like you’ve never seen, “You don’t touch her, you understand? Hit me all you want but not her.”

You manage to summon enough strength to stand and stumble over to the boys, forcing yourself between them before shoving them away from each other, a hand firmly pressed to their sternums. 

“Enough!” 

Your booming voice quickly silences the room. Dustin’s legs give out and he slides down until he’s a pile of limbs on the ground, blood spilling from his split knuckles. Steve uses the back of his hand to wipe a small trickle of red from his nose. The taste of metal fills your mouth but you could care less, instead fueled by so much fury and sadness that it should be impossible for one person to hold this much. You allow your emotions to pour out of you like water does from a broken faucet.

“I can’t even begin to describe how angry I am with you two, how…”

You pause, choking back tears, unable to understand how either of them could’ve let their disagreements come to this. The two most important people in your life surrendered themselves to their impulses and got you caught in the middle.

“How disappointed I am. Never in my wildest dreams would I have ever expected something like this out of either of you.” 

You glance between the pair of them, watching in agony as neither one can meet your glassy eyes. After everything, this is the hill they want to die on? You shrug in disbelief, another wave of emotion crashing over you, “Do either of you have anything to say for yourselves?”

Silence. For the first time in your life you are truly, unmistakably heartbroken. Something feels like it’s permanently shifted, like the foundation of a house has cracked beyond repair. You think it’s time to tear the whole thing down. You’ve had enough.

You nod slowly, casting your eyes up to the ceiling as a shaky exhale escapes past your wobbly lips. Two large tears fall over the swell of your cheeks. You sniffle, turning around to grab your flashlight and the nail bat, “That’s it, I’m done. Have fun looking for the magic shield generator.”

When you straighten, your gaze lingers on Steve, ensuring you two finally lock eyes. In his brown irises, you see your entire life. 

You see the popular but misunderstood boy that you first fell in love with, the one who opened up to you that day at the lunch table. You see your best friend, the one who took you out for greasy fast food to keep your busy mind occupied. You see your boyfriend, the one who protected you without hesitation from Billy Hargrove’s disgusting attempts at ruining your reputation. You see your partner, the one who poured his heart out to you after realizing you were walking towards certain doom. 

You never thought you could love someone this much, but Steve proved to you that it was possible every day. He showed up for you, he took beatings for you, he saved your life. But now, when you ask him to put aside his feud with your teenager brother, he can’t even do that.

Now all you see is a stranger. You never would have wanted it to end like this. 

You swallow harshly as you rip your heart out of your chest, “I’m done.”

—

[starspilli]

Wonder

[edawgz]

# HIGH PRAISE

⤿ JASON TODD hated having to pick Damian up from school, until he ended up meeting the librarian.

!! fluff. total slowburn. school librarian!reader. fem!reader. meet cute sorta. no real warnings. idk if a librarian would actually do this shhh. kinda reminded me abt ms honey going to see matilda's parents. i have a diff spin of this idea for bruce stay tuned. damien cameos. ENJOY.

Jason had already decided the afternoon was going to be a waste of time.

Pick-up duty usually was. He leaned against the front desk with his arms crossed, weight settled into one hip, helmet tucked loosely under his arm like an afterthought, watching students filter out in orderly lines that felt too controlled for a city like Gotham. He kept half an eye on the exits out of habit, cataloging faces, exits, blind spots, while the other half stayed tuned to the familiar irritation of waiting.

Damian would insist on walking out on his own, of course. He always did. Pride came baked into the kid’s bones, sharp and unyielding, and Jason let him have it most days because forcing the issue only turned it into a fight neither of them wanted to have in public. The staff had learned not to question it. Damian Wayne moved like he belonged everywhere, and the school bent around him accordingly.

Jason was just there to make sure no one tried anything stupid.

That was when you waved Damian down.

It wasn’t the kind of gesture Jason was used to seeing in places like this. No snapping fingers, no raised voice, no performative authority meant to remind a child who held the power. You lifted your hand lazily instead, like you already knew Damian would stop, like you weren’t worried he wouldn’t listen.

“Damian,” you called, voice calm but confident, holding up a book. “This just came back in. I thought of you.”

Jason’s attention sharpened immediately, irritation draining out of him in favor of something more alert. He straightened without quite realizing he’d done it, eyes tracking the exchange with the same focus he usually use for much more high-stakes situations.

Damian paused mid-step. Jason knew that pause well, it was the split second where annoyance flared hot and fast before being reined in by his discipline. “You are assuming my interest,” Damian muttered, though he walked closer anyway.

Jason felt a flicker of surprise at that. Most adults Damian tolerated, at best, but even fewer got him to change course without raising their voice.

“You finished the last one I gave you in three days,” you replied mildly with a small smile and shrug. “And then corrected the author in the margins, unfortunately the author has been dead for decades. But I appreciated your attention to detail.”

Jason bit back a laugh, pressing his tongue to the inside of his cheek.

Damian took the book from you, eyes scanning the cover first, then the opening page, posture softening just a fraction before he seemed to remember himself. “Acceptable,” he nodded, tucking it under his arm.

Jason watched the way you smiled, it wasn't wide or triumphant, just small and knowing, like that had been the outcome you’d anticipated all along. There was no condescension in it, no self satisfaction. Just quiet joy.

Jason cleared his throat, unable to resist. “Wow,” he drawled. “High praise. You must be special.”

Your gaze shifted to him for the first time since you had walked over. Frankly, that was the first you were even noticing you.

Jason felt your attention settle on him with calm precision, not startled, not wary, just observing. You didn’t tense, you didn’t flinch at the height difference, the scars, the very obvious not a parent vibe he carried. You looked at him like he was simply another person in the room.

“You must be loud,” you replied evenly.

Damian huffed. Jason grinned, reflexive and a little too easy.

Something in Jason’s chest tipped off balance then, sudden and unwelcome, like a door he hadn’t known was there had cracked open just enough to let light in. It wasn’t attraction in the simple sense. It was recognition, it was the feeling that you didn’t need to raise your voice to be heard, that you didn’t need to announce your authority to possess it.

As Damian walked past him toward the exit, book tucked securely under his arm, Jason found his attention lingering behind him.

He told himself it was nothing.

But he stayed exactly where he was until you turned away, and even then, the image of you standing there with that book in your hands followed him out of the building.

Jason told himself the reason he kept ending up on pick-up duty was practical.

Bruce’s schedule was inconsistent. Alfred had better things to do than sit in a car line. Damian didn’t want his classmates seeing a parade of different guardians, and Jason was the easiest solution. None of those explanations were lies, to be fair, but they also weren’t the whole truth, and Jason had learned to recognize the difference.

The truth was quieter.

The truth was that the library felt steady in a way very few places did, and you were the constant at its center.

Damian’s after school activities stretched long into the afternoon, the kind of structured enrichment Bruce favored and Damian tolerated.. so Jason started waiting inside instead of in the car.

The first time he did it, he hovered near the doorway, posture loose but watchful, his hands bunched in his jacket pockets and his eyes automatically sweeping the room before settling on you.

You noticed immediately.

“You’re back,” you greeted one afternoon, glancing up from your desk. “And you still don't look like a student.”

Jason huffed a quiet laugh, relief threading through it before he could stop himself. “Still disappointed to see me?”

“Still observant.”

He drifted further into the space then, movements unhurried, like he had all the time in the world. He leaned against a shelf, fingers skimming the spines of books he pretended to read, watching instead the way you navigated the room with an ease that couldn’t be taught. You didn’t patrol. You didn’t micromanage. Students gravitated toward you because you didn’t make them feel like they were being managed at all.

Your entire vibe clashed with the Academy in ways Jason found himself noticing without meaning to. Soft fabrics in a building obsessed with clean lines, rings worn thin from use rather than display, boots scuffed at the toes like they’d seen real sidewalks instead of polished hallways. You didn’t look like you were passing through, you looked like you carved out a place and decided to stay.

Damian finally stepped into the library with his head held high as usual, and paused beside Jason. “She makes competent recommendations,” he looked at you briefly, voice clipped but sincere.

Jason arched a brow. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said about anyone all week.”

“I don't give out praise frivolously, Todd.”

Jason watched you from the corner of his eye as Damian walked away, watched the way you smiled at him. It wasn't indulgent, not proud, just quietly pleased. Something in Jason’s chest warmed at the sight, slow and steady.

He found himself talking to you more as the days went on, conversations built out of nothing. Some began with comments about weather, about the way Gotham smelled before rain, about Damian’s habit of correcting authors like they were in the room with him. You teased him for hovering. He teased you for running a library like a safehouse.

“Do you always linger like this,” you asked one afternoon, tone light, “or am I special?”

Jason didn’t miss a beat. “Haven’t decided yet.”

You smiled at that, eyes lingering on him just a fraction longer than necessary, and the look lingered with him long after you turned back to your work.

He stayed until the library closed more often than not, until the overhead lights dimmed and the room emptied, until the quiet felt like something shared rather than imposed.

By the time Damian finally appeared at the desk one evening, jacket slung over his shoulder and a very displeased look on his face.

"You forgot me." Jason had forgotten to check his phone.

He followed Damian out eventually, but the pull of the room stayed with him, a low, persistent tug he didn’t bother fighting.

Jason had lived loud, reckless, fast. He’d burned through things before they had the chance to root.

This was different.

This was slow.

And he found, to his surprise, that he didn’t mind waiting.

← MLIST. ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2025.

taglist form!! @lailqll @matildavol6 @tamyyyy2005 @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @velvetxthunder @fmejenson @sleepilysworld @angelpvps @secretpaperflower @vanillakirstein @foquest @depressed-eternal @ainandra @cassiecasluciluce @love4lando @grapejuicedays @uselessnewt @snoopylover1304 @unclearblur @audreyownsdiamonds @oh-buttercup @jaehyunloml143 @piatosniathenie @thecutestholly @snowynightsbytheoceansbreeze @lyuuu88 @st4rrrship @arvlr @lulasagna @planetevermore @solflor33 @b3oo @valiantpenguincherryblossom @stilestotherescue @xsehion @meltingcherries @bonecrushingfeng

[therealflickerman]

Thank you for the reblog!! 💕💕

YOU’RE SO WELCOME, i sit waiting for new chapters to drop!!

[hawkinsindiana]

we're supposed to be a team

ALMOST PARADISE: PART FIVE - CHAPTER THREE

pairing: steve harrington x henderson!reader

word count: 3.4k

a/n: TWO CHAPTERS IN A WEEK WHO AM I??? this fic has somehow turned into enemies to friends to lovers and back to enemies. anyways these two really just need to find a closet somewhere and get their feelings out if you catch my drift. enjoy the angst >:)

masterlist

—

“How long is this supposed to take?” 

“It should almost be recharged,” You respond, “Give it a couple more minutes.”

A deep sigh passes Steve’s lip as his head falls back against the side of the van, his impatience increasing exponentially with each second. The more time it takes to restart the van’s battery, the more likely it is that Hopper’s signal slips away. He is really not looking forward to being chewed out over this.

The Squawk's van is not a particularly reliable mode of transportation, which is ironic considering how integral it is to a crawl’s success. After a couple of instances with a dead battery and other faulty parts, you had the brilliant idea to keep a spare battery charger in the van at all times. Unlucky for you, tonight is the first time you’ve ever had to use it. The universe has impeccable timing, as per usual.

Your mind is having a difficult time processing the events that have transpired over the last hour. After months of searching, Vecna has finally made a move, choosing to target Holly Wheeler and the rest of their family. You don’t think you’ll ever forget hearing the panic in Nancy and Mike’s voices over the radio. They’ve been silent since arriving at the hospital — god, you hope they’re alright. What you can’t quite put your finger on is why the Wheelers? After all this time, why not go after El directly?

You inhale sharply, loud and sudden enough for Steve to notice. He swears there’s a lightbulb hovering over your head as you silently put the pieces together inside your mind. 

“Remember Nancy’s vision? The one that Vecna showed her last year?” You say as you turn to Steve, your shoulder pressing into the van. He nods, crossing his arms over his chest, “Yeah, the one that ended with Hawkins destroyed and some bigger, scarier monster? It’s hard to forget.”

“It started with the Wheelers. Nancy said that Vecna showed her family in danger. This is it. This could be the beginning of the end, we could finally be close to—”

“Holy shit,” Steve interrupts, his blank gaze cast out into the dark suburban landscape. You scooch closer to him, your curiosity now peaked as the theory starts to unfold, “I know! We could—”

“No, I mean…” He interrupts once again, this time directing your attention out into the road. At first, you don’t spot anything, annoyance spiking that he would stop you twice within a few seconds, until a familiar figure passes beneath a street light. 

“Yeah… holy shit,” You mutter, immediately pushing off of the van and into the street, your sneakers thudding against the concrete as you run to meet him. Steve follows behind at a distance.

Dustin looks worse than expected. Dried blood is caked to his skin, trailing from both nostrils and down his chin. One of his lips has split. His eyes are bloodshot, the redness accentuated by fresh bruises surrounding them — his nose is likely broken. Beneath all of it, you can tell he’s been crying.

“Dustin, oh my god, are you okay?” You ask, instantly rushing to carefully pull him into a hug. He loosely wraps one of his arms around you, reciprocating with a mere pat to your back before he’s already trying to weasel out of your grasp. 

“Yeah, I’m okay, just hit that pothole on Cornwallis,” Dustin says, barely able to meet your worried eyes as he speaks. He gestures to his bike, which has seen better days. The front wheel is bent so it wobbles as it rolls, and one of the chains drags behind. 

“Took a nasty fall into the woods but I’ll be fine,” He continues as he walks past you and towards the van, “How’s the crawl been?”

Steve has a hard time masking his distaste for your brother’s treatment of you, practically disregarding your concern in favor of lying. He watches as confusion and worry twist your face, the realization hitting you both simultaneously; Dustin clearly did not just fall off his bike, and the excuse he came up with is rather weak. Knowing what the truth is makes it worse. Steve sucks air through his teeth, his hands dropping from his hips as Dustin passes, “The crawl’s been eventful, actually. Not that you cared enough to show up.”

Dustin rolls his eyes, swinging the back door of the van open to deposit his bike inside, “I was en route to the Squawk when it happened, okay? Give me a break.”

“A break?” Steve laughs in disbelief, “Dude, you’re like five hours late. An apology for covering your ass would be nice.” 

You press your lips into a line, not particularly enthused with how Steve is handling this. You catch his eyes when he glances back towards you; a glare and a tilt of your head serves as a warning. After nearly three years together, you’re able to exchange several words in just one look. This needs to be handled gently, otherwise Dustin will continue to distance himself from the pair of you.

Dustin ignores him, his brow furrowing, “Why isn’t the van running? Did you find something?”

You cross your arms over your chest, sharing another glance with Steve as you start moving towards the hood of the car, “There was a power surge that ended up knocking out the car battery. It should be recharged by now, so we can get a move on.”

Dustin trails closely behind you, watching as you begin carefully unhooking the charger from the engine, “Are you serious, you couldn’t prevent a power surge?”

You scoff — that was uncalled for. His words sting like salt in a wound; it’s hard not to take them personally. Your brother has always been a little shit, but that doesn’t mean he needs to be a complete asshole. This is not the reunion you were anticipating.

“Hey, it happened pretty fast, alright?” Steve retorts quickly, “Cut her some slack.”

“Some slack? She should know how to stop that from happening!” Dustin argues, “Just because you’re too much of an idiot to recognize when to shut everything down doesn’t mean—”

“Dustin, that’s enough, alright?” You say as you slam the hood of the van shut, swiftly growing more annoyed with their bickering, “Steve, start the car.”

The boys share a rather nasty look before Steve moves to the driver’s side; that stern tone of yours is not one to disobey. Dustin rolls his eyes, grumbling under his breath as you trade the battery charger for the first aid kit you keep in the back. The van hums to life, Steve sighing with relief, "Hallelujah.”

Before Dustin can slip into the passenger’s seat, you shove the first aid kit into his hands, “Here.” 

Steve’s brow raises slightly; in all the years he’s known you, this is the first time he’s ever seen you refuse to patch someone up yourself. You always start cleaning up blood before they even get a chance to say no. It’s one of the ways you silently show your love for someone — Steve’s been on the receiving end so many times at this point it’s hard to keep track.

“Catch him up. I need to look for Hopper’s signal,” Your jaw is so tense you practically spit out the words through your teeth, glancing between him and your brother before disappearing to the back of the van. Steve swallows harshly as he shifts the gear — you’re not happy. A little bit of space is probably for the best.

He does as you ask, informing Dustin on tonight’s events as you sit in front of the radio, headphones over your ears while scanning for Hopper. Your arm’s starting to get sore from turning this damn wheel all night. You occasionally have to switch, shaking your limb to get feeling back to it when it goes numb. 

“So…” Steve trails off as he finishes his retelling, his head propped up with his free hand, “Do you want to fill us in on what you were up to over the last couple hours?” 

Dustin doesn’t respond, instead focused on the rolling hills outside the window. Steve huffs, “Wow, he’s speechless. That’s a new one.”

“It’s a lot to process, Steve, okay?” Dustin replies as he shoves a wad of gauze up his left nostril, “There’s no activity in a year and a half, and now suddenly Holly Wheeler of all people has gone missing. It’s not the most elegant puzzle to solve.”

You exhale, pinching your eyes shut before turning up the dial up on the radio. Even with as loud as it can go, you’re still able to hear their squabble through the empty static.

“Well, your sister certainly seems to have figured it out,” Steve points a thumb back to you, “Maybe you would’ve too if you had actually been here—”

“I told you, I fell off my bike when I was riding over,” Dustin interrupts, shooting a harsh glance over to the boy driving. 

“Oh, that’s right, your bike,” Steve says immediately, the volume of his voice growing exponentially as he becomes more irritated with Dustin’s insistence on withholding the truth, “Right, right, you totally didn’t fall face first into someone’s fist, huh?”

You shove the headphones down around your neck, swiveling the stool to face the windshield. You have to put a ridiculous amount of effort into keeping your tone on the softer end, “Guys, I really need to focus. Can you keep it down, please?”

The only response you get is a nod from Steve as your eyes meet in the rear view mirror, his lips pressed together; it’s the best you’re gonna get. You shake your head and return your focus back to the telemetry tracker, a deep exhale expelled from your lungs. You can’t wait to get out of this thing.

It’s not quiet for very long. Steve watches silently as Dustin pulls another wad of gauze from the first aid kit, and he can’t help himself. The words come tumbling out of his mouth before he can stop them; his urge to chastise your brother is too great, “Who was it? Andy? Those goons from the basketball team?” 

When Dustin chooses to ignore him per your request, Steve scoffs, “C’mon man, you just had to provoke them.”

“Your concern is absolutely overwhelming, Steve, really.”

“My concern? How about her concern, huh? You didn’t think your sister would be worried when you didn't show up?”

Steve doesn’t give Dustin an opportunity to answer and only grows louder, much to your dismay, “The two of us? Nothing but concern for you this entire time. And look where we’ve ended up.”

Dustin huffs, “Why am I being parented right now?”

“See, you can’t admit you’re wrong! And that’s your problem, Henderson. You’ve never been able to do it—”

“Y’know, last time I checked, you two aren’t my mom and dad. You certainly like to act the part though—”

“Just admit it for once in your life! You screwed up!”

“Jesus Christ, both of you just shut up!” You shout, your voice echoing off the walls. It’s the loudest you’ve ever heard yourself, frustration just bursting at the seams. Your gaze could pierce daggers through their backs. It’s infuriating that of all the times for them to air out their grievances, they had to pick right now.

“I’m trying to do my job and find Hopper, in case the two of you forgot. Be quiet or I’ll come up there and kick both of your asses myself!”

No one dares to speak for the rest of the drive, instead opting for a pact of silence; aside from the ambient noise of tire tread on asphalt, you could hear a pin drop. Time passes excruciatingly slowly, like you’re watching sand pass through an hourglass as Steve spends hours driving around in circles. Aside from some interference around 2:00am, the tracker doesn’t pick up on even a hint of a signal. Morale is ridiculously low.

Steve’s just about to call it quits and give up when Robin finally radios in, the familiar sight of dawn approaching over the horizon as she details what her and Will were able to deduce overnight. With Will’s connection to the hive mind reopened, that gives the group a lead to pursue, thankfully letting your group off the hook. 

However, whenever you arrive back at the Squawk, Steve is not so lucky. While Dustin is catching up with his friends, you walk towards where your boyfriend stands off to the side, watching as your brother continues to lie about the cause of his injuries. You can feel the simmering anger beneath his skin as you approach, but it doesn’t deter you. You need to have this conversation now.

“A word, Steve?” 

You say it like a question, but you’re definitely not asking. You move past him without any other acknowledgement and keep facing forward, walking straight toward the radio station; Steve takes a deep breath before following closely behind. He can already tell this isn’t going to be the reconciliation he was hoping for.

You don’t turn around until the pair of you reach the break room, tucked away from prying eyes or ears. Steve shrugs slightly after crossing his arms over his chest, looking at you expectantly, “What?”

A scoff escapes from your mouth — it’s like he’s insistent on pressing all your buttons just for the sake of it. It’s unfair he still looks so good when he’s annoyed, that familiar wrinkle between his pinched brow almost makes you forget why you’re mad at him. Almost.

“Don’t play dumb with me, Harrington,” You mutter, your cold stare shifting across his face as you try to analyze his every microexpression, “What the hell was all that?”

“I’m just giving him his bullshit right back,” Steve replies smartly, as if his reaction to Dustin’s antics should be obvious. 

You tilt your head back, your gaze briefly meeting the ceiling. While that doesn’t seem like a terrible excuse on the surface, it’s certainly not the mature way to handle an attitude like Dustin’s — especially when you can determine your brother’s recent behavior is fueled by the never-ending feeling of loss. You know from experience.

“You’re being really hard on him. Can you at least try to ease up a bit?”

Steve gestures out to the hallway with one of his hands, “He’s lying right to your face and you want to defend him?”

“I’m not defending him, Steve,” You say, watching as he rolls his eyes in response, “He’s being an asshole, but if you keep coming at him all angry like that, then he’ll never tell us anything!”

“Y’know I seem to recall you weren’t too happy with him either, Henderson,” Steve shoots back, taking a step closer to you, “Why am I the one getting chewed out here?”

He must really be trying to get you riled up now, his tone absolutely dripping with annoyance as he goes on the defensive to deflect and catch you in a trap. Two can play this game. 

You step forward as well, poking your index finger firmly into his sternum, “Because you can’t put aside your bitterness for two seconds while the world is ending. You’re lucky I’m still willing to be standing here with you because we’re supposed to be a team.”

While there’s still anger lacing your words, a hint of sadness begins to creep in. It upsets you to think about how far the two of you have fallen; there was a time where you craved his touch so much that it made your chest physically hurt. You used to get a stomach ache every time you watched him worm an arm around Nancy Wheeler’s waist, or press a casual kiss to her temple. The two of you have been through so much together — from protecting the kids from Demodogs, escaping from the clutches of evil Russians, even promising your futures to each other before smoking Vecna out of his lair. The love shared between you was strengthened through these experiences; you used to think that alone would be enough to keep your bond going. 

Now you can barely look at him without your blood pressure spiking. You thought you had been on the road to recovery, until your brother had to show up and sour your progress. You wish this wasn’t so confusing.

Your eyes lock onto Steve’s as you continue, “We used to be a pretty good team, actually, if you remember correctly. But now, one second you’re defending me, and the next you’re yelling in my face! Make up your mind!”

Steve refuses to back down, his stubbornness getting the best of him. If you want an honest answer, he’s happy to oblige. He leans in, his firm voice just above a whisper as the tension in the room continues to rise, “Well I’m not particularly enjoying your company right now.”

You lean in too, your distaste for him growing with each passing moment. You practically spit the words onto his skin, “Me neither.”

Steve huffs, the sound almost like a small laugh, “I’m glad we can agree.”

As your jaw clenches, his gaze darts down to your lips. A big mistake. 

He didn’t realize how close the two of you had grown in your tense exchange; you’re close enough now that he can count each individual eyelash that frames your eyes, which still haven’t left his. He wonders if you’d still taste like that cherry chapstick he adores — it’s been far too long since he’s kissed you. His nose catches a whiff of your perfume and his knees practically buckle, an influx of memories flooding his vision, not all of them particularly vanilla. He clears his throat, banishing those thoughts to the dark recesses of his mind. 

“Stop looking at me like that,” You mumble, his softening gaze warming your cheeks. It feels like you’re running a fever.

His eyes snap back up to yours, your pupils widening the longer he stares, “Like what?”

You can’t pull your gaze away from him. You don’t know how you forgot how addicting he is.

“Like you’re going to kiss me or something.”

He can’t help it — his irises shift down to your mouth once more, lingering there just a bit too long. Steve swallows harshly and licks his lips, his voice low, “Do you want me to kiss you?”

When his eyes meet yours once more, you’re not able to resist, no matter how upset you are with him. Not even a full second passes before you’re beginning to speak, your heart rate increasing in anticipation.

God, yes— 

“Guys, c’mon!” Robin shouts, poking her head into the room, “We’re waiting on you two out here, y’know.”

She disappears as quickly as she arrived, yelling to the others down the hall that she finally located the pair of you. Steve groans and throws his head backwards, baffled that Robin has managed to interrupt you both not once, but twice in the last twenty-four hours. Each time you’re about to make some progress, something always finds a way to screw it up. He hopes this isn’t a bad omen.

When Steve straightens, he finds you’ve backed up, separating yourself from him once again; he feels your hold around his heart tighten at the realization. Your gaze is fixed to the tile floor as you rub your hand along the back of your neck. He would recognize the emotion that wrinkles your face from a mile away — regret.

He pushes a breath through his lungs, his hands gripping his hips, “Robin has impeccable timing, as always.”

“Tell me about it,” You reply with a slight laugh. When your focus shifts back to Steve, you can’t help but feel like your relationship is stuck in a weird phase of limbo; when you take one step forward, you simultaneously take ten steps backward. You don’t suppose you’ll be able to find a solution until after all of this is over, which only adds to your discomfort. You don’t like feeling this way about Steve.

You inhale as you shove those thoughts away, there are more important things to handle right now than the state of your love life.

“We should probably hear what Will and Robin have to say,” You say softly.

Steve nods, running his fingers through his hair — being unable to have a proper conversation is getting incredibly frustrating. He motions towards the door, “Lead the way.”

—

[teklarn]

love you to the moon and to saturn - j. todd

dcu masterlist | main masterlist |

childhood friend gn!reader x jason todd

summary: jason todd, a child around your age, has moved in next door. through the walls, all you hear is yelling and crying. believing these cries to be his, you befriend him. your friendship stretches from childhood into adolesence, until one day, he vanishes.

warnings: heavy implications of domestic abuse, mentions of death, implied malnourishment of a child, implied child neglect

*ages are innacurate

HEAVILY UNEDITED! (like seriously guys i promise i'm literate i'm just lazy)

"hello." you peer down at the little raven-haired boy. his nest of dark hair gathers heat under the blaring summer sun. wind blows gently around you. you swing your feet back and forth.

the boy arches his neck, trying to find where your voice originated from. his eyes, strikingly sea-blue, land upon you. you're partially hidden in the trees, your legs hanging from the thick, sturdy limb of a tree.

"hi," you say again before briefly introducing yourself.

the boy stares up and up. even from up here, you can see how much smaller he is.

"how old are you?" you ask.

"seven," he replies. he speaks with a lisp thanks to one front tooth missing.

"me too!" you cock your head. "you look really small for a seven-year-old."

he shrugs. "i guess so." his eyes fall sadly upon his hands. he begins to pick at the yellowing field, ripping out fistfulls of poky grass.

"where are your friends?"

another shrug. "i don't have many friends."

"i can be your friend."

at this, the boy looks happy. you ask for his name. "jason," he replies.

"you're from next door, right?"

"i think so."

"i see you lots. i think you are from next door." but you know very well that this is the boy from next door. you see him all the time, playing in the rotted yard of the apartment complex. even though you were young, you were smart enough to know this part of gotham city is riddled with criminals.

this, however, is the first time you've seen him - jason - up close.

through the thins walls of your apartment, you hear yelling. screaming. banging around, pots and pans, clattering. his eyes reflect the same sadness that seems to waft from the doorway of his complex.

"is your house haunted?" you ask. slowly, you begin to climb down the tree. bark scrapes against your calloused knees. the scratches bring no blood.

"what do you mean?" jason perks up now that he can hear you clearly. you jump down before him, sitting cross-legged as if waiting patiently for a story.

"i think your house is haunted. there's always yelling."

jason looks down. sad. almost mournful with acceptance. "yeah. my dad yells a lot."

"maybe he's the one haunting the house. i heard that being mad all the time can

"maybe." he purses his lips.

jason's cheeks are plump with the youth of childhood, but he looks odd. or is it his head that is just unusually large?

his t-shirt hangs loose around his body, arms a little skeletal, even for his age. the shoes he wears are too small, one of his toes poking out the rubber end. his nails are uncut, dirt crusted beneath them. skin curls and flakes from his chapped lips, and his thick, dark curls are slick with unwashed grease.

at the prime age of seven, you know nothing of what youth is supposed to look like. you think your face will never mature, your voice will never change. but, inevitably, as people grow, they lose the glow of their youth.

this is something you know - your parents talk about it all the time. 'enjoy your youth! enjoy it while you're young!' you hear it from aunts, uncles, grandparents. you think it's all nonsense.

up until now.

up until you see the grey little boy picking at the grass up close. his skin is pale. pale like a rotted, sickly sun, or like a faraway star. his blue eyes are deep. deep with knowledge to heavy for a child.

where is his youthful glow? where has it gone? has he enjoyed his youth so thoroughly, so deeply and so quickly that he's already eaten it all away?

you don't think about it too hard. not harder than your little mind needs to.

instead, you grab jason's hand. his wrist is more fragile than yours, his hand somehow smaller.

"come on," you say. "let's play pirates!"

"pirates?" something glitters in his eyes: little golden flecks of treasure.

"yeah! i was already playing by myself before i saw you, but you can join." you point up at the tree. "this is the ship."

you watch his brows knit together, watch his imagination struggle to spark to life.

"i'm the captain. who do you want to be?" already, you've started up the tree. you swing like a nimble little monkey, the skin of your hands scraping off. you barely feel the pain.

"come on. you can decide up here." you usher him to follow.

jason kicks the grass. "i can't climb that high."

"oh." you perch on a branch for a moment and think. within the minute, you've climbed back down. "that's okay." you point to a communal tool shed. "that can be our ship."

"okay," he mutters. "how do we play?"

"we're looking for treasure right now." you lead him forward. a captain and their right hand.

you never realized how fun it is to play with someone else. but looking back now, you and jason didn't do much playing, did you?

rather, the two of you sat in that toolshed, swiping at cobwebs overspreading the unused tools, and you talked.

you told him stories of faraway seas, the kind that strech on forever. monsters brew beneath the surface of the water, the sun impossibly bright. sunshine that's never been borrowed, never stolen. the sunshine of youth.

and soon, when jason crawls from his shell, he adds to these stories. soon, your journey along the sea turns into one in outerspace. soon, your ship sails into the stars. to the moon, to mars, to saturn and beyond.

you meet in the toolshed when it's late, when the sun is out, when the ghost of his father comes back to haunt that tiny apartment again.

one day, you tell him that ships can't sail into the stars if they stay on the ground. you stare longingly up at your tree.

jason takes the first step forward and climbs.

jason's father dies when he's nine.

his mother is next to go when he's ten.

your parents call jason a street urchin, akin to a rodent. a rambunctious child unfit to be you friend.

"your parents are right," he says. his lisp is long gone, but his teeth are beginning to crowd. a little crooked. his body as filled out a little more, but he's still smaller than you. you used to sneak him food until your parents noticed the fridge was depleating awfully fast.

"no they're not," you snap. "you're none of those things."

leaves sway around your face. jason leans comfortably against the branch he sits upon. the two of you barely fit in the shed anymore.

"they are right." tears brim his eyes.

"but you're smart," you tell him. it's true. jason and you had been put in the same class this year. "all the teachers at school think so. i'm sure that real street urchins aren't very smart." you're not even quite sure what that term means.

"i just like learning. that doesn't mean i'm smart."

"you like learning more than our other classmates. the teachers like you because of that." it's true. jason has excelled past most students. you're beginning to theorize that he likes learning because it gives him an escape. it allows him to forget.

the water in his eyes finally escapes, drifting in a sad mournful river down his cheeks.

"it's getting worse."

your eyes flicker downwards. "are you still being haunted?" by the ghost that is his father, the man who rattles the walls like a poltergeist.

"stop!" he kicks your leg, and you nearly topple down from your branch. "i'm too old for that now. and besides, my dad is dead. he can't haunt me anymore."

the anger kindling inside of him is reminiscent of the anger you hear through the walls, but you don't dare to tell him that. still, despite that anger, that resentment boiling inside of him, you sense a deep sadness. you feel that somehow, in some twisted way, jason might miss his father.

you're not sure if the feeling is right, or if he's even thinking that way. maybe he truly does hate his father. or maybe he doesn't. perhaps jason only wanted a good dad, and held out hope that his father would change. up until the day his father died.

you doubt jason can even recall what his father looks like.

he can only recall the love he wishes he had for him.

"i'm sorry," is all you say. "if you want to cheer up, we can - ?"

"i don't want to play pirates. that game is stupid, anyway." jason climbs down and runs inside.

you didn't know ten was too old for pirates, or too old to sail into the stars.

it's the last time you ask to play pirates ever again.

you're twelve when jason moves out. you're not sure where, but he promises to visit often.

another family moves in next door.

you're thirteen when you finally figure out what "street urchin" means.

jason does in fact visit often. mostly right before sunset. he comes covered in bruises and cuts, then returns with them stitched up. despite these beatings, he looks happier than he's ever been.

he sneaks in through your window, and the nights he doesn't come, you keep the window cracked open in case he might be feeling lonely.

the year stretches into the next, and soon you're fourteen and he's fifteen.

"you still haven't told me where you're staying, jason." you look down. "i get worried, you know."

"i'm fine. i've honestly never been doing better."

"you're not...?"

jason stares blankly. "dealing drugs? of course i am."

"don't joke about that." yet you're laughing just as much as he is. he tells you with great excitement all the things he's learning about. the beautiful world of jane austen and how he has plans to pursue post-secondary school.

"wow. look at you. the street urchin who became a fish." you admit you feel a little left behind. what fence has he hopped to find greener grass? what grass could be greener than the spindly dried field sitting under the shade of your shared tree?

"i know," he says excitedly. he kicks his feet on your windowsill, just like how he used to on the branches. "i'm happy." then he turns to you. he's become a rugged sort of handsome. like a banished prince who's seen too much. you can't help your mind wandering to those old daydreams.

"how about you?" he asks.

you blow raspberry. "ugh, just school. it's hard without you, y'know."

"you mean it's hard not getting the answers all the time."

as children, you and jason had come up with a code for cheating. you even learned a little bit of morse code. now, your grades drizzled below-average.

"yeah, whatever." you poke your head out the window, letting the polluted air kiss your cheeks. you swear the summer never seemed this dreary. "i wish i could go where you are."

"mhm?"

"you seem so happy. i'm jealous."

"you better be."

you sit upright and ask, "have you met any girls?"

jason's nose wrinkles. "ew, no. i don't have time for that."

"one day, you'll make time." you squint at the sky. moonlight spills into your room, casting a white puddle across your bedsheets. "i met a boy."

"oh, have you?"

"uh-huh."

"how interesting." jason falls quiet.

"see?" you jump up. "i knew it. you're jealous."

"what-? no! i'd never be jealous. you and me?" he points to the space between the two of you. "gross. that'd be like dating my sibling. ew."

"no! i knew you'd be bummed i met someone before you did."

jason scoffs. "don't make our love lives into a competition."

"yeah, what love-life?"

most nights are like this. meaningless talking. meaningless daydreaming. your old pirate ship has started to rust, but that doesn't mean your adventures have stopped.

then one day, jason stops coming.

you think he's forgotten about you.

you think he hates you.

so you hate him back.

you hate him until you realize you never knew if he ever hated you in return. so begins the mourning, in which you cry at the loss of your best friend, the captain's right hand, the man who told you to sail into the stars.

perhaps it was inevitable. perhaps you've gone nose-blind to the stench of death, that creeping, sticky scent.

jason always came back with new bruises, with fingers taped together or a new, crooked ridge in his nose. whatever he was involved in made him happy, but he died for it. because of it. that's what you assume. that's the only answer you're somewhat satisfied with.

because jason would never abandon you. not after everything you saw him through. not after everything he's done for you, too.

you live with your parents until you're eighteen.

the morning the moving van arrives, you wake to a violent buzzing outside your window.

they are cutting down yours and jason's tree. the trunk snaps and topples sideways.

time bleeds away.

you forget your own birthday is coming up until the week of.

most years pass this way.

you find new friends, get a new job, and then another job when that one doesn't work out. you live paycheck-to-paycheck. you party some times and cry others.

some days, you wake up at five in the morning and convince yourself today's the day you're becoming a newer, healthier version of you. it's never lasted more than a week.

your body fills out, but your eyes lose their glow.

it's been so long since you've sailed to the stars.

you barely think of those adventures anymore. rather, you think of jason. of his poor little life and that crammed apartment he lived in. perhaps you pity him too much.

you recognize how childish you were back then too, with all the hauntings. playing pretend until the very last moment.

from time to time, you think about that tree. the stump that now rests there, cold and empty where once it had great branches that held an entire world for you and jason to play in.

you wonder where he's buried.

you wonder if he was buried at all, or if there was ever a funeral held.

to your knowledge, jason had no other relatives.

there was nobody in the world but you who cared. unless he did in fact meet a nice girl, or even a nice boy. you wouldn't care, so long as he was happy.

jason, above everyone you knew, deserved the most happiness.

his anger, his bluntness, those things above all else kept him human.

more human than some of the civil people you knew now.

you're nineteen, and then you're twenty. then you're a year older, and then older. but you've never felt younger. more lost. you've never yearned for the security of your pirate ship more than now.

one night, you return to your old apartment. you sit on that sad little stump, where your pathetic daydreams now lay dead.

this neighborhood seemed brighter when you were a child. now all you see is broken windows, trash littering the street. this place was never as beautiful as you thought it was.

the yellow grass has been replaced by gravel that crunches with each step you take.

the apartment complex has been repainted to a pale blue. it looks like a hospital now.

you wonder if jason waits for you in death. where his ghost lingers - in heaven or hell.

a small tear trickles down your cheek.

the shed sits lonely and abandoned.

you look at the moon and wonder if the moon is looking at all the other planets in the sky, wishing it was as big, as grand as they are.

what a foolish thought.

does jason's spirit lay here? did it come back to this little bird cage, to imagine more and more and more, endlessly daydreaming into the sun, into the sky, until he burned away entirely?

looking at the state of this place now, the trash, the gravel, the stump, you knew deep down that jason's soul would never return here.

and you cannot stay in this cage he himself has fled.

so you leave. you walk and walk until the moon is high in its rightful place in the sky. you walk until you hear someone following you.

is it okay to want this? will you go to heaven if you can't blame your death on yourself? if someone else does the deed for you, will they take your place in hell?

but the hit never comes.

only silence.

you turn and find a man standing over another's body. the man following you lays still, the knife clenched in his hand now limply laying on the ground.

you gasp softly, stumbling back. now, suddenly, you're fearing for your life, even though a moment ago, you were ready to fly away just like jason did all those years ago.

you collapse, breathless. the hooded man steps forward, a hood draped over his bulky shoulders.

you press a hand to your chest and pray you get only the worst and no more.

but it never comes.

instead, the man hesitates.

"what are you doing here?" his words strike you with a strange, personal urgency.

he doesn't wait for an answer. rather, he slings you over his shoulder and carries you somewhere safe. he runs a block, then two more. it feels comical, but you're still scared nonetheless.

you find yourself clawing and kicking until you rip away his hood and you fall to the ground. the sidewalk bites into your rear. the moonlight kisses the man before you.

you recognize those features. the brutish curve of a broken nose. puffy, child-like cheeks now hollowed out from the sharpness of age.

but something's different.

a white streak in the front of his hair. and scars. so many scars.

"jason?" you whisper.

he's panting, but falls to his knees all the same. "we aren't safe here."

"wait." you pull on his arm. "how...where have you been? what..." you gesture to his outift. "what is this?"

he gives you a soft smile. it looks like the first time he's smiled in years.

jason explains everything on a rooftop.

it sounds fantastical, it sounds silly. it sounds just like one of your daydreams.

"i'm okay," he mutters. "for the most part, i think so." he's not okay. he has that sadness in his eyes again. the same sadness he did as a child, when you first met him.

"why...." you meet his gaze. "why didn't you come back? after you...changed?"

"i was scared. i still am scared."

you see in his eyes a world of hurt. a man made invulnerable to emotions, but not voluntarily.

"jason," you mutter, "i am so sorry." you touch his hand, but he pulls away.

"yeah. me too."

you want him to stay. want him to come back to you. to make up for all the lost years.

you're practically throwing yourself into him, burying your head into his shoulder, wrapping your arms around him.

he carries himself with painful maturity. with the adult sort of numbness you always hated. what happened to the children who could be swayed? the ones whose opinions, whose lifestyles were never set in stone?

"come back," you whisper. "let's be kids again. leave this life behind, jason. please. i miss you. i miss you so much. and i'm so lonely. i am so fucking lonely."

in his eyes, you catch a flicker of that scared, sad little boy. jason kisses you on the forehead. you don't know if he means it as a brother, as a lover, as a best friend.

all you know is that the love you have for him - the love he has for you - is the kind that transcends labels. the kind that gives no reason, needs no reason.

"you have to come back, jason."

only now do you realize you never had time to properly mourn him.

you didn't know if he was dead, or if he'd simply ditched you.

but you missed him all the same.

"please stay with me." yet, you want to hate him. to hit him for abandoning you. for not coming back. even though it wasn't necessarily his fault. he could've come back, scars and all. you just wanted him.

jason has never been in tune with his emotions. so when he presses his lips to your forehead and whispers another solemn i love you, you feel a spear soar right through your stomach.

"i love you to the moon and to saturn."

he turns.

he leaves.

you choke on your sobs and stand there pathetically.

you weren't going to force him to stay with you.

but you were going to find him.

again, and again, and again.

you'd travel all over the city to find him.

all the way to the moon, and then to saturn.

i just pooped this out guys sorry if the ending feels cheap. anyway listen to seven by taylor swift it's a bop.

[robin-vb]

Okay I give up I am lowgenuinely not finishing this

[fiction-is-the-new-reality]

series: If Only You Knew

Summary: Growing up in Gotham you and Jason were inseparable. At 17, your life is changed forever when Jason is killed by Joker. Now years later you’re faced with a new threat in Gotham and you might just have history with them.

Warnings: this is 18+ at some parts, each chapter will also have there own warnings. This is more towards fem!reader.

A/N: I’m hoping to update this frequently but also life gets in the way 😔. I’ll be changing a little here and there but I’ll try to stay as true to Arkham Knight as possible. Please stick around, I promise I’m not abandoning any pieces of work. I’m always open for feedback and would love for reblogs and interactions. Also this is my first series so the pacing and chapters might be a little off so please be patient. Thank you guys for reading!! :))

Prologue

Summary: the precursor to where the story begins. Showing how your relationship with Bruce became strained and how you’ve become who you are. (Warnings: small amount of cussing, and some angst)

The Calm Before The Storm

Summary: this is the beginning to a very long night. (Warnings: violence and language. Fem!Reader)

A Start to a Long Night

Summary: Milita takes over Gotham and you get your ass beat. (Warnings: violence and language.)

An Unfortunate Incident

Summary: Things get heated at the Clock Tower and we meet someone ‘new’. (Warnings: violence, weapons, angst and language.)

Old Friends and New Names

Summary: Dick comes to visit, a creature is discovered, and poor Barbra is just a pawn. (Warnings: major violence, adult language, and angst)

Bitter Words with a Ghost

Summary: You get kidnapped. You get rescued. And you get attacked by a ghost. (Warnings: major violence, adult language, mention of bile x3, angst.)

First Steps

Summary: Jason's still processing everything. You have yet to go back to your normal self. Dick and Tim try their best. (Warnings: violence, adult language, bile mentioned, anxiety, and angst.)

Why Are You Here?

Summary: You and Jason end up at the wrong place at the right time. Will there be a team-up or will there be bigger problems? (Warnings: major violence, adult language, angst.)

[vianawaits]

i always knew you

Summary: After what was supposed to be a normal Patrol you come back to the batcave with Red Hood’s identity. And in the early hours of the morning, you try to wrap your head around the fact that the boy you loved at 13, the boy you grieved, the boy that died, had cheated death. Then you sneak out of the batcave and confront him after four years.

Pairing: Jason Todd/ Fem!Reader,

Content Warning: No use of Y/N, Second Person, Bruce Wayne’s daughter, Vigilante reader, Angst, Hurt/comfort (if you squint), Gun violence, Minor character death, Cursing, Grief

Word Count: 8.6k

A/N: This may not be completely canon accurate (I’m new to the fandom and taking some creative liberty with Jason’s age when he became robin and died bc I can’t find a concrete answer lol)

࿐࿔   𓅪   ˚   ✦   .   ~   ⋆   𓆩   ☆   𓆪 ⋆   ~   .   ✦   ˚ 𓅪  ࿐࿔

You can’t make up a comprehensive thought while staring at the suit incased in front of you.

Behind the painfully clear glass pane lays a suit that hasn’t been worn in years. The memory of a boy whose laugh lingers in the walls, haunting them almost as much as the laugh of the man who took it. The suit of a dead boy. The dead boy whose funeral you cried at four years ago. The dead boy whose autopsy report you read despite your father’s warnings. The dead boy who was your best friend.

Taking a couple of steps back, you feel the cold metal railing through your suit, and you shift your weight onto your heels while leaning on it. Crossing your arms, you throw your head back and look at the jagged rocks lining the roof of the cave.

The brown and gray spikes of the cavern were closing in on the broken family as they attempted to piece together this awful puzzle. The aftermath of what was supposed to be a simple patrol has turned into a Mary Shelley novel.

Jason Peter Todd was not dead.

The silence following the reveal was deafening.              

࿐࿔   𓅪   ˚   ✦   .   ~   ⋆   𓆩   ☆   𓆪 ⋆   ~   .   ✦   ˚ 𓅪  ࿐࿔

It was close to two in the morning when you wound up in Crime Alley while on your nightly patrol. Your father had told you to leave it alone, but there was something that drew you there. It was like your weight was pulled into the orbit of this forbidden part of town. It was never empty, never quiet, no matter what it seemed. Much like Gotham, there was always more than what met the eye. There was always a ghost behind the dumpster, in the shadows, or in this case, on a rooftop.

You had scaled a building two blocks from where the alley begun in Newtown. Passing over the top of a couple of buildings, you were listening for a scream, a rush of footsteps, a gunshot, anything. But for once, it was quiet, too quiet. For all the years you lived in Gotham, silence never lingered in the air too long. Something was bound to happen.

Then you see him. The vigilante who didn’t know what “too far” meant. The vigilante who’d stirred up controversy in the press for taking matters into his own hands. Who went against the words your father had practically branded with an iron on your brain, Vengeance is not Justice.

The Red Hood stood at the edge of a building in front of you. The skinny alley in between you was suddenly nonexistent. There was an unspoken rule for everyone of sticking to your own turf, but much to your father and Alfred’s dismay, you never were one for rules.

The mask betrayed no emotion, but the squared broadness of his shoulders did. He wasn’t particularly fond of the visitor the early morning brought. You stared at each other silently daring to see who would move first. One of your few virtues was that you always won staring contests and silent games. You gave your father credit for that. He was never one for showing his emotions, didn’t talk unless necessary, no grand displays of affection. He was very monotone and thanks to him, you rarely lost standoffs.

Red Hood was… more on the difficult end of the spectrum. He didn’t work with the bats, but he didn't work against them either. There was an expansive grey area that covered when they were allies or potential enemies; you all just never knew where you landed. This night was no different.

“What’re you doing?” You’d heard him ask straight to the point over the restless wind.

“The usual” You shrugged, “On patrol, you know how it is” you offered trying to keep your voice airy and neutral to see where you landed amongst the ambiguity tonight.

“Yeah well, I’ve got this covered.”

He left no room for invitation to continue the conversation, but you never gave up that easily.

“And what’s ‘covered’ code for tonight? Hm?” You tilt your head to the left, mocking him. “Shooting someone square in the head? Or beating them till they look like the pulp in my pomegranate juice?”

He didn't find it funny.

“Leave, or I’ll make you leave.”

That answers your question about how his mood tonight. The alleyway separating you both seemed like you were an ocean apart and right next to each other at the same time. You couldn’t ignore the familiarity of his voice; it rang in your ears and tugged at your brain to drag more words out of him. You knew him but you couldn’t figure out where you knew him from. It was your business to know the identities of the masked vigilantes in Gotham, considering most of them ran around with you and your father.

“I’m starting to think I might want you to make me.”

Maybe flirting wasn’t the best way to go about this, but hell it worked for Dick sometimes. Maybe it’ll work for you.

“You re-” he began before a scream echoed through the air.

The cry for help came from a few blocks behind Red Hood, and he turned around to try and spot where it came from. You looked past him to the streets of this cursed city, trying to find where they might be.

The scream had sliced through the tension that hung in the air, and Red Hood spared you a look over his shoulder before taking off into the night. You held his gaze through your masks for that brief moment and followed quickly behind him. Landing in the spots he had stepped in, following the trail he left behind.

Finally reaching the sketchy street, he jumped onto the cover of an old, battered dumpster while you took in the scene crouched on the rooftop. There was a woman, about thirty in a charcoal grey pantsuit with her arms in the air. Her purse hanging in the crook of her left elbow and a pistol to her temple. Three men with black ski masks had trapped her against the wall.

“Well, that’s not nice now, is it?” You hear the resident vigilante taunt.

The men turned around wide-eyed realizing who had come to this poor woman’s aide. Rumors of the man who killed with no remorse had been whispered through Gotham’s underground. Criminals prayed for Batman and his little gang of sidekicks over this. The Red Hood showing up, to most, was a fate worse than death.

Still perched on the edge of the building, you’d noticed that they had turned away from the woman and her arms were still in the air. Taking the grappling hook out of your utility belt, you aim at the woman’s left arm.

Shooting before the men can turn around and when it goes taut, you yank her the length of the building to your side. She yelps while being pulled up and you quickly remove her from the sight of the men below.

She regains her balance on the roof while taking a few steps back. Her eyes are shining with unshed tears of fear and gratitude. She looks like she can barely hold herself together, and empathy swamps you. Being a woman in Gotham wasn’t easy, you couldn’t go out at night by yourself, and you had to avoid like eighty percent of town if you did. Even in that twenty percent of town that was semi safe to walk through, you still had to keep your guard up. You’ve had your own scares, but you’d had the luxury of being trained by Bruce Wayne from a young age. You could hold off the men who held you at gun point trying to rob you. Not everyone was blessed to have that type of training.

“Th-Thank You” she manages to get out while shaking.

“Don’t mention it” You give her a smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes.

“I- I know I should’ve probably gotten a cab but I di-didn't have enough cash and-” She’s stumbling over her words trying to explain herself and tears start to stream down her cheeks. The full moon lights her face and adds a cruel glimmer to the tears while they pour.

“Hey, it’s okay we’ve got you” You rub her arms trying to comfort her. “Everyone’s just trying their best to get by, I get that. You’re going to be just fine, don’t worry”

She nods while wiping her tears and attempts to hide them, but her shoulders betray her as the sobs arise from her throat. You’re about to comfort the woman some more until you hear punches being thrown below. You look behind you frantically while still rubbing the woman’s shoulder, weighing your options. You could stay on the roof and try to calm her mental state, but then you hear groaning from down below and sigh.

You turn back to the woman, “Stay here, okay? Give me a couple minutes, I’m going to deal with them down there and then get you home.’

She nods while she continues to wipe her eyes, and you can see the shock still pumping through her veins when you turn away from her.

Heading back to the edge of the roof, you see Red Hood fist fighting all of the men at once. He’s throwing them against the dumpster and the brick wall that lines the road to Hell. One of the men stands further from the other two and that’s when you pick your battle jumping off the building onto his shoulders.

While he’s disoriented at the sudden presence, you take out your nun chucks and hold the chain around his neck while locking his arms with your legs. He punches and claws at your calves when you feel his breath coming out in short breaths. You pull tighter while he gasps digging his hand so hard into your ankle, you're sure it’ll bruise. He stumbles backwards, slamming you both into the wall and your head ricochets almost knocking you out. The pounding in your head doesn’t stop you from one last pull against his neck and he finally goes slack dropping to the floor.

Stepping over the unconscious man and turning back to the fight, you watch as the unwanted ally of the night takes out the gun that was strapped to his thigh. He points it at the man to his left. It feels like you see this happening in slow motion and in a desperate horror you take out your grappling hook again before he can pull the trigger and shoot at the man’s leg. You pull your trigger in time to pull the man to the ground landing on his face. You hear him cry out in pain as he breaks his nose, but a broken nose is better than a dead one.

“Don’t.” you tell the vigilante donned in red and black with a voice as deadly as his when he told you to leave earlier. He may be willing to kill, but you’re not.

He doesn’t offer you any words at your distaste for his methods. With the split second of your interaction the last man had grabbed a lead pipe from the floor and smashed the Red Hood’s mask with it. Not entirely sure how he’s still standing after taking a solid metal pole to the face your mouth drops in shock when the hooded man barely flinches.

The mask cracks enough to see his left eye and the scars that paint stories of pain. You see emerald green eyes that are alive and angry. Emerald eyes you’ve seen before. You pause while looking at him, and that was your first honest mistake of the night.

In the seconds it took you to recover from the sudden recognition, Red Hood had moved the gun to his other hand and shot the man straight in the forehead.

Looks like “covered” did mean shooting someone square in the face for tonight.

He dropped like a marionette whose strings had all just been cut. The previously loud alleyway had gone mute. The men not even groaning anymore after the gunshot rang through everyone’s ears.

“You can’t do that” you exclaim at him, eyes wide. “You can’t just kill everyone who does something wrong.”

That doesn’t earn you much besides an unimpressed look from him.

“They wouldn’t have ever stopped” he says while holding your gaze and the identity of the man in front of you is on the tip of your tongue. You’ve heard this voice before, and the nostalgia claws up your throat when it recognizes that this isn’t the first time you’ve fought with him either.

“You don’t know that.” The exasperation at his ways evident in your motions as you point to the dead man at his feet. “And now we’ll never know either, will we?”

He looks almost cynical to you, obviously not agreeing with your hopeful opinion on how crime should be dealt with. “You have too much faith in people. In change.” He deadpans as if it was that simple.

“You don’t have enough faith.” You quip back at him.

Then, in that moment, he looks away and scoffs before telling you words that will render you speechless. The reveal that will cause you to relive this night for months.

“I can’t believe you still follow Bruce’s peace pact he seems to have with all of Gotham’s terrors. But I can’t say I’m all that surprised, you know what they say,” he pauses, and moves his heavy gaze back to meet your eyes, looking right through you. “Like father like daughter.”

That’s when the wave of nostalgia crashes over you like the grandest wave of a tsunami growing in the pacific. The green eyes and the voice that’s haunted your nightmares since the night your father came home without his faithful Robin. The scars you saw at the open casket. The revelation hits you like a geyser exploding in Yellowstone.

Jason Todd was the Red Hood.

He was standing in front of you.

Alive.

“No…” is all you can say and you’re not sure if he hears it. You’re almost convinced that the whistle of the wind carries it away, but a low, dry, and pessimistic laugh escapes him.

He doesn’t get the chance to say anything else when another masked vigilante dressed in black with a blue bird plastered on his chest drops on the fire escape to your right.

“Well, well, well, look what we have here” Dick Grayson’s voice shocks you like an alarm waking you up too early. He’s leaning on his arms against the railing with that infectious smile that seems to live on his mouth. He looked like he was about to laugh at the scene in front of him, not knowing that his adopted dead brother was standing right there. You were rooted to your spot on the broken cobblestone, frozen in place when Jason turns to Dick annoyed. He doesn’t say anything to him and pointedly ignores him when he climbs to the roof. You hear him distantly find the lady and go to escort her home safely.

You can’t do much but stare at the spot where he was previously standing, trying to wrap your head around the news. Trying to think of a logic explanation that would cause someone to come back from the dead.

Oblivious as ever, Dick jumps down and scoffs, “What was that about?”

When he finally looks at you, Dick realizes that this wasn’t a particularly enjoyable reunion. He looks at you and sees that you’re completely zoned out and all color has drained from your face. He grabs your shoulders, trying to ground you while saying somethings you don’t hear. When you don’t move or make eye contact with him, he starts to gently shake you.

“What happened?” A serious edge prominent in his voice when he realizes something is very wrong, and under the domino mask you can see his eyebrows pull together in worry.

You don’t answer for a moment, still trying to remember how to breathe.

He’s alive is all you can think to yourself.

He’s fucking alive.

“It’s Jason” you breathe out.

“What?” Dick’s eyebrows pull together in confusion now contrasting the worry that threaded them together seconds ago.

“Jason” you swallow. “Red hood is…” and you can’t quite get the words out, can’t admit it.

Dick just stares at you with a sudden understanding and you couldn’t be more grateful that he was here, because by some miracle he always held it together.

You truly don’t know how he does it. How he acts like this isn’t a bomb that just dropped and destroyed everything you once knew. How he merely swallowed and nodded with acknowledgement. You felt like a boulder that couldn’t move, heavy and tired. Then, he gives you a slight push with his hand on your shoulder that transforms you into a feather floating in the air.

“Let’s go back to the cave.” He suggests firmly. “We have to tell Bruce.”

“Okay” was all you could get out.

And with that, you somehow got the courage to move out of the alley that fundamentally changed your understanding of life.

࿐࿔   𓅪   ˚   ✦   .   ~   ⋆   𓆩   ☆   𓆪 ⋆   ~   .   ✦   ˚ 𓅪  ࿐࿔

That’s how you got to where you are now. Staring at the roof of the cave that you grew up in. The cave that taught you love, the cave that taught you pain, and the cave that taught you the horrors of Gotham.

You move your head back down and glance back at the Robin suit that looks out of time.

You had given the glasses of your suit to Dick when you guys arrived back at the cave. He gave them to Tim so he would download the footage, and they could see the evidence themselves. Dick was the one who broke the news to them. They all spoke in hushed tones behind you at the bat computer while you stood in front of the different suits your father had worn and retired.

You haven’t spoken since the alley, not being able to process what you saw. You went over the facts that had been tattooed on your heart for years.

Jason Todd had died.

Jason Todd had died young and desperate.

Jason Todd had died after getting brutally torn apart by the Joker.

Jason Todd had a funeral.

And despite everything you knew, all the proof you had. Jason Todd was alive and fighting crime in Gotham. He was alive and killing.  

The agony that arose in your chest while looking at the suit almost tore you in half.

He was eleven when you met and fourteen when he died. You were two months younger than him, and he never failed to remind you of it. Always teasing you since you were, barely, younger than him.

It was nice to have someone your age in the cave. Dick was fun to hang out with, but he was more of like an older brother than a friend to you. You two were close but didn’t get super close until Jason died., clinging onto each other to cope with the loss.

Jason, on the other hand, was your best friend. You two were inseparable. Your father enrolled you in school together, which didn’t help the fact that you were both attached at the hip. He was the one who helped you convince Bruce to let you join them on patrols. He wouldn’t let you go on the more serious missions despite your training out of protective nature, but he would let you tag along every now and then.

It was no shock to anyone that you had a crush on Jason when you were kids. The stolen glances, grinning ear to ear all the time, laughing at his unfunny jokes. It was obvious to everyone except both of you that you liked each other.  You never admitted it, but you didn’t have to. Everyone knew.

The day your father came back almost killed you. You knew you’d never forget that night.

When he got out of the bat mobile with his suit shredded. The last sliver of hope you clung to dying when you didn’t see anything in the passenger seat. Not a body, not a boy, not a suit. It was empty and stained a deep maroon. You froze in place standing in the center of the walkway when he approached you and placed a gentle hand on your shoulder. He reeked of grief, drenched in blood not entirely sure who it belonged too. His shoulders slumped, and he could hardly look at you without sadness drowning his blue eyes.

You knew Jason had gone off to search for his mother, following a lead. You knew he got trapped and tricked by the Joker. The chaos that came from searching for him with your heart in your throat the whole night was nothing short of cruel. When his location was discovered, your father left without a word moving as fast as he physically could to save him. Time was running out. There was almost enough time. He was almost safe. He almost made it. But almost wasn’t enough.

Jason Todd was lost to the world.

Another death haunting this fucking family.

Bruce held you when you hit the floor of the cave and cried that night. He carried you to bed and asked Alfred to stay the night in your room. You’d never tell him, but you heard his carefully practiced stoicism break when he sniffled during the early hours of the morning when he thought you were asleep. Whether it was from the pain of losing Jason, witnessing the innocence you lost, history repeating itself, or maybe a combination of all three, you’ll never know.

“How’re you holding up?”

A voice evidently going through puberty takes you from your thoughts, and you look over at a different boy in a Robin suit.

Looking at Tim in his Robin suit breaks your heart clean in half. The bitter nostalgia and pity are a little too heavy for your chest to hold in one piece. You know he carries the weight of the world on his shoulders. Trying to live up to Dick Grayson and a dead Robin were the worst shoes to fill, you would know. You spent your whole life trying to prove to your father that you could be one of them.

Letting out a deep breath you offer him a broken smile, “How do you think I’m holding up?”

“That bad huh?” He asks you over the rim of his coffee mug.

“Yeah” you breathe out turning your head straight again.

You two slip into silence for a couple minutes. Dick, Alfred, and your dad are at the other side of the hall looking over the footage, trying to find the logic and the backstory while tripping over the computer. You should help, you were there, but what else could you do? You gave them everything you had. You don’t remember much from the interaction but the stark glimmer of his green eyes. Eyes, you never thought you’d meet again.

You feel tears trying to pry themselves free from the dungeon of your eyes, threatening to spill on your cheeks. You blink them back as fast as you can, trying to bury them deep within your body among the other secrets stacked in your bones.

How is someone expected to cope with this? How do you cope when the first boy you fell in love with died and then came back to life four years later?

Faintly breaking the silence, Tim asks so quietly you almost miss it.

“What was he like?”

You turn your head slightly to look at him with an eyebrow raised.

“Jason- I mean. I know Red Hood, but I never knew Jason.” He’s not meeting your eyes while steadily staring ahead at the preserved memory. “I never wanted to ask, ya know? How do you bring up the dead guy that came before you? I got snippets of him from stories sometimes, but that was it.”

You exhale at the innocence of his question. How do you answer that? There weren’t words that fit him. Jason was… everything. He was the brightness of the sun, the salt in the sea, and cold breeze on a July afternoon. He was the hope that there was good in the world. He was what inspired you to be a better person. A better friend. A better fighter.

“Jason was my best friend.” You answer hesitantly. “He was a good guy. He never made you feel stupid, he always made you laugh, and he was determined.” You laugh bitterly. That was the trait that got him killed. “Once he got it in his head that he was going to do something there was no changing it.”

Tim nods, accepting the information. He spares you a look from the corner of his eyes and sees the remains of a sour expression. He takes a sip of coffee from the red mug and after he swallows, he opens his mouth about to say something when an older voice cuts in.

“Master Tim, Master Bruce would like to speak if you have a moment.”

You turn around and the only grandfather figure you’ve ever known is standing next to you with perfect posture and a tray in his hands. Alfred Pennyworth is the best man you know and he’s proving that with the contents of the platter in his hand. There are chocolate chip cookies and a glass of water perfectly balanced and spread out.

Tim nods at Alfred and calls out a “Thanks” behind him after swiping a cookie and eating half of it with one bite. You pretend you don’t hear him choking on it while he goes down the stairs after the cookie went down faster than he intended it to.

You glance back at Alfred and behind his typical indifferent expression you can see the somber that hides in the lines of his mouth with his lips pressed too tightly together. In this family, that for some odd reason makes it its mission to bury their emotions, you eventually learned how to pick up on small changes that hide their true feelings.

Alfred then balances the tray on his left hand with the fingers spread out underneath it, with his right hand he grabs the glass of water and hands it to you. You take it from him and drink half the glass in one go, not realizing how thirsty you’d been. He doesn’t take his eyes off you while you chug, making sure you do get some form of sustenance.

“Thank you, Alfred” you try to smile.

“It is my pleasure, Miss” He assures you in his incredibly formal accent. “How are you feeling? Can I offer you a cookie?”

You snort at the last question, since you were a kid, anytime you were sad, no matter what had happened, he would bring you cookies. Whether it was your fault or someone else's, he always brought you the pastry.

You don’t want to be rude, so you take one and nibble on it even though you’re lacking an appetite at the moment. “Thank you and I’m doing alright, I guess. What about you? How’re you doing?”

Alfred sees right through your “alright” but thankfully, he doesn’t push it. “I will not do you the disservice of lying to you Miss Wayne, I am quite shocked. I was not expecting to hear of Master Jason again and I am… worried for him” He also stole a look at Jason’s old Robin costume, and the somber lines dig deeper into his face.

“Me too.”  You sigh.

There’s a beat of silence before Alfred begins again. “Miss Wayne, I do not wish to overstep. However, I do believe it would be beneficial to attempt in getting some rest.” You turn to look at him and see worry migrate to his eyes and his voice softens. “You have experienced a more difficult evening than most.”

Out of everyone you held close, Alfred saw how you felt about Jason and your relationship the most. He was the one who supervised you both, cooked for you, sat with you, and helped you. He was there for all of it. He knew what losing Jason meant and did to you.

He was the one who saw that your feelings toward Jason were not unrequited, despite what both of you believed. He saw the sprinkle of innocence that remained in you that was young love. The tiny crushes you had on each other. Alfred witnessed the way your heart crumbled to the floor when Bruce came back with the news. He’s looking at you know with the same caution waiting for you to break.

“I don’t think I could sleep now if I tried.” You huff.

“You would be surprised how quickly a body can shut down when you rest your head.” He tries to convince you.

“Alfred-” You start to gently fight against the idea of going to bed when you hear your father's unmistakable voice cuts in.

“You’re going to bed, end of discussion.” He stands tall behind you. He’s dressed in his suit without the mask on, and you can’t decide what version of him is more intimidating. The version of him in a half a million-dollar tuxedo, or the version of him that delivered justice to the worst citizens of Gotham.

“No, I’m not.” You turn to look at him and hold his gaze defiantly. It was times like these that Bruce Wayne hated that his daughter was exactly like him. There was nothing scarier than a mini-Bruce trapped inside the body of a seventeen-year-old girl.

He stared at you with his eyes narrowing slightly but not enough to be threatening. You didn’t look away, and you swore you heard a water droplet echo through the cave while you both fought with unsaid words, but gazes that were firing.

“You need to get out of the cave.” His eyes soften with the slight growth of his pupils. Bruce wished he was a better father, that he could hold her and show her that it’s okay to break, but he can’t. He has to hold it together for them, because if he doesn’t, everything he’s done, everything he’s worked for will come crashing down. “You don’t have to go to bed, just go upstairs, step away for a moment. You’re too lost in your head right now.”

You don’t answer right away, debating if you should take the olive branch he offered you. Bruce Wayne never offered a compromise. His words were law; decisions were final.

“Fine” is all you said to him.

He didn’t need to know what you were secretly planning to do when you went upstairs, so you accept the offer. Right before you turn away, you're glued to the floor when your father lightly places a hand on your shoulder.

“I know this isn’t easy. I know what you’re feeling. We’re going to find him.” His voice is softer than you’ve ever heard. The warmth in his voice rivaling the feeling of covering yourself with your favorite blanket when it comes out of the dryer.

“I know.” You whisper back, not being able to talk any louder without risking your voice cracking.

You turn away after flashing a quick smile at Alfred that he mirrors back, and you head down the stairs. You feel Dick and Tim's eyes on the back of your head, but you walk with your head down avoiding eye contact. You’re scared that if anyone sees the look on your face, they’ll uncover your plan.

Your footsteps ring like church bells at noon while walking through the cave. When you reach the elevator, you look up one last time to see the four men staring back at you, all with different expressions but with the same emotion: guilt.

Like they were personally responsible for what happened, when you all knew they weren’t. But somehow, they had all managed to blame themselves for this.

࿐࿔   𓅪   ˚   ✦   .   ~   ⋆   𓆩   ☆   𓆪 ⋆   ~   .   ✦   ˚ 𓅪  ࿐࿔

Here Lies Jason Todd, Ally & Friend

You’d been staring at the grave for the better part of an hour. You sit in front of it with your knees brought under your chin and for the first time that night, your mind quiets down. It was practically second nature to come here; you came at least twice a month. You used to come every week, but things got hectic and you couldn’t come as often.

You don’t really know what you’re doing here anymore because Jason isn’t six feet under you. He’s out there somewhere. You used to think if you came here and talked to the stone that he would be listening from wherever he was.

Now you’re sitting here talking to a stone that is nothing but a memorial of the worst years of your life. It took you a couple months to build the courage to come to the grave after the funeral, but once you did, you felt better. You always brought flowers and a story. Keeping him updated on what he was missing out on. Little fights you’d have with Dad, Dick being overprotective, or funny stories of Alfred putting the family in their place. It was a small comfort that you allowed yourself, a sliver of light that cracked through the darkness of the Gotham sky.

You snuck out the house from the half bathroom in the right wing on the first floor. Your dad and Alfred never figured out how you sneaked out despite having done so a good number of times. You never went to that bathroom during the day, so they wouldn’t suspect it. You had walked to the library and stayed there for a couple minutes, knowing that your father would be looking at the cameras to see where you went.

Then after you counted to a thousand you slipped to the area of the library that the cameras didn’t reach and stayed in the shadows. Silently thanking your earlier self who didn't change out of her suit, to make this easier. You waited another minute or two and when you didn’t hear anyone down the hall or at the door, you bolted. You knew how to make your way through the manor avoiding the cameras. Years of training that your father instilled in you, backfired on him big time. You reached the bathroom after slipping through the hallways.

Slowly unscrewing the loose windowpane, you pull it toward you and rest it on the lid of the toilet. You hop up sticking both your legs through and sitting on the windowsill you lean back to pick up the windowpane. You get your body through the crack in the wall and quietly prop the glass back up to make it look like it’s in its place.

Letting out a deep breath when your feet hit the grass that no one caught you, you turn around and disappear into the wind.

You already prepared the story that you were going to tell your dad when you got back to the manor, because no matter what, Bruce Wayne always found out. He may not have caught you in the moment, but he would realize eventually. He wouldn’t be too mad you tried to tell yourself. It’s not like you snuck out to go to a party or fight crime on your own. No, you snuck out to the cemetery to visit the grave of your best friend. He wouldn’t like it regardless because you lied to him and snuck out in the middle of the night going past the middle ground you agreed to stand in.

You haven’t said anything since arriving, just kind of disassociating at his grave. It was around four in the morning now and the birds started cawing in the distance.

When did everything get so complicated? It used to be so simple.

You didn’t bring flowers this time. The lilies you brought last Saturday sat propped up under his name, laughing at you. A weak breeze passes by you and moves your hair over your shoulder and knocks over the lilies. And that’s what does it.

That’s what breaks you.

A tear runs down your cheek, then another, and before you know it, a stream has drowned the apple of your cheeks and your convulsing at the Gotham City Cemetery. It’s empty and no one is here, so you let it all out. The sobs you swallowed for years, the cries that you wanted to let go, the anger you held toward the world for ripping your best friend from you. Snot runs down your nostrils, and you don’t stop crying. There’s no point in holding back anymore.

Alfred’s attempt at hydrating you in the cave earlier has gone to waste now since you’ve cried your body dry.

“I didn’t think anyone came to visit me.” You hear from behind you.

Muscle memory is what saves you from feeling embarrassed of being caught crying. You jump to your feet, nun chunks in hand, fist raised high, ready for a fight. Hearing rustling next to you, you’re getting ready to swing when your breath catches in your throat.

Standing in front of you was Jason Todd. He was in his Red Hood Uniform with his mask in his left hand and a gun pointed at you with his right hand. You saw the face you’d been dreaming of for years. He looked older than he really was. Scars littered on his face, and you were drawn to the faint “J” on his cheek that he’d been branded with. The slight patch of white in his hair contrasting the remaining coffee brown hair.

He looked like he’d been through Hell and back. Which almost pushed you to cry more. He used to be so happy and full of light, but that was all gone now. Behind the green eyes you once found comfort in, you only saw anger and abandonment now.

You both repeat the same actions form earlier, staring at each other silently. Never in a million years did you think that you’d be standing across Jason Todd again, and about to fight each other either.

“How long have you been standing there?” You’re suddenly grateful it’s dark out, so he can’t see the flush of obvious mortification on your face.

“Long enough”

He’s trying to act casual, and it’s starting to piss you off.

“What are you even doing here?”

“Couldn’t sleep” he shrugs, gun unwavering. “I haven’t ever really seen my grave and thought I'd come check it out.”

If you weren’t so drained, you might have laughed, but you can’t. Accusations start to slip from your lips, and you’re still prepared for a fight.

“Why didn’t you come back?”

“Why would I?” He doesn’t hesitate to respond.

“Jason-” You couldn’t even attempt to hide how dejected you sounded before he cuts you off.

“No- Jason, nothing. You guys made your choices and I’m making mine.” The anger in his voice cut right through you, holding yourself by sheer will you try to reach him.

“We did everything that we could. We searched everywhere for you, pulled all nighters-practically tore Gotham apart trying to find you-”

“You think this is about you not saving me? No, no, no, I forgive you for that.” Despite what he was claiming, there was no acceptance in his voice. “No, this is about him. Imagine my surprise when I wake up and see that that piece of death-worshipping shit is still terrorizing Gotham!”

He didn’t have to specify. You knew who he was talking about. How could you not?

“Jason-”

“No! If it was you, or Bruce, or Alfred, Hell even Dick? I would have destroyed Gotham until I ripped him limb from limb for taking any of you from me.” The words sound like they were being ripped from him and the pain in his voice is almost too much to bear. Tears start climbing to your eyes again. “This isn’t the Riddler, or Dent, or Penguin. No, it’s him.”

“He’s an Iranian diplomat.” You cringed at yourself with how desperate you sound. “We couldn’t do anything he has diplomatic immunity. If something happens to him and it's our fault, what do you think happens then? What happens when Batman kills?”

“There you go again with that moral code of yours.” He rolls his eyes and laughs like he can’t quite believe what you’re saying.

“He won’t kill and you know that. He made that vow to himself forever ago.” You raised your voice, not caring what time of day it was or where you were. “All he has are his morals. He is who he is.”

“I thought I meant more to him than that.”

“You meant more to him than you know.”

He laughs, not believing you. “Then why is the Joker still alive?”

“Because you don’t solve crime by stooping to their level.” The words come out robotic and rehearsed. You’d heard your father repeat this to you a million times when you wanted to take the easy way out. He’d tell you this weekly, either in the cave or on a mission.

He didn’t have anything to say to that. All the humor he’d previously found in the situation vanished. You drop your hands to your side still holding your nun chunks, but he doesn’t move his arm.

His chest is rising and falling quickly taking deep breaths while you try to control yours. With the gun unwavering you decide to test your luck. You walk up to him, and line up the center of your forehead with his pistol. You see him stutter with his breath and tears have started unapologetically falling down your face again.

As Bruce Wayne’s daughter and Batman’s sidekick, this wasn’t the first time you’d been held at gunpoint, and it wouldn’t be the last. So, you do what you do best, you stare danger in the eyes and pray it works out in your favor. Putting all your trust into the boy you once knew, hoping he’s still buried inside this angry body somewhere.

“He may not be dead, but it wasn’t from lack of trying.” Voice cracking, you take a shaky breath before continuing. “Do you really think Dick or Bruce were pulling their punches? Do you think they could hold it together? They couldn’t forgive themselves- they still haven’t. They buried themselves in their guilt. They almost died trying to bring justice to your name.”

“And what about you?”

The silence is heavy in the air of the cemetery. There’s a distant creaking of the entrance gate from the wind pushing it. Sirens constantly blaring a few blocks away adding to the Gotham charm.

“I stopped fighting for a bit.” You tell him honestly with tears lining your cheeks. “I couldn’t find a reason to get up anymore. There was nothing to look forward to anymore. We’d lost and evil won when they took you from us. You probably don’t believe any of this, but you meant more to me than you think.”

His green eyes cracked a little bit when he saw your attempt at a smile, and you swear you saw your best friend for the first time that night. He drops the gun to his side, and a million pounds have been lifted from your shoulders. There’s still a mountain of tension separating you, but you climbed over a bit of it.

“They dropped me in the Lazarus Pit a while back.” He looks away when he talks. “When I woke up, I didn’t know what was happening. The only thing I knew was anger.”

Your back straightens when he starts talking. Ra’s had beat death countless times from the Pit and you can’t mask the way your face falls knowing they’d dropped Jason in it. It doesn’t revive the same version of the person that died, it brings them back different. They suffer from rage and madness. It changes the brain chemistry of the person; it’s why Ra’s was worse every time you encountered him. You were never fighting the same person.

“I forgot a lot when they woke me up. It took me a while to recover my memories. I didn’t know anything except anger for a really long time, I was just this embodiment of resentment.” He pauses before continuing. “I didn’t know much, but I always knew you.”

You have to fight to not choke on your breath. He turns to look back at you with an unreadable look in his eyes that you can’t digest.

“Jason…”

“I know what you’re going to say, and no. I can’t. I can’t go back.” He takes a deep breath and looks away. “Not yet anyway.”

Still speechless at his declaration, you take a small step toward him and place a hand on his cheek. He flinches slightly not expecting the touch but then leans his cheek into your palm. You rub your thumb over the J shaped scar, and he closes his eyes when he realizes.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there.” Is all you can come up with, mentally kicking yourself that your brain is short-circuiting right now. He opens his eyes and holds your gaze.

He looks so scared under the rough demeanor he holds, and you soften your eyes silently comforting him. You want to hug him and take all his pain away, wash away all the sins he’s committed, heal the trauma that this world put him through. He didn’t deserve any of it, he was just a boy that wanted to be loved.

“I loved- love you.” He whispers, almost as if it’s forbidden for him to admit.

Heart slamming against your ribs, you look back at him and finally tell him what you’ve wanted to say to him for years. “I love you too.”

You share this bittersweet moment with him and there’s a slight upturn of his mouth. A tear falls from his eyes, and you wipe it quickly with your thumb.

“Do you think if I hadn’t left on that mission- if I played my cards right, that maybe we would’ve found our way to each other?” He lets down his guard and asks you so innocently that it robs you of your breath away. Tears continuing to escape your eyes now too and he drops the mask on the floor and wipes it with his red-stained hands. He leaves his hand cradling your cheek, holding you so gently like he’s scared he’ll hurt you. You move your free hand to hold his against your cheek, squeezing it, trying to remind yourself that this is real and he’s here. That this isn’t some sick figment of your imagination.

“I think that in every universe, against all odds, Jason Todd. I would’ve fallen in love with you.”

There’s a comfortable silence following your confession, seeing each other in a new light. Finally holding each other and stripping yourselves bare in order to truly see each other with no armor for the first time.

He looks mournful when he tells you that he can’t stay. You nod your head, understanding that he has to go. Neither of you move. Drinking each other in because you don’t know the next time you’ll see each other. The next time you’ll share another moment in the moonlight.

“I’ll come back to you one day.” He looks so pained that you can’t be mad at him for leaving. He isn’t in his right mind, and you know that. He needs to be alone for a while. “I promise.”

“You better, or I’ll tell Alfred on you.” You try to joke with him.

He laughs and takes you in one last time before dropping a kiss on your forehead. It lingers and in spite of the cold of the morning you feel that spot blazing with the warmth of the kiss. You close your eyes and hear him walk away not being able to watch him walk away again.

You know he will come back one day, and you’ll be waiting. You’ll always wait for Jason Todd.

Once you’re sure he’s gone and left you in the graveyard you drop to your knees. Letting yourself cry again. You bend over with your hair cascading around you, blocking your face. Sobbing into your hands at how unfair the world had to be. Bringing back the boy you loved and warping him into this being that is in a constant state of suffering. You don’t even care that you sneaked out anymore, don’t even care if your dad finds you out the house, you don’t rush anything anymore, you just sit and cry alone, again.

࿐࿔   𓅪   ˚   ✦   .   ~   ⋆   𓆩   ☆   𓆪 ⋆   ~   .   ✦   ˚ 𓅪  ࿐࿔

Alfred Pennyworth has been standing in the distance waiting outside the cemetery for the daughter he never had. She doesn’t know he’s there and he makes sure to keep it that way, allowing her the privacy she needs. He will wait until she stands ready to leave and act like he has just arrived to pick her up.

He watches the boy he had a hand in raising, tell her he loved her. He sees the pain in their body language when they recognize that they can’t be together and feels the abandonment weighing on them when he leaves her.

Alfred approaches the man when he exits the cemetery and he jumps not hearing the approach.

“Master Jason,” he turns around wide-eyed. “Please do us the service of staying safe.”

He doesn’t say anything else. Hoping that he understands everything unsaid. Hoping he realizes that this family will not survive losing him again. Hoping he knows that they will be here for him no matter what.

He blinks, surprised that that’s all he has to say. Shocked that he’s not trying to convince him to come back to the manor with them. But then again, Alfred never wasted his breath and accepted everyone’s decisions. He knew everyone had to make their own mistakes, their own paths in life.

“I will Alfred.” He promises and turns around. He doesn’t even take two steps before he pauses and looks over his shoulder.

“Can you do something for me?”

“Anything, Sir.” He doesn’t hesitate.

“Take care of her for me.” He swallows the lump in his throat. “Try to keep her out of trouble and make her smile if you can, she’s been through enough.”

“So have you sir.” Alfred responds with an eyebrow raise and earns a huff from Jason. “But yes, I will do my best.”

“Thank you, Alfred.” Is the last thing he says before taking off into the night.

Alfred Pennyworth watches Jason Todd walk away into the night, but he doesn’t see the Red Hood that Gotham knows and fears. No, he sees the little boy that Bruce Wayne brought home. The boy who stole tires off the bat mobile. The boy who lived on the streets and had a heart of gold. The boy who left to find his mother and never came back.

Hopefully this time after he walks away, he’ll find his way back home. Where you all will be waiting for him with open arms.

A/N: I hope you guys enjoyed and lmk in the comments if you liked and want some more dc one shots :)

[shisuni]

ᯓ➤ matching for christmas ⊹܀˙

← ʙᴀᴄᴋ. ⋮ ⌞ jason todd ✘ reader ⌝ .ᐟ .ᐟ

ৎׅ ׄ synopsis ⋮ You get kidnapped and branded by the joker on christmas. The bat-family sees Jason unravel. word cnt. 14.6k

cw ›››› torture, branding

Something is wrong.

Jason feels it like a pressure change—subtle, almost polite—but it crawls under his helmet and settles behind his eyes. It hasn’t clicked, not cleanly. Not yet. He hasn’t asked. Hasn’t said a word through the harbor sweep, through the cold iron stink of saltwater and oil and Christmas rot. A small job. The kind that should feel easy. The kind that still manages to choke the air out of his lungs anyway.

Everyone’s moving like the night might shatter if they stop.

Tim keeps choosing his words too carefully, syllables slowed and smoothed like he’s sanding down sharp edges. Dick’s doing that thing where he smiles first and speaks second—but the timing’s off, the warmth a fraction too late, like a recording lagging behind the video. Damian watches Jason more than the perimeter, eyes sharp, calculating, guarded. Stephanie hasn’t joked once. Not even a cheap jab to him, not even under her breath. That alone feels wrong enough to tilt the world sideways.

Bruce didn’t come.

That absence is loud. A hollow where a presence should be, echoing through comms and instinct alike. The Cave, he’d said. As if that explained anything. As if Bruce ever sits things out without a reason that claws.

Cassandra says nothing—but she’s closer. Close enough that Jason can feel her awareness like static along his spine. When the group splits, she falls into step beside him without discussion, without a glance. Just there. Solid. Protective in a way that feels less like trust and more like vigilance. As if she’s guarding him.

That’s when unease really sinks its teeth in.

Bruce didn’t need all of them.

Didn’t need six sets of boots scraping concrete, six heartbeats crowding the same dark. Dick alone could’ve dismantled this whole thing with half the effort. Hell, Jason himself could’ve wrapped it up fast and bloody and been home already. Instead, they’re stacked together, overlapping, slowing each other down like they’re afraid to let him out of their sight.

He agreed because no one argued about his presence. Because no one questioned whether he was needed. Because the silence around that decision felt intentional.

That should’ve been his first real warning.

Between two groups of thugs, he had ducked behind a row of shipping containers, Gotham’s lights bleeding gold across the black water. He had pulled out his phone and called you, already rehearsing the apology in his head. Late for presents. Again. You’d tease him, pretend to scold, maybe force him to wrap some gifts for your co-workers. 

You didn't answer.

Probably a bath, he told himself. You’d mentioned one. Candles. The fancy bath salts you bought. Something soft to push the cold out of your bones. The thought settles him, briefly. He sends a text instead—short, careful. An apology. An I love you so much that he doesn’t overthink, because with you, he never has to.

You always know what he means.

The phone stays quiet in his pocket.

No buzz. No vibration brushing against his thigh like it usually does, grounding him, tethering him back to something warm and real. He told himself it’s nothing. That you’re relaxed, distracted, asleep. That the night is just heavy, that Gotham is doing what Gotham always does—making ghosts out of shadows and dread out of coincidence.

Still.

When he looks back at the others, he notices the way Dick avoids his eyes now. The way Tim’s gaze flicks to Jason’s pocket and away again. The way Damian’s jaw tightens when Jason shifts his weight, like he’s bracing for impact. Cassandra meets his eyes once—just once—and there’s something there that twists low and sharp in his chest. Not fear. Not exactly.

Knowing. Jason doesn’t ask. He doesn’t press.

But the harbor feels too quiet, the night stretched thin and listening, and for the first time since he sent that text, a cold, irrational thought curls in his gut—

That whatever is wrong didn’t start here.

And that somewhere far from the water, far from the mission, something precious has already slipped out of reach.

“That was the last of them,” Jason says, voice rough through the helmet, as Tim finishes cinching zip-ties around the final goon and anchors him to a rust-flaked shipping container. The plastic bites down with a sharp click that echoes too loudly across the concrete. The man mumbled insanities through spit.

The harbor exhales around them—cold wind off the water, carrying brine and diesel and something rotten that’s been sitting too long. Sodium lights flicker overhead, casting everything in jaundiced gold and long, distorted shadows that stretch and tangle at their feet. The concrete is damp beneath Jason’s boots, slick with mist and old oil, the kind of surface that never really dries no matter how many ‘sunny’ days Gotham pretends to have.

“We should do another check around the harbor,” Dick says.

He’s already kneeling, already breaking the man's phone in half with practiced efficiency, grinding it into the concrete with his heel until the screen spider webs and dies. He doesn’t look up when he says it. Doesn’t grin. Doesn’t even sound casual about it.

Jason lifts an eyebrow, slow, deliberate. His gaze slides to Damian automatically—because Damian is usually the first to shoot an idea like that down, sharp and impatient and blunt as a blade.

Instead, Damian just mutters, “Tim could be wrong.”

Mumbles it. Like he’s afraid the words might carry.

That alone sends a small, unpleasant chill up Jason’s spine.

Tim doesn’t argue. Doesn’t bristle. He straightens from the goon and dusts his gloves together, eyes flicking—not to Jason—but to Stephanie. The movement is quick, practiced, like muscle memory.

“Do you want to take the gates with me?” Tim says, too smooth. Too rehearsed. “Jason and Dick could go along the—”

“What?” Jason cuts in before he can finish, blinking once. “You two were perched on the gates the entire op. What’re you talking about?”

The wind gusts harder, rattling loose chains and setting a tarp snapping somewhere down the dock. Water slaps against concrete pylons in a slow, hollow rhythm. 

Jason suddenly feels like the sound is counting something down.

“It wouldn’t hurt to double-check,” Tim says, rising to his feet.

He still won’t meet Jason’s eyes.

Jason’s jaw tightens. He shifts his weight, the concrete cold and unforgiving through the thinning soles of his boots, and for a split second his mind drifts—unbidden—to you. To the warmth of your kitchen lights. To the way you’d probably be halfway through setting out plates by now, humming something low and off-key, waiting for him in that way that makes him want to claw his soul out and hand it over to you. 

The thought lands soft, intimate, grounding—and then slips through his fingers when he remembers his phone, silent and heavy in his pocket.

“…You guys don’t need me for that,” Jason says, firmer now. There’s an edge to it, something protective and stubborn. He already has plans. A timeline. A promise he intends to keep. “Seriously. If you want to sweep again, even one person could—”

Dick finally looks up.

It’s just a glance, quick and loaded, the kind Jason’s learned to read over a lifetime of almosts and unsaids. Cassandra shifts closer at the same moment, her shoulder nearly brushing his, her presence steady and deliberate. Jason doesn't think she's ever willingly touched him in his life. Stephanie opens her mouth like she’s about to say something—anything—then closes it again.

The harbor feels tighter suddenly. Smaller. Like the stacks of containers have leaned in, hemming them closer, their corrugated sides looming like silent witnesses. The wind cuts sharper off the water, needling through the seams of Jason’s jacket, and somewhere deep in his chest, that pressure builds again.

Jason turns fully to Damian.

“Kid, I swear to God, tell me what—”

Damian snaps at the exact same moment Cassandra moves. Her hand closes around Jason’s shoulder, firm and sudden, fingers digging in through armor like she’s trying to anchor him to the concrete before he does something irreversible. The contact is intimate in a way that feels wrong, alarmed.

“How the hell should I know? They didn't tell me—” Damian bites back, voice sharp, flaring too fast, too hot.

“Damian!” Dick hisses, the sound cutting through the night like a blade dragged too quickly from its sheath. He’s already moving, stepping between them without quite committing to either side, hands up in a placating gesture that lands closer to panic than calm. He turns to Jason almost immediately, words tumbling over each other. “Come on, dude, let’s just go check the security towers and—”

“That’s going to take another hour,” Jason cuts in.

The words come out flat, but there’s steel underneath. He shrugs Cassandra’s hand off—not rough, but final—and reaches into his pocket. The harbor lights blur for a second as his fingers close around his phone, the familiar shape of something that connects him to you grounding him. It’s 10:20. He knows that without looking but checks anyway. He’s been counting the minutes since the mission dragged past its supposed end.

“I had plans,” he says, quieter now, but more dangerous for it. “Let me at least—”

The batarang whistles through the air.

Jason barely has time to register the movement—Damian’s arm snapping forward, wrist precise, expression tight and furious—before metal slams into his hand. The impact jars up his arm, sharp and biting, and the phone slips free, spinning once before it hits the concrete.

Crack.

The screen fractures instantly, a spiderweb of dead glass blooming beneath the sodium lights before the device skids to a stop near Jason’s boot. The harbor seems to hold its breath. Even the wind falters, the water’s slap against the pylons momentarily muted, as if the night itself is listening.

Jason stares down at it.

At the dark screen. On the way his reflection breaks apart in the shattered glass.

Jason’s gaze lifts slowly from the ruin at his feet.

It settles on Dick.

“Call Bruce.”

The words aren’t loud. They don’t need to be. They cut anyway—clean, controlled, edged with something that’s starting to slip. Dick falters under it, hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck, eyes flicking anywhere but Jason’s face. The harbor lights stutter overhead, one of them buzzing like it’s about to give out, bathing Dick in a sickly gold that makes him look younger. 

Guilty.

“What, you gonna tattle?” Dick says, trying for levity and missing it by miles. His laugh lands wrong, brittle against the cold. “C’mon, Damian's just in a mood. I was going to surprise you with burgers but I thought the kid would spill. I’ll buy you a new phone, okay? Just—”

“Call Bruce,” Jason repeats.

This time it’s a hiss, dragged out through clenched teeth, something feral and fraying around the edges. The wind picks up again, slicing between the containers, rattling loose metal and carrying the sharp tang of rain that never quite falls in Gotham. Jason turns his head, slow and deliberate, until his eyes find Cassandra.

She hasn’t moved. She’s watching him like she’s afraid he might break.

“…He’s busy,” Cass says.

Her voice is barely there. Smaller than usual. Soft enough that Tim, standing a good ten feet away, doesn’t hear it at all. The words dissolve into the night almost as soon as they leave her mouth, swallowed by wind and water and distance—but Jason hears them. Every syllable.

Busy.

Something inside him tightens, winding down to a thin, dangerous thread.

His hand comes up to his comm without conscious thought. He adjusts it once, fingers steady despite the way his pulse thuds too hard, too fast. The harbor seems to lean in again—the stacked containers looming like watchful giants, the river below churning black and endless. 

Gotham breathes around him, damp and unforgiving.

“B,” Jason says.

Sharp. Precise. A single syllable fired into the dark like a flare.

Static answers him. Wind whistling through steel corridors. The distant cry of something alive and miserable echoing off the water. No voice. No correction. No irritation crackling back through the line.

Just silence. It stretches. Pulls thin. Grows teeth.

Jason exhales through his nose, a humorless breath that fogs faintly in the cold air. He thinks of you again—too vividly now. The way your voice softens when you say his name. The way you always pick up, even when he thinks you shouldn’t. The way silence has never belonged between the two of you.

His jaw locks. Fuck this shit, I should be at home with her.

Jason moves before anyone can stop him—before anyone even realizes he’s decided something.

He’s across the concrete in three long strides, boots splashing through shallow puddles that mirror Gotham’s jaundiced lights in broken pieces. Damian doesn’t flinch when Jason grabs his comm. Doesn’t pull back. Doesn’t protest. That, more than anything, makes Jason’s teeth grind.

He clicks the emergency signal to the Batcomputer—once, twice, a break, two clicks hard enough that it hurts his thumb—then rips the comm free. His helmet follows, clattering against the concrete with a hollow, echoing crack that ricochets between the shipping containers. The sound feels too loud, too exposed. Jason presses the comm to his bare ear, cold metal biting into skin.

No one stops him.

Not Dick. Not Tim. Not Stephanie. Cassandra watches with that same quiet intensity, hands flexing like she’s bracing for impact. They stand there and let it happen, like this is how it was always meant to go—like they’ve already accepted that Jason finding out is inevitable, but telling him would be worse. Like this is some twisted test, or penance, or family tradition he never agreed to.

The harbor hums low and restless. Wind slides through steel corridors, rattling chains, carrying the stink of oil and brine and rain-soaked concrete. Gotham feels awake in that way it only does when something bad is already in motion.

“Robin?” Bruce’s voice cuts through the static, sharp and immediate. Too immediate. There’s an edge to it Jason hasn’t heard in years—tight, almost nervous, parental. “Robin, what’s wrong?”

Jason almost laughs.

Instead, his mouth twists.

“I’m going home, old man,” he hisses, already turning away from Damian. “What was this? Ya trying to tire me out, or did you get mind-controlled again? ‘Cause everyone here apparently likes you enough to tell me the truth.”

“Jason—”

“Red Hood,” Jason snaps, the correction coming fast and mean. He bends, scoops his helmet up by the chin guard, and starts walking toward the exit between the containers where the harbor opens up to the road. “What happened to keeping hero names on comms? Or are you the only one allowed to break rules tonight?”

“Red Hood, just give me—”

“It’s a lousy gang!” Jason shouts, voice tearing loose now, bouncing off steel and concrete and dark water. “They don’t even crack the top twenty. Damian could’ve done this shit by himself.”

He doesn’t look back, but he knows they’re following him. He can feel it—the weight of their footsteps, the way they trail just close enough to intervene if he breaks. Later, it’ll hit him why 

Tim made sure every single goon was double zip-tied, wrists biting white beneath plastic. Insurance. 

Tim knew Jason would find out. 

Knew none of them would be coming back to clean this up.

“Red Hood—”

“Merry Christmas, B,” Jason cuts in, bitter and sharp as broken glass. “Please don’t call.”

“JASON—”

Bruce’s voice snaps through the comm like a gunshot, dragging Jason straight back into another life, another night, another version of himself that answered to that tone. “She’s in danger. And if you want any chance of seeing her again, get to the Batcave—”

The line goes dead.

Not static. Not interference.

Bruce cut it himself.

Jason stops, because there's only one person he could be talking about to send all five of them with him.

The harbor seems to lurch, the world tilting just enough to make his balance feel theoretical. The wind howls between the containers, louder now, like Gotham exhaling something foul and satisfied. Water slaps hard against concrete pylons below, relentless, counting seconds Jason no longer owns.

Slowly—too slowly—he turns.

He looks at them. At Dick’s pale face. At Tim’s clenched jaw. At Damian’s rigid stillness. At Stephanie, eyes bright with unshed panic. At Cassandra, whose gaze is already on him, steady and mournful, like she’s watching something crack.

They look at him like he’s glass.

Like he’s a bomb they’re waiting to defuse—or clean up after.

Jason doesn’t give them the chance.

“Fuck all of you,” he spits, the words coming out broken and small despite his best efforts.

Then he runs.

Out of the harbor. Out of the sodium lights and rust and the weight of too many eyes. Jason runs like Gotham itself is on his heels, boots striking concrete in a brutal rhythm that drowns out thought—or tries to. The city stretches around him in jagged silhouettes and wet stone, skyscrapers looming like blackened ribs against a low, churning sky. Clouds hang heavy and swollen, bruised purple and gray, threatening rain they never quite release. Gotham loves the anticipation of pain more than the act itself.

His blood is loud in his ears. Too loud. Every heartbeat punches through his ribs, frantic and unforgiving, as if his body already knows something his mind refuses to accept.

Toward the manor. Toward answers.

Toward the awful, creeping certainty settling into his bones that whatever Gotham has taken this time, it didn’t take lightly—and it didn’t take something he can afford to replace.

He takes the shorter way.

Fire escapes. Rooftops slick with mist. Narrow alleys that smell like old rain and older sins. He vaults gaps without slowing, coat snapping behind him like a torn banner, the city blurring into streaks of shadow and light. This route cuts close to your place. Too close. He doesn’t consciously choose it; his body does, muscle memory dragging him along a path his heart has memorized better than any map.

And then—

Mid-leap, suspended between one rooftop and the next, he sees it.

Your building sits quiet against the skyline, dark in a way it never is. Your lights are off. All of them. The windows—your windows—are shattered, glass glittering weakly under the city’s glow like fallen stars. The balcony rail is smeared with something darker than shadow.

Blood.

The word doesn’t form. Not fully. His brain skids around it, refuses to give it weight. At most, he tells himself, you’re hurt. Something small. A cut. A scrape. A stupid accident that looks worse than it is. You’ll laugh it off when he gets there, scold him for worrying, tell him he’s being dramatic again.

Because you’re untouchable.

That’s the rule his mind has always clung to. Gotham can drown him in filth and violence and rot, but you—you—are clean. Untarnished. Something soft the city hasn’t learned how to bruise yet. You exist outside its reach, outside its hunger. Gotham takes things like Jason. It breaks people like him. It doesn’t get to put its hands on you.

It can’t have you.

Because if you’re hurt—if you’re really hurt—then everything Jason has built inside himself caves in at once. Every fragile structure, every careful compromise, every promise he’s made to stay standing for you. There’s no version of the world where you’re broken and he survives it intact.

He lands hard, barely absorbing the impact before he’s running again, lungs burning, throat raw. The manor rises ahead of him through the trees like a dark monument, windows glowing warm and oblivious against the night. Too slow. The gates are too slow. The doors are too slow.

Jason doesn’t bother.

He barrels straight for a ground-floor window and drives his elbow through it without hesitation. Glass explodes inward, sharp and screaming, biting into skin. He doesn’t feel it—not really—until he’s inside, boots skidding onto the polished floor, breath tearing out of him in harsh, uneven pulls.

Blood runs freely down his forearm, drips onto the pale carpet in dark, blooming stains.

It looks wrong there. Violent. Out of place, just like the blood on your balcony.

Jason stares at it for half a second too long, chest heaving, and something in him splinters quietly—because now he knows. The city has already touched you and it has never, not once, let go without breaking something in return.

Jason doesn’t slow down in the Cave.

The platform is still lowering when he’s already moving, boots striking metal too hard, too fast, the sound ricocheting off stone and steel. The Batcave yawns around them—vast and echoing, all cold water and colder rock, computer screens throwing pale blue light across jagged walls. The waterfall roars like it’s trying to drown the night itself, a constant, punishing noise that usually steadies him.

Tonight it only sharpens the edges.

Bruce turns at the last possible second. His eyes flick first to Jason’s face, then to the blood smeared down his arm, dripping steadily onto the pristine metal floor. Bruce’s mouth tightens. Not in anger. In calculation. In fear he refuses to name.

Jason shoves him.

Hard.

Bruce’s back slams into the Batcomputer console, screens rattling, data stuttering for half a heartbeat. A lesser man would’ve been airborne. Bruce Wayne could have thrown Jason across the Cave without effort—could have ended this in a clean, controlled second.

He doesn’t.

Jason knows he won’t.

“Where is she,” Jason spits, the words tearing out of him raw and shaking. His hands fist in Bruce’s cape, knuckles white, trembling despite the strength coiled beneath them. The fabric bunches beneath his grip like it might rip if he pulls any harder. “Where is she?”

Bruce lifts his hands slowly, carefully—not in surrender, but in containment. Like approaching a live wire. His voice, when he speaks, is measured to the point of pain.

“…Jason.”

The name alone is an attempt. An anchor. Bruce is already running scenarios, already gauging angles and exits and how much damage Jason could do if this slips another inch. He knows Jason’s tells. Knows the way his breathing has gone uneven, the way his eyes are too bright, too fixed. Knows this isn’t rage yet.

This is terror.

“Don’t,” Bruce says quietly. Not commanding. Pleading, buried deep beneath control. “Just—listen to me.”

Jason laughs once, short and broken, the sound scraping his throat raw. “No. You don’t get to slow this down. You don’t get to prepare me.”

Bruce swallows. “…Joker—” he begins.

And the world fractures.

The word lands heavy and obscene between them, fouling the air of the cave like poison gas. Joker. The name crawls under Jason’s armor, past muscle and bone, straight into the place where you live inside him.

Suddenly, you’re not untouchable.

You’re not the one clean thing Gotham never got its hands on. Not the soft place Jason runs to when the city claws at him too hard. Not the warmth in his bed, the light in his kitchen, the voice that says his name like it belongs to something human.

You’re not safe.

You’re not distant.

You’re not protected by the simple, impossible belief that the worst things in the world know better than to touch you.

You’re real.

You’re fragile.

You’re reachable.

Jason’s grip tightens without him meaning to, breath hitching violently in his chest. His mind fills with images he refuses to finish forming—broken glass, blood on pale surfaces, your windows shattered open to the night the same way his chest feels split open now. He thinks of your hands. Your laugh. The way you look at him like he’s something worth keeping.

And now—

Now you’re the blood he’s already wearing.

The blood he’s going to feel soaking into his gloves tonight.

Bruce sees it happen. Sees the moment Jason slips past anger and into something far more dangerous. His own heart lurches, sharp and traitorous. This—this is what he’s been afraid of since the second he knew Joker was involved. Not Jason lashing out blindly.

Jason focused.

Emotional.

Unanchored.

“Jason,” Bruce says again, softer now, steady as bedrock despite the fear tightening his chest. “I need you to stay with me. I need you here. Because if you go out there like this—”

Jason’s eyes snap back to him, glassy and feral and devastatingly alive.

“If I don’t go,” Jason says hoarsely, “she dies.”

“If you go,” Bruce says, low and sharp, the words cutting through the roar of the Cave, “you die—and you could lose her at the same time.”

The Batcave hums around them, fluorescent light washing the rock walls in cold blue, computer screens flickering with restless data. The waterfall crashes endlessly behind Bruce, mist clinging to the air, dampening everything it touches. It feels like the Cave is breathing—slow, heavy, watchful.

Bruce moves closer and grips Jason’s jacket with both hands, fingers clutching the leather like it’s the last solid thing in the world. He holds on the way a man holds a ledge he’s already slipping from, hoping friction alone might be enough to keep someone from falling.

It isn’t.

“Where is she,” Jason says.

His voice is flat. Too controlled. His eyes have already left Bruce, already slid to the Batcomputer, to the glowing map littered with red and yellow pings like open wounds across Gotham’s body. Each marker pulses faintly, alive and accusing.

He doesn’t notice his siblings closing in—Dick’s careful steps, Tim’s rigid stillness, Damian hovering sharp and coiled like a drawn blade.

“She’s alive,” Bruce says quickly, desperately. “She wasn’t the only one—at least four other children and three women—”

Jason turns his head.

The look he gives Bruce is devastating in its emptiness. Eyes glassed over, jaw set too tight, brows drawn together like the world has narrowed to a single, unbearable point.

“Do you honestly think I give a damn about them right now?”

The words aren’t shouted. They don’t need to be. They land heavy, obscene in their honesty, and Bruce’s grip tightens reflexively, knuckles whitening against Jason’s jacket.

“I know you don’t,” Bruce snaps back, frustration bleeding through control. “Which is why I didn’t tell you she was taken. Because we need a plan that keeps everyone who was captured safe—”

“At the risk she dies in the process?” Jason cuts in.

Then—he stills.

Something shifts. His hands loosen, falling away from Bruce’s cape as if the fabric has suddenly burned him. His gaze slides, sharp and intentional, and locks onto Tim.

“How long,” Jason says.

The question is steady. Solid. Frighteningly calm.

Tim swallows and flicks a glance at Bruce—a silent check, a plea, a habit Jason has seen a thousand times. Jason shoves Bruce’s hand aside and crosses the distance in two strides, grabbing Tim by the shoulders, fingers digging in through armor.

“Don’t,” Jason hisses, thumbs pressing hard, grounding, painful. “Don’t look at him.”

The words aren’t just for Tim. They’re for Jason too.

He vaguely registers Dick saying his name, Stephanie’s voice tight with panic somewhere behind him, but it all dissolves into a dull ringing as he stares down at Tim. Tim doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. He meets Jason’s gaze head-on.

“How long,” Jason repeats. “Where.”

Tim exhales, slow and controlled, the way he does when delivering bad news. “Two hours,” he says quietly. “Warehouse two blocks from Crime Alley. Behind that busted playground.”

Crime Alley.

The name echoes through the Cave like a curse, sinking into Jason’s chest and blooming outward, cold and malignant. Of course it’s there. Of course Joker chose that place—layers of history piled atop rot, a shrine built from other people’s pain.

Jason releases Tim slowly, hands trembling now, control finally beginning to crack.

Two hours.

Two hours of you alone with the man who taught Gotham how to laugh while it kills.

The Batcomputer hums on, indifferent. Gotham’s skyline glows faintly on the monitors—jagged towers under a bruised sky, rain finally starting to smear the camera feeds, streaking the city in gray. Somewhere out there, windows are broken. Somewhere out there, that cashmere scarf he wrapped and placed under your tree stays un-wrapped.

Jason understands then—with a clarity so sharp it almost feels merciful—that plans are a luxury meant for people who still believe time is something they own.

Time has never belonged to him.

Because you—you—aren’t alone. You’re trapped with seven other people. Four of them children, Bruce had said, like that word didn’t rearrange Jason’s insides completely. His mind does something traitorous then, something he hates himself for even acknowledging: it calculates. It knows how these things go. It knows Joker’s sense of theater, his appetite for cruelty, his fondness for leaving one survivor behind as punctuation.

And the last one standing is never the strongest.

It’s the smallest. 

Those kids won't be dying before you do.

Jason’s breath stutters, just once.

“Jason,” Bruce says from the Batcomputer, voice tight, forced into calm the way it always is when he’s terrified. The blue glow paints him hollow, all sharp angles and restraint. “Don’t make me stop you. The cops are on their way. Joker just wants cash.”

For the first time since the harbor, the noise in Jason’s head goes quiet.

Not peaceful—focused.

Everything narrows down to Bruce. To the way his shoulders are squared like a barricade. To the way his hands hover, uncertain, like he’s trying to decide whether to reach out or brace for impact. Jason’s heart hammers so hard it hurts, louder than the waterfall, louder than any threat Batman could ever make.

“If you even try, Bruce,” Jason says.

He doesn’t look at him when he says it. He can’t. The name comes out wrong in his mouth—too raw, too intimate, scraped down to bone. Instead, he keeps his eyes on Tim, standing rigid in front of him, small in a way Jason suddenly can’t stop seeing. He hopes—distantly, uselessly—that he isn’t glaring at his little brother. Hopes Tim understands this isn’t anger.

Just pure desperation. His last attempt, his last shot.

“Ill fucking shoot myself. I’ll make sure you know it’s your fault,” Jason continues, voice low and shaking despite his effort to keep it steady. “I’ll use my gun. And if you tie me up today, I’ll wait until next week. If you lock me down for a week, I’ll wait a month. I’ll do it.”

He swallows.

Because that’s the only thing that’s ever worked. The only language Bruce Wayne never ignores.

Dick moves fast—too fast—grabbing Jason’s arm where it’s still braced near Tim, fingers digging in hard. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he shouts, panic cracking straight through his anger.

Jason turns on him then, eyes blazing, voice breaking loose at last.

“Would you be this still?” Jason yells back. “If that was me with Joker again? If it was me instead of her—would you have left me there for the police to find? Again?”

The word hangs between them, heavy and damning.

Again.

Jason knows Dick well enough to see it land. To watch his brother’s grip falter, fingers loosening like they’ve forgotten what they were holding onto in the first place. Dick’s face goes pale, mouth parting uselessly, and Jason twists the knife—not because he wants to hurt him, but because he needs them to understand.

“This,” Jason snaps. “This is why none of you fucking knew about her.”

He looks at all of them now—really looks. At Bruce, frozen behind the console like a man staring down a live bomb. At Dick, wrecked with guilt.

“If you can’t even see me beyond a mistake you made,” Jason says, voice hoarse, “there was no way you wouldn’t have seen her as that too. And I love her too much for that.”

The words leave him hollowed out.

Then he’s gone.

The Cave swallows the echo of his footsteps, leaving only the roar of the waterfall and the hum of machines that suddenly feel pointless. No one moves to stop him. No one even tries.

It takes Tim a full minute to cross the platform and reach the Batcomputer, fingers hovering uselessly over keys he knows by heart.

It takes Cassandra four times as long to find a part of Bruce that still moves—some small, human place in his arm or shoulder that isn’t locked rigid like a man bracing for an explosion he knows is already ticking down.

Dick follows Jason’s trail almost immediately. And Damian follows Dick.

You don’t remember the last five hours.

They’re gone—hollowed out—like someone reached into your head and scooped the time away with a careless hand. The last thing you have is small and warm and ordinary: the coffee table between the couch and the window, set for two. Plates aligned just so. The new glasses you bought with Jason on that stupidly perfect thrift-store date, thin and elegant and impractical. You’d laughed about them, about how easy they’d be to break. Jason had pretended to scold you, fingers warm around yours as he tugged you toward the bookshelves, already stacking paperbacks in his arms like treasure.

You’d bought homeware. A vintage mirror with a gold edge, slightly warped, the kind that makes everything look softer than it is.

Jason always said you needed better locks. You realize it numbly.

He always said it gently, like a suggestion instead of a warning. Like he was talking about replacing a lightbulb or buying better coffee. You brushed him off every time, smiling, pressing a kiss into his shoulder, telling him Gotham wasn’t that bad. That you were fine. That you were safe.

And you were right. You always are.

Because an extra lock wouldn’t have stopped the man with the red smile.

It wouldn’t have stopped hands tangling in your hair, fingers tight and merciless as he dragged you across your rug, skin burning where it scraped against the fibers. It wouldn’t have stopped the way your mirror shattered when he slammed you against it, glass singing as it broke, your own reflection splintering into a hundred terrified pieces that stared back at you with wide, unbelieving eyes.

It wouldn’t have stopped the way he looked at you.

He crouched in front of you like this was intimate. Like this was a secret. His smile stretched too far, paint cracked and smeared, eyes bright with something wrong and delighted and ancient. 

Joker tilted his head, studying you the way a child studies an insect pinned to cork.

“Here’s the other lovebird,” he murmured, voice lilting, almost fond. “Ohhh… how cute you are.”

You remember thinking—absurdly, desperately—that Jason would hate that word. That he’d bristle at it, roll his eyes, pull you closer just to prove a point. You remember the ache of missing him hitting harder than the pain at first, your mind reaching for him the way it always does when the world goes wrong.

Jason would know what to do.

Jason would make this stop.

The thought is a comfort even now, curled tight in your chest, fragile but stubborn. You cling to it as the man stands, as one of the shadows behind him passes up an old, rusted crowbar. The metal is pitted and dark, flaking with age and something older still. It smells like iron and damp and rot.

It doesn’t take a lock to stop that.

It doesn’t take a security system to stop the sound your bones make when he brings it down.

The pain comes in blinding flashes—white-hot, nauseating, wrong. Your legs scream before you do, nerves lighting up in protest, your body trying to fold in on itself, trying to protect something already broken. You taste blood, copper and thick, your teeth chattering even as your throat burns raw from crying out.

Through it all, you think of Jason.

Of his hands—gentle despite their strength. Of the way he says your name like it’s something precious, something he’s afraid to drop. You think of his laugh, low and surprised, the way he softens when it’s just the two of you and Gotham can’t see him. You think of the books still stacked on the table, waiting to be read, of the glasses that shattered just like the mirror did.

Of how he warned you.

Of how he would be here already if he knew.

The room feels wrong—tilted, smeared with shadow, the air thick and sour. Blood pools where it shouldn’t, dark against your floor, soaking into the rug you picked out together. The city hums outside your broken windows, indifferent and vast, neon bleeding into the night like nothing is wrong at all.

You breathe when you can. You hold onto Jason’s name like a prayer you’re afraid to say out loud.

Because if he comes—when he comes—you need to believe there will still be something left of you for him to find.

Your consciousness returns in fragments, drifting in and out the same way you remember nights with him. Not clean breaks. Not mercy. Just gaps.

A void of sleep.

Jason easing your window open like the city might hear him, hands raised in mock surrender, voice low and careful. I didn’t mean to wake you… shh… go back to bed. The mattress dips, familiar weight settling beside you, warmth bleeding into your back.

A void of sleep.

Jason in your bathroom, the light too bright, the mirror fogged. Gotham’s blood and grime rinsed down the drain while he rubs his hair dry with one of your soft, ridiculous pink towels. He smiles at you through the doorway, sheepish and fond, promises he’ll be there in a second. He always is.

A void of sleep.

Jason shifting beside you, breath warm against the delicate skin beneath your ear. His arm tightens in his sleep, possessive without knowing it, like even unconscious he’s afraid the world might take you if he lets go. He murmurs your name—broken, reverent.

A void of sleep.

White hands. Cracked paint. Fingers threading through your hair, slick and tangled with blood. The touch is intimate in the worst way, scalp burning as he hums—no, sings—a childish tune about robins, voice lilting and wrong, laughter bubbling beneath it like rot under sugar.

A void of sleep.

Concrete tearing at your skin as you’re dragged, knees bouncing, spine jolting with every crack in the ground. A van door yawns open, metal teeth waiting. A child sobs near your ear, small and hiccuping. A woman screams at the child to shut up—panic sharp and desperate—until a gunshot rings out like punctuation. The woman goes silent. The child doesn’t. The word mommy repeats, thin and broken, drilling into your skull.

A void of sleep.

You wake choking on pain.

Your body is bound to a chair, wrists cinched tight, ankles screaming. Barbed wire coils around you like something alive, biting deep with every involuntary twitch. The metal is rusted, flaking, cruel—tearing skin open in ragged kisses that burn and throb and never quite stop bleeding. Your legs are numb in places, screaming in others. You can feel blood soaking into fabric, sticky and cooling as it trails downward.

He’s in front of you.

Smiling.

Head cocked, eyes bright with interest, like you’re a puzzle he’s just started enjoying. He steps closer, crouches until he’s eye-level with you, hands clasped together as if in prayer.

“You do love your sleep, don’t you?” he says, voice almost gentle.

Your vision swims. The room smells like iron and oil and damp concrete. Somewhere nearby, something drips steadily—water, or blood, or both. The walls feel too close, the shadows stretching and curling like they’re listening.

“The other birdy,” he continues, grinning wider, “wouldn’t even sleep if I cracked his skull. Such a shame.” He sighs theatrically, tapping the barbed wire with one gloved finger, delighted by the way you flinch. “I suppose I’ll have to find a way to keep you awake.”

Through the haze, through the pain, one thought stays stubbornly intact.

Jason is coming.

And you cling to that like a lifeline, even as the horror closes in, even as the night tries to peel you apart—because if you let go of that belief, if you let the void take everything—There will be nothing left for him to save.

You can’t see farther than four feet in front of you.

Anything beyond that dissolves into smears of color and motion, the edges of the room bleeding into one another. When you try to focus, your vision tilts violently, the world pitching sideways as warm blood slips down from your temple, sticky and insistent. It drips into your eye, blurring everything further, each blink making it worse. The ceiling swims. The walls breathe.

He notices.

Of course he does.

He steps into what little clarity you have left, face snapping into focus like a nightmare finally deciding to be seen. His hand comes up fast, fingers prying your jaw open with impatient familiarity. Something chalky presses against your tongue.

You gag immediately.

Your throat spasms around his fingers, saliva thick and useless as panic claws up your chest. Your head jerks instinctively, barbed wire biting deeper in protest, fresh pain flaring white-hot along your wrists and ankles. He doesn’t pull away. He shoves the pill back, past your tongue, past your resistance, until your body betrays you and swallows.

You choke.

Tears spill from your eyes, hot and humiliating, streaking through the grime on your cheeks. Your lungs burn as you suck in air in sharp, broken pulls.

Jason, you think, distantly, desperately. The name is a reflex now. A prayer you don’t dare say out loud.

His hand withdraws at last.

Then—

Smack.

Your head snaps to the side, vision exploding into sparks. Before you can react—

Smack.

The second strike lands harder, ringing through your skull, teeth clacking together as pain blooms anew. The world steadies just enough to be cruel about it.

“That’ll keep you awake, birdy,” he croons, pleased.

Your heart slams against your ribs, frantic and trapped. Already you can feel it—the way the haze pulls back just a little too much, the way your thoughts sharpen against your will. Your eyelids burn, heavy but refusing to close, nerves screaming as the drug seeps in and denies you even the mercy of darkness.

“Now.”

He leans back into his own chair like this is a rehearsal, like he’s bored of waiting for his cue. The legs scrape loudly against the concrete, the sound sharp enough to hurt. He reaches forward and adjusts the camera in front of you with careful precision. A small red light blinks every few seconds—steady, patient. Watching.

“We’re going to make a deal, okay?”

You don’t answer.

Your eyes refuse to cooperate, swimming uselessly as you blink through blood and tears. Every attempt to focus sends a wave of nausea through you, the room tilting, your pulse roaring in your ears louder than his voice. Your jaw trembles. Your tongue feels thick, wrong in your mouth.

“Okay?”

Nothing comes out.

The barbed wire strung cruelly across your throat digs in deeper with every breath you take, a quiet reminder that sound would cost you skin. Air hisses past your teeth in shallow pulls. You can feel your heartbeat there, fluttering and frantic against metal.

His smile thins.

He stands.

The rusty crowbar tightens in his grip as he rises from a stupid, bright orange folding chair—out of place, obscene against the filth of the warehouse. He steps into frame, then closer, until the camera, until you, are all that exist. He hooks two fingers under your chin and lifts your face, forcing your eyes up.

“Answer.”

You try.

Your mouth opens. Nothing happens.

All you can see is him—cracked white makeup creasing around his eyes, green hair greasy and limp, age showing in the lines around his mouth where smiles have lived too long. He smells like oil and metal and something sour beneath it all. The warehouse stinks of rust, damp concrete, old fuel. It crawls into your lungs.

And then—

You hear it.

A sound that doesn’t belong to him.

Crying.

Your head turns slowly, painfully, vertebrae protesting as the wire shifts against your throat. The movement costs you another sharp breath. Your vision blurs again—but this time, shapes resolve.

A cluster of bodies huddled together against a dented equipment container. Two teenage girls with their knees pulled tight to their chests, faces streaked with dirt and tears. Four little boys wedged between them, shaking, hands bound too tight, mouths open in silent sobs like they’ve already learned screaming doesn’t help.

Something in your chest caves in.

You don’t even see the crowbar move.

The impact comes out of nowhere—white-hot, brutal. The hooked end of the bar slams into your shoulder with a wet, tearing sound, metal biting deep as it pierces flesh. Pain detonates through you, ripping the air from your lungs. He yells as he does it, manic and delighted, like the violence startled even him.

Your body jerks against the restraints.

Barbed wire bites deeper. Blood spills warm and fast down your arm, soaking into your sleeve, dripping to the floor in thick, uneven drops. Your vision fractures, stars bursting behind your eyes.

You clamp your teeth down hard on your lip to keep from screaming.

You taste iron immediately—sharp and overwhelming—as skin breaks beneath your bite. Tears spill freely now, blurring everything, mixing with the blood already clinging to your lashes. It burns. It hurts. Your whole body shakes with the effort of staying quiet.

Behind you, the crying gets worse—fractured, panicked.

“Okay,” you choke out.

The word scrapes your throat raw on the way out, barely more than a breath. It tastes like blood and rust and surrender.

Immediately, the pressure is gone.

The crowbar pulls free with a wet sound that makes your vision white out, pain screaming down your arm as the hooked metal tears away from muscle and skin. You shudder hard, a broken gasp ripping out of you despite your best effort to swallow it down.

He steps back like a magician deciding on the next trick.

Then he leans in again—careful, deliberate—and pats at the wound where the bar pierced you. Not gentle. Never gentle. His palm presses just enough to make you flinch, fingers smearing warm blood across your torn clothes.

“See?” he says brightly, turning slightly so the camera gets a better angle. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Your breath comes shallow and fast, chest stuttering against the wire. Every inhale sends a fresh bloom of pain through your shoulder, the edges of it pulsing in time with your heart.

His hands come up next.

Dry. Cracked. Too warm.

He grabs your face, fingers digging into your cheeks, thumbs pressing at your jaw as he tilts your head from side to side. The movement drags the skin of your neck against the barbed wire, a searing, intimate pain that makes your eyes flood instantly.

“What a dumb dumb birdy you are,” he croons, affectionate in the way predators are. “It’s okay. Joker can teach you.”

Your body trembles uncontrollably now. Your fingers spasm uselessly against the wooden arms of the chair, nails scraping shallow grooves into the surface. You can feel blood slicking your palm and you don't even want to think about how you got hurt there too.

He releases your face.

Pats your head once.

The gesture is almost worse than the violence.

“Now,” he says softly, pleasantly, “say thank you.”

Your vision swims. The room feels too loud, too close. Somewhere behind you, one of the children sobs so hard it turns into hiccupping gasps. You swallow around the wire, throat burning.

You look up at him with shaking eyes, lashes heavy with tears and blood. Your mouth opens. Your lips quiver.

“Thank—” Your voice breaks completely. You force it back together, dragging the word out of yourself like it’s being pulled through glass. “Thank you.”

His smile spreads slow and satisfied, stretching the cracks in his makeup wider.

“Good birdy,” he coos, pleased. “So much more compliant than your love bird already!”

“Now—” Joker announces, voice lifting into a theatrical lilt, like he’s stepped beneath a spotlight instead of flickering warehouse fluorescents. He turns toward the camera, gives it a jaunty little nod, then looks back at you, grin splitting wider. “I was gonna let you go for some cash. Thought your little boy bird might get scared shitless—just a fun little bonus, really—buttt—”

He drifts away from you, footsteps light, almost playful. You can’t turn your head far enough to see what he’s doing. The wire bites when you try. Your vision pulses, dark at the edges.

Then—

A scream.

Sharp. High. A girl’s voice.

It cuts off halfway through, collapsing into a thin, broken cry that echoes far too long in the hollow space of the warehouse.

Something in you fractures.

Joker reappears at your side, breath brushing your ear, laughter bubbling out of him like it’s a private joke the two of you share. “Got lucky with a rich bitch on the road,” he cackles, delighted. “Gotham really does keep on givin’.”

Your stomach twists violently. You taste bile. The crying behind you swells again, panicked and animal, and you can feel your own body trying to fold in on itself despite the restraints, like if you curl inward hard enough you might disappear. 

His hands slide to your throat and at the same time your eyes land onto his hands. Diamond earrings.

He ripped her earrings out of her ears. 

Before you can flinch at the sight of pieces of skin in his open hand, he yanks.

The chain snaps free with a sharp tug, metal biting into your skin as the necklace tears away. You gasp, the wire at your neck punishing you for it, and the sudden cold where the chain used to rest feels obscene—too exposed. You feel lucky that you took off your earrings when you were doing your hair.

He dangles it in front of the camera, letting it glint under the harsh light, gemstones smeared faintly red from your blood. “This could go for a couple hundred too!” he sings. “Ohhh, how delightful!”

He leans closer, eyes alight, savoring every tremor that runs through you. “At least one of the birdies knows how to decorate their nest. Found a few rings at your place as well.”

Joker pockets the necklace with a satisfied hum.

“Well, now that I don’t need the money,” he croons, voice lilting, playful, like he’s deciding which joke to tell next, “what should I do with you?”

His fingers drag along your cheek again, slower this time, the pad of his thumb pressing just hard enough to bruise. His touch leaves heat behind, a crawling sensation that makes your stomach revolt. You feel contaminated where he’s touched you, like your skin is remembering something it shouldn’t.

“…I’ll give you more,” you whisper. Your voice fractures around the word, splintering into something pitiful and thin. “However much you want—just—”

“Oh, I don’t need money.”

The change is instant. His tone drops, sharp and venomous, and when he leans in his eyes are blown wide and empty, pupils swallowing the green like oil slicks. A hawk spotting movement. A blade finding flesh.

“I was looking for some fun, love bird,” he hisses. “You can’t give me that?”

You whimper around the grip on your jaw as his fingers tighten, nails biting into your skin. The wire at your throat digs deeper when you gasp, its teeth kissing something vital. Pain blooms hot and bright, stars bursting behind your eyes.

“Jason— Jason will—”

He doesn’t even flinch at the name.

Maybe that’s mercy.

His fingers move higher, rough and invasive, smearing through the makeup you’d put on hours ago with careful hands. The eyeshadow burns as it’s ground into your skin, sweat and blood turning it into a dark, ugly paste. His thumb drags through the faint blush on your cheeks, erasing it like it was a mistake.

“How pretty you are,” he murmurs, almost tender. “I do makeup on myself too, you know.”

Then his hands leave you entirely.

He grabs his own face, fingers digging into the cracked greasepaint, stretching the red grin wider, tearing at the corners until the white creases and flakes. For a second you think you see real skin underneath—white, lined, angry. Horrid.

“Do you like mine?” he asks brightly. “Do you think I’m pretty?”

Your mind blanks.

Your eyes flick helplessly to the camera instead—the blinking red light pulsing steadily, patiently. Recording. Waiting. You try to speak, to say yes or no or anything that might stop what’s coming, but your throat locks around the wire and all that comes out is a wet, useless sound.

Then—

“Very pretty!”

The voice is behind you.

Too young.

A teenage girl, no older than seventeen. Her voice trembles, thin and frantic, the words tumbling over each other. “So—so pretty—”

You feel something inside you tear open.

She’s trying to survive. You can feel that hope radiate off of her. The hope of throwing words into the dark and praying it lands somewhere safe.

Joker’s head snaps toward her.

His eyes narrow, sharp and wrong, smile freezing into something predatory. “You think so?”

There’s a frantic nod you can hear more than see—the quick intake of breath, the shuddering little sob that follows.

Joker bends down.

The crowbar scrapes loudly as he lifts it, metal screaming against concrete. You catch a glimpse of it as he moves past you—rusted, pitted, darkened in places where it’s already been used tonight.

Then he’s gone from your line of sight.

The scream that follows is immediate and unbearable.

It’s not just pain—it’s shock, terror, the sound of someone realizing too late that they were wrong. The metal wall amplifies it, throws it back at itself until it feels like the warehouse is screaming with her.

There’s a wet, sickening crack.

A sound like meat hitting concrete.

“Why don’t we match?” Joker coos from behind you, voice light and delighted. “I did one side, now the other!”

The crowbar hits again.

You hear bone give this time—feel it in your teeth, in your chest. Her scream fractures into something animal, then into choking sobs, then into a raw, bubbling sound that makes bile rush up your throat.

Your own crying breaks free, ugly and uncontrollable. Your body jerks against the restraints, fingers cramping, nails tearing uselessly into the wood of the chair. Hot tears spill down your face, mixing with blood, dripping off your chin in thick, dark drops.

The camera’s red light blinks again.

Once.

Twice.

It taunts you by matching every sound that breaks out of you.

Every gasped sob, every wet, hitching breath. The camera’s red light blinks in time with your chest, like it’s learned your rhythm, like it’s decided to breathe with you instead of for you.

And then the Joker comes back.

You smell him before you see him—iron-thick blood, old rust, sweat gone sour. His hands are slick, red to the wrist, fingers shining under the warehouse lights. The crowbar hangs loose in his grip, darker now, clotted, strands of hair caught cruelly in its curve.

He crouches in front of you, bringing himself eye-level, like he’s talking to a child.

“Well,” he hums thoughtfully. “I can’t give you her look, can I?”

Your vision swims. You can’t stop shaking. Tears slide down your face in hot, unstoppable streams, carving clean paths through blood and grime. Your mouth opens, but nothing coherent comes out—just a broken, animal sound that folds back in on itself.

His smile twitches.

“What should I do with you?” he asks softly. “Hm?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. You just cry harder, chest stuttering against the wire, throat raw and burning.

That seems to irritate him.

He clicks his tongue, disappointed, and lifts the crowbar. The cold metal taps against your cheek once—tap—just enough to make you flinch violently. He pauses, head tilting.

“Oh—”

His eyes light up.

“Oh yes, that’s wonderful! Oh—” He erupts into laughter, sudden and explosive, clutching his stomach as if the joke is too much to bear. Spit flies from his mouth, warm and disgusting as it lands in your hair, streaking through blood-matted strands. “Oh, isn’t my brain just splendid?”

He straightens, still laughing, wiping his eyes like he’s genuinely amused. “You bats are all poetry, I say—pure poetry!”

Then he turns.

Walks away.

His footsteps fade, echoing hollowly through the warehouse, until there’s only the hum of the lights, the distant crying behind you—and the camera.

You’re alone.

One last sob claws its way out of your throat, wet and choking. Blood follows it, dribbling down your chin, splashing darkly against your chest. You force your eyes open, drag them upward, lock them onto the camera.

You don’t know who’s watching. You don’t know if anyone is.

Your voice comes out steadier than it has any right to be.

“How—”

“Shut up!” someone whisper-yells behind you, frantic and terrified. “There’s other men!”

Your mouth snaps shut.

And the red light keeps blinking.

The metal door slams open with a shriek of abused hinges, the impact shuddering through the warehouse floor and straight up your spine. Dust rains down from the rafters in a thin, dirty veil, catching in your hair and sticking to the blood already drying there.

He’s laughing before you even see him.

Not distant laughter—close. Moving. Each step accompanied by a wet, dragging sound, like something heavy being pulled across concrete. His cackle ricochets off the shipping containers, off the steel beams, off the low ceiling that traps the sound and forces it back into your skull.

A little boy cries out behind you as Joker passes him. A sharp, panicked sound that fractures into a sob and then cuts off abruptly, like someone clamped a hand over his mouth.

The air grows hotter.

Through the warped reflection in the camera lens, you see it clearly now: a long metal bar burning red-hot, so bright it hurts to look at directly. Heat ripples distort the image around it, the glow painting the walls in feverish streaks of crimson. The smell hits you next—burning iron, scorched metal, something faintly organic beneath it that makes bile crawl up your throat.

Joker taps the brand against the concrete behind you.

It doesn’t clang.

It hisses.

The sound is sharp and alive, like meat on a skillet. Tiny sparks spit outward where it kisses the floor, leaving blackened scars in the cement. The red glow doesn’t dull. Doesn’t cool. It stays furious and bright, as if fed by something endless.

Whatever fragile hope you were clutching evaporates in that moment, leaving you hollowed out, lungs burning as you exhale something that feels like your last prayer.

He’s behind you in the next second.

Joker’s hand comes out of nowhere, clamping over your mouth, palm slick and hot. The copper taste floods you as his fingers press into your cheeks, nails digging in just enough to hurt—just enough to remind you that restraint is a choice he’s making. Your head is forced back, neck screaming as the wire saws deeper, the barbs biting into tender skin.

“Would you like to match your birdy?” he murmurs.

His voice is serene. Gentle. Almost affectionate.

He angles the brand around the arm of the chair so you can see it clearly. The letter is unmistakable now, its edges glowing white-hot, heat radiating off it in suffocating waves.

A ‘𝙹’.

Your body reacts before your mind can—your stomach convulses, gagging against his hand, breath stuttering uselessly through your nose. Your skin feels too tight, like it’s already shrinking away from what’s coming.

“We’re going to make the deal now,” he coos.

In the camera’s reflection, you can see his eye—wide, bright, utterly focused on the blinking red dot. Performing. Enjoying the audience if there even is one.

“You either get a matching look…” The brand drifts closer, close enough that the heat kisses your cheek, nerves screaming in anticipation, sweat instantly breaking out along your spine. “…or you tell me who you hate.”

His hand peels away from your mouth.

Air rushes in too fast. You choke on it, coughing hard enough that the wire grinds into your throat, pain blooming hot and blinding. Your voice comes out shredded. “Who… who I hate?”

“Who put you here?” he hums thoughtfully, as if the answer delights him. “It wasn’t me.”

The brand pauses, hovering inches from your skin. You can feel the heat burrowing inward, like it’s already memorizing you.

“Why do you think I found you?” he continues lightly. “Do you know how sloppy he is?”

Silence stretches, thick and oppressive.

You stare at the glowing red letter, your mind drifting somewhere distant and numb to survive. Absurdly, irrationally, you think of Jason’s helmet—the same violent red, the same defiant color. You wonder if he’s thinking of you right now. If he can feel this, somehow.

“Tell me who you hate.”

The words don’t just reach you—they enter you, heavy and cold, sinking past bone and settling somewhere deep and irreversible. They press the air flat, make the warehouse feel smaller, closer, like the walls are leaning in to listen.

He stands before you in all his wrongness, and up close there is nothing theatrical left. The Joker’s makeup has melted into something corpse-like, white cracked and flaking into the grooves of his face as though his skin is trying to shed it. The red smile is no longer a grin so much as a wound, smeared unevenly, darker where blood has mixed in, the corners dragged downward by age and use. His hair hangs limp, green dulled to the color of mold, clinging to his scalp in greasy strands. His eyes are too bright—glass-bright, feverish—never still, never soft, reflecting the warehouse lights like knives.

The space around you hums with misery. The concrete beneath your feet is slick with blood and oil, cold seeping up through the chair and into your bones. Shipping containers loom like coffins, their metal sides scarred and rusted, shadows pooled so thick between them it feels like something could step out at any moment. The air reeks—burnt iron, old sweat, copper, rot—and every breath feels like inhaling something alive and hostile.

You look at the camera.

That red eye blinks steadily, rhythmically, a heart that isn’t yours. It sees the way your chest shudders, the way your fingers twitch uselessly against the bindings, the way your body is already bracing for pain it knows is coming. Your thoughts drift, slow and exhausted, slipping through your hands like water you can’t quite hold.

You think of Jason.

Not the helmet. Not the blood. But his hands—warm, callused, careful when they touch you. The way he looks at you like the world might soften if you stay. The way he says your name like it’s something solid.

You could say his name now.

You could offer it up like a sacrifice and pray that this monster believes in deals, that you might walk out of here broken but breathing. You could lie and hope he lets you go.

Or you could say Jason’s name and watch Joker’s smile vanish as he switches off the camera and kills you quietly, preserving this horror to show your sweet boy later.

Or you could stay silent and take the brand—feel your skin burn, your body marked, watch the ecstasy bloom in Joker’s eyes as he claims you like an object he’s improved.

None of them feel survivable.

Something inside you twists—not courage, not bravery, but love sharpened into something desperate and ugly and defiant. You gather what spit you can in your blood-wet mouth and turn your head as far as the wire allows.

You spit in his face.

It lands wet and unmistakable, dragging a slow line through the cracked white paint, cutting through the red smile like an insult carved in flesh.

For a heartbeat, everything freezes.

The Joker goes utterly still, his expression emptying out in a way that is far more frightening than his laughter. Then his eyes widen, pupils dilating, fury flaring bright and feral—pleased.

You lean forward, neck screaming as the wire bites deeper, and you whisper because your voice will not survive being louder.

“You know,” you murmur, breath shaking despite everything you do to steady it, “he’s never mentioned you before.”

His breath stutters.

“You must not have left quite an impression.”

It’s a lie. A reckless, transparent lie.

You have lived in Gotham long enough to know exactly what he is—his name written in blood across the city’s history—but lies can still cut, and you see it land. You see the way his smile stretches wider, hungry and thrilled.

You’ve given him a reason.

A reason to prove himself.

A reason to keep you alive.

A reason to make you hurt longer.

His hand tangles in your hair and yanks your head back violently. Your neck slams into the barbed wire, spikes tearing in with a wet, intimate sound that makes you sob despite yourself. Warm blood spills down your throat, choking you, slicking your chest.

Then the brand descends.

The heat is indescribable—ancient, total, a pain so vast it consumes thought itself. Your flesh screams as it burns, the smell of seared skin rising thick and sweet, smoke curling upward as the letter is carved into you slowly, deliberately. Your body arches uselessly against the restraints, every nerve on fire, and the sound that leaves you is not a scream so much as something torn out of your soul.

You hate that he hears it. And when that drug denies you the void of sleep you so desperately need, you allow yourself to think numbly as the man pulls it away that at least Jason can't dwindle his appearance anymore.

Your tears stripe down your cheeks, burning as they touch your skin.

We match. You think numbly, Atleast we match.

He strokes over the brand with more delicacy than he has ever had in this whole nightmare, mumbling, “This is going to hurt you a lot more than it hurts me.”

When you wake again, it’s to the weight of tears landing on your face—warm, uneven drops that pull you out of the dark in slow, reluctant pieces. For a moment you don’t know where you are. The world rocks gently, like it can’t decide whether to keep moving or stop altogether. There’s the low hum of an engine beneath you, vibration traveling through bone and bruised muscle, and the smell of old leather surrounds you—worn, familiar, grounding in a way that makes your chest ache.

Leather is good.

Leather is not acid.

Leather does not burn your lungs on the way in.

“Hurts,” you mumble, the word barely surviving the journey out of your throat. You offer it up like an apology, like a peace offering, half-expecting pain to answer you back.

Instead, the crying breaks harder.

It comes undone above you, raw and ugly, and through the haze you realize you aren’t lying flat on concrete, waiting for the Joker to press a cinder block to your stomach. Your body is stretched across someone, your legs draped over another set of knees, your weight distributed carefully, reverently, like something fragile that might shatter if shifted wrong. 

An arm is braced beneath your neck, steady and strong, keeping your head from lolling, and your cheek presses into a leather jacket that smells unmistakably like gun oil, sweat, rain—

Jason.

The knowledge hits softer than it should, cushioned by exhaustion and shock, and when your eyes finally manage to open, everything swims. Light smears at the edges, colors bleeding into one another, but his face is there anyway, hovering close, carved with terror and relief and something so naked it almost scares you more than the warehouse did.

“Am I in heaven?” you mumble.

He lets out a sound that isn’t quite a sob and isn’t quite a laugh, choking on it as his chin trembles. “You don’t even believe in heaven.”

“Well,” you murmur, trying—and failing—to pull your mouth into something that resembles a smile, “what else could you be?”

Your jaw burns when you speak. Everything burns. It feels like your body has been filled with broken glass and lit from the inside, and you’re dimly aware of warm liquid slipping from your mouth, darkening the leather beneath your cheek every time you breathe wrong. You hate that you’re staining him. You hate that you can’t stop.

“I’ll kill him,” Jason whispers, like a prayer he’s been holding onto with both hands. His fingers shake as they brush your hair back, careful to avoid places he knows are hurt. “I’ll kill him. I promise.”

“Can I have hot chocolate first?” you mumble. The words feel distant, like they belong to someone else. “I bought that expensive kind… from Finland. Asshole knocked it all over my carpet…”

Jason’s breath fractures completely at that. He nods too hard, tears spilling freely now, dropping onto your cheeks, your neck, your collarbone. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll buy you hot chocolate. I’ll buy you all of it.”

Somewhere near your feet, another voice cuts in, low and strained with concern. “Hey, Jay—breathe—”

Jason doesn’t hear them. Or maybe he does and simply can’t afford to listen. His chest is rising too fast beneath you, breaths sawing in and out like he’s drowning on dry land, his eyes glassy and unfocused, the green in them shifting with every frantic blink.

Or maybe that’s just your vision still failing you. That would make sense. The powder. The smoke. The way light hurts now.

“Stop crying,” you murmur weakly. “I can’t die with you looking like that.”

That breaks him.

His face crumples completely, grief spilling over into something fierce and desperate as he bends closer, forehead almost touching yours. “Good,” he chokes. “Fuck you. I’ll cry even more, so–so stay with me, yeah?”

“No,” you whisper, your voice scraping raw against your throat. “Wanna sleep.”

“You slept an awful lot,” he snaps, but there’s no anger in it—only terror wearing sharp edges, only love clawing its way out however it can.

“Well,” you murmur, your voice thin but soft, like you’re afraid of startling him, “You show up in my dreams an awful lot.”

That does it.

Whatever fragile control Jason had left fractures clean through. He folds over you instinctively, shoulders caving as he tries—fails—to hide the sound of it. His breath comes apart against your hair, his forehead dipping close to your temple like if he presses himself near enough, he can keep you here by force alone. You feel the tremor of him through your whole body, every hitch of his chest echoing in your ribs.

You smell blood on him then. Copper and iron, sharp beneath the leather and sweat and rain. For a distant, numb second you think it’s yours again—until the scent is too heavy, too layered.

Oh.

Was this—

“Did I interrupt family bonding?” you whisper.

Your lips barely move. The words slip out half-asleep, half-dreaming, and they earn you a startled huff from somewhere behind you. Jason doesn’t answer. He can’t. His arms tighten instead, one hand splayed carefully at your back like he’s afraid even breathing too hard might hurt you more.

A voice comes from the seat behind, dry and unimpressed, because Jason is currently incapable of speech and whoever has your legs resting in their lap is rubbing slow, grounding circles into his back.

“If this is what you think family bonding is, you’ll fit right in.”

“Damian, be quiet,” another voice snaps.

“She’s the one shamelessly flirting with him in front of all of us, Tim” Damian continues anyway, undeterred. “And Father isn’t even saying anything, so—”

“Well she’s the one dying!” Tim blurts, voice cracking sharp with fear.

Jason chokes on the sound his name makes in Tim’s mouth, breath stuttering hard, and a deeper voice cuts in from the front seat—controlled, measured, holding itself together by sheer will.

“She’s not going to die, Tim.”

“I want hoya bellas on my grave,” you interrupt softly.

Jason lets out a broken sound that might have been a laugh in another universe. He shakes his head over you, forehead brushing your hair, and through your blurry vision you think you catch a gloved hand popping up behind him in a solemn thumbs-up.

“Got it.”

Another voice joins in from the front, exasperated and strained. “Cassandra, she’s not being serious.”

“I’m sorry,” Jason whispers, over and over, like a mantra, like something he’s trying to carve into reality. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” His thumb strokes your hair away from your forehead again, impossibly gentle, avoiding the places he knows hurt, the places he doesn’t want to know at all.

“I’m gonna sleep now,” you murmur. It takes effort to shape the words. The dark is getting heavier again, tugging at you, warm and deep. “Can one of you give Jason water?”

“Hey—” Jason breathes, panic flaring sharp as his voice cracks. “Hey, no—no, no, no, stay with me, come on—”

But you’re already slipping.

Your eyes flutter closed despite him, despite the warmth of his arms, despite the way his heart is racing beneath your ear like it’s trying to outrun fate itself. His glove comes off hurriedly and you feel his bare fingers press to your pulse, grounding himself in the steady beat there, in the fact that it’s still happening.

After a few minutes, Dick leans forward and taps Jason’s shoulder gently, offering a water bottle. His uniform is torn and scorched like the rest of them, a thin cut bright against his cheek, but his voice is soft when he speaks.

“Drink.”

Jason doesn’t look up. He doesn’t let go. He just nods once, tight and shaky, eyes fixed on you like if he looks away for even a second, the world might take you again.

He forces himself to take a full gulp of water, the plastic bottle crinkling loudly in the too-quiet car, his throat working like it has to remember how swallowing goes. His hands are still shaking when he passes it off to Tim.

“Hey, I don’t need any—”

Jason looks at him.

Not sharp. Not angry. Just steady in a way that leaves no room for argument, the kind of look that says do this or I will fall apart next.

Tim takes a long swig immediately. Somewhere in the background, Damian lets out a low, satisfied cackle.

The digital clock on the Batmobile reads 4:00 a.m.

The numbers glow cold blue against the dark interior, reflected faintly in the windshield like a second set of eyes staring back at them. Gotham outside is hollow and half-dead at this hour—streetlights flickering, rain-slick asphalt stretching endlessly, buildings slumped together like they’re exhausted too.

Bruce’s voice is calm as he calls Alfred, clipped and precise, already listing supplies like this is something he can control if he names enough of it out loud.

Jason doesn’t listen.

He keeps his focus on you.

On the shallow rise and fall of your chest. The warmth is still clinging stubbornly to your skin. On the way your weight settles into him like it belongs there, like it always has. One hand stays firm at your neck, holding you upright because you need it—because you need him steady, and that knowledge anchors him harder than anything Bruce could ever say.

You need him here. You need him present. You need him not to break.

He knows that, because once—once—that was all he ever wanted too.

And that’s the cruel part of it.

Because the weight of you in his arms has only ever meant safety. Home. Sleep curling warm and heavy in his bones. His body doesn’t know the difference between holding you safe and finally being allowed to rest.

Jason Todd passes out with his forehead dipping gently toward yours, his grip loosening only by a fraction, like even unconscious he’s afraid to let you go.

The last thing he hears before everything goes dark is Tim’s voice, sharp with panic and disbelief.

“Dude—what the fuck—”

“Hold his head up—don’t let him fall on her!” Bruce barks from the front, voice cracking sharp through the Batmobile like a snapped cable.

All at once, everyone moves.

Damian fists the back of Jason’s T‑shirt, knuckles white as he yanks him upright with a strength born of panic he’d never admit to. Dick stretches impossibly from the passenger seat, arm braced awkwardly as he cups the back of Jason’s head, careful, reverent, like he’s afraid one wrong angle will shatter him. Tim presses a steadying hand to Jason’s chest, feeling the uneven rise and fall beneath his palm, grounding him the way he’s learned to do with bombs and brothers alike.

Jason is dead weight. Heavy. Still clinging to you even in unconsciousness, his arm slack but stubborn around your shoulders, like muscle memory alone refuses to let you go.

The Batmobile hums on, tires slicing through wet streets, Gotham blurring past in streaks of sodium light and rain-slick concrete. The city feels distant now, muffled, like it’s holding its breath with them.

“…Did someone check if the Joker was—uh—breathing?” Stephanie asks from the back, her voice small in a way it rarely ever is.

She hadn’t stayed for the end. Her job had been triage—getting the kids out, shouting orders, dragging civilians through blood and broken glass while the rest of them stayed behind in the warehouse with the laughter and the screaming. She’d smelled the aftermath on them when they regrouped. She didn’t need details then but...

Bruce doesn’t look back. His hands tighten on the wheel.

“Jason didn’t hit any vital points,” he says quietly, like he’s reciting a report he’s already memorized. “Just… ah—”

“Carved his face like a jack‑o’‑lantern,” Damian supplies, entirely too calm. “Heated up a crowbar to do it too. Very effective.”

There’s a beat of silence.

The city lights flash over Bruce’s face—old stone and deep eyes that are hollowed by relief he doesn’t let himself feel yet.

“…Yeah,” Bruce exhales, short and rough. “That.”

The Batmobile keeps moving.

Jason breathes.

You breathe.

And for now, that’s enough to keep the night from swallowing them whole.

You wake up in bed.

Not the thin, borrowed kind your body has learned to tolerate at your apartment, but something deep and indulgent—clean sheets tucked tight, the mattress yielding just enough to cradle you instead of swallowing you whole. The pillow beneath your cheek feels stupidly expensive, cool and smooth, smelling faintly of detergent and something old and comforting, like cedar and money and quiet hallways that echo.

For a moment, you think you’re dreaming again.

Then you feel him.

Jason is asleep beside you, solid and unmistakable. You don’t need to move—you can’t really anyways—to know it’s him. The arm wrapped around your waist is heavy with familiar strength, protective even in unconsciousness. His hair brushes against your arm every time he breathes, soft, tickling your skin in a way that makes your chest ache.

He’s breathing.

That fact alone nearly undoes you.

God. You really need to raise your standards, you think hazily. You’re reduced to this—listening to him breathe, feeling the slow rise and fall of his chest, and already you want to curl into him and coo like nothing in the world has ever gone wrong.

Then you see Bruce.

He’s standing near the bed, still as a statue, watching you with the careful intensity of someone afraid to spook a wild animal. It takes effort to focus on his face, your vision dragging itself into clarity inch by inch.

When you try to lift your head—manners resurfacing before sense—your body protests sharply.

Bruce moves instantly.

“Hey, hey—no,” he murmurs, hands gentle but firm as he presses you back into the mattress. “Relax. It’s okay. You’re safe.”

Your head sinks back into the pillow, and the moment stretches. You swallow thickly before managing a small, hoarse sound of politeness.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Wayne. Jason—”

“Hasn’t told you much about me,” Bruce finishes for you, a faint, tired chuckle slipping out. “That’s alright. I just need you to sleep right now.”

You glance downward as best you can, feeling something sharp dig into your side.

“…I can’t sleep if your son’s elbow is in my ribs.”

Bruce blinks.

Actually blinks—surprised enough that it breaks through the carefully assembled calm. “Ah—” he starts, then reaches for Jason, trying to rearrange him with the same precision he uses on everything else.

It doesn’t work.

Jason huffs in his sleep, a low, irritated sound, and somehow manages to make it worse—his arm tightening, his leg hooking over yours possessively, like you’re something he’s afraid the world might steal back if he lets go.

Bruce freezes.

You mumble, exhausted but soft, “It’s alright. I’m sure he hasn’t slept… I’ve gotten quite a lot, so…”

Bruce looks like he wants to argue. His jaw tightens, then loosens, the fight draining out of him. He exhales and sits back in the chair by the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly together.

“It’s the 26th,” he says quietly.

Oh.

You missed Christmas.

What a shame.

After a moment, Bruce speaks again, and his voice is heavier now—careful, deliberate, like every word costs him something.

“I… want to apologize to you.” His fingers interlace, knuckles whitening. “I knew you’d been taken. And I didn’t tell him. Possibly… he could have been there sooner. But I needed to make sure the others would be saved as well.”

“Well,” you murmur, the word barely more than breath, “I don’t exactly blame you for that.”

It isn’t forgiveness exactly—nothing so grand—but it’s honest, and it lands heavier than anger ever could.

Bruce doesn’t relax. If anything, his shoulders pull tighter, like he’s bracing for a blow that never quite comes. He’s spent his whole life learning how to de‑escalate men with guns, gods with vendettas, cities with teeth—but you unsettle him in a quieter, more dangerous way. You’re calm. You’re lucid. You’re something Jason had threatened to shoot himself for.

He clears his throat, trying to give you something solid, something measurable. Facts are safer.

“Jason… got him,” Bruce says carefully. “Badly. I think—” He hesitates, eyes flicking once toward Jason like he’s checking for movement. “I think the Joker may be blind now. Or at least permanently impaired.”

“You let him?” you ask.

Still no accusation. Just a soft, stunned curiosity, as if you’re piecing together a story you were never meant to survive.

Bruce nods. Once. The motion costs him. “I did,” he admits. “But I—”

“Then that’s enough,” you whisper, interrupting him gently, like you’re afraid the words themselves might hurt. “Jason will realize that too.” Your lashes flutter; exhaustion tugs at you like a tide. “I mean… he probably won’t. He’ll still try to kill him.” A faint, crooked exhale. “But you did everything you could yesterday.”

Your gaze drifts—not to Bruce, but to Jason. To the way his arm is still locked around you, even in sleep. To the stubborn set of his jaw, the crease between his brows that never fully smooths out anymore.

“Thank you,” you add quietly. “For finding me.”

That’s when Bruce goes still.

Not rigid. Not defensive.

Still.

Because he’s been looking at you, yes—but now you realize he hasn't been looking you in the eye while he speaks. His eyes have been caught in one place, drawn there again and again like a bruise you can’t help but press.

Your cheek.

The skin there is angry beneath the bandage’s edge—raw, faintly swollen, discolored in a way he winced at while he bandaged it. Bruce didn't let anyone else tend to it, not even Alfred. 

Because this was a wound he inflicted, one that he needed to tend to.

“It’s still fresh,” he says, softer now, stripped of the Bat and the rules and the fear. Just a man speaking carefully around something fragile. “I’ll get you better medicine. The pigment should fade.” A pause. His voice lowers. “I can’t promise about the texture.”

You don’t look away. You don’t flinch.

“That’s okay,” you say.

And Bruce doesn’t know if you mean the scar, or the pain, or the fact that you’ll carry this forever—but Jason shifts in his sleep then, brow tightening, arm drawing you closer like he sensed the weight of the moment and refused to let it settle on you alone.

Bruce watches that. Watches how Jason anchors himself to you without waking, how his breathing steadies when yours does, how it pauses even in sleep when yours hitches.

“He loves you a lot.” Bruce mumbles.

“...And you too Mr.Wayne.”

jason peter todd tag-list (check pinned post for info on how to be added .ᐟ ) :@justamarsbar, @peridotnature854, @nayy-a, @that-willowtree,

let me know what you think!

© shisuni all rights reserved

[shisuni]

sneak peak at the Christmas fic that's going to be posted later today !!

Because you—you—aren’t alone. You’re trapped with seven other people. Four of them children, Bruce had said, like that word didn’t rearrange Jason’s insides completely. His mind does something traitorous then, something he hates himself for even acknowledging: it calculates. It knows how these things go. It knows Joker’s sense of theater, his appetite for cruelty, his fondness for leaving one survivor behind as punctuation.

And the last one standing is never the strongest.

It’s the smallest.

Jason’s breath stutters, just once.

“Jason,” Bruce says from the Batcomputer, voice tight, forced into calm the way it always is when he’s terrified. The blue glow paints him hollow, all sharp angles and restraint. “Don’t make me stop you. The cops are on their way. Joker just wants cash.”

Bruce says it like he doesn't know damn well that monster would shoot the first thing it sees right after he gets it.

For the first time since the harbor, the noise in Jason’s head goes quiet.

Not peaceful—focused.

Everything in Jason's brain narrows down to Bruce. To the way his shoulders are squared like a barricade. To the way his hands hover, uncertain, like he’s trying to decide whether to reach out or brace for impact. Jason’s heart hammers so hard it hurts, louder than the waterfall, louder than any threat Batman could ever make.

“If you even try, Bruce,” Jason says.

He doesn’t look at him when he says it. He can’t. The name comes out wrong in his mouth—too raw, too intimate, scraped down to bone. Instead, he keeps his eyes on Tim, standing rigid in front of him, small in a way Jason suddenly can’t stop seeing. He hopes—distantly, uselessly—that he isn’t glaring at his little brother. Hopes Tim understands this isn’t anger.

It’s gravity.

“Ill fucking shoot myself. I’ll make sure you know it’s your fault,” Jason continues, voice low and shaking despite his effort to keep it steady. “I’ll use my gun. And if you tie me up today, I’ll wait until next week. If you lock me down for a week, I’ll wait a month. I’ll do it.”

He swallows.

Because that’s the only thing that’s ever worked.

The only language Bruce Wayne couldn't ignores.

Dick moves fast—too fast—grabbing Jason’s arm where it’s still braced near Tim, fingers digging in hard. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he shouts, panic cracking straight through his anger.

Jason turns on him then, eyes blazing, voice breaking loose at last.

“Would you be this still?” Jason yells back. “If that was me with Joker again? If it was me instead of her—would you have left me there for the police to find? Again?”

The word hangs between them, heavy and damning.

Jason knows Dick well enough to see it land. To watch his brother’s grip falter, fingers loosening like they’ve forgotten what they were holding onto in the first place. Dick’s face goes pale, mouth parting uselessly, and Jason twists the knife—not because he wants to hurt him, but because he needs them to understand.

“This,” Jason snaps, shoving his helmet back onto his head with shaking hands, visor snapping into place. “This is why none of you fucking knew about her.”

He looks at all of them now—really looks. At Bruce, frozen behind the console like a man staring down a live bomb. At Dick, wrecked with guilt. At Tim who still stares at him like he's staring through him. At Damian and Stephanie who he'd laugh at later for the faces they are making. At Cassandra and Alfred who look at him the same way they always do. Like he's a solider who crawled from the dead. They think that's a good thing.

“If you can’t even see me beyond a mistake you made,” Jason says, voice hoarse, “there was no way you wouldn’t have seen her as that too. And I love her too much for that.”

this might make no sense now but it will later lmfao

[moonologyy]

PROTECTOR OF THE INHERITED CROWN

pairing: knight!jason todd/princess!reader

synopsis: whereas, a knight is assigned to guard the princess. However, things don’t go as planned when you find yourself falling for the knight, aware it’s a forbidden relationship that’s not allowed, you both still find solace to be with each other, even if you’re in an arranged marriage. Though, will this forbidden relationship end in flames with tears that tries to extinguish the fire, or will this relationship wreak havoc while you stand with each other in the end.

cw: reader is an arranged marriage, suicidal thought mentioned once, no smut just fluff, SLOWBURN, a tad-bit of angst, hurt/comfort, your dad is a shitty person, and I wish fictional men (jason todd) are real. yearning reader lwk and yearning jason lwk. jason is probably ooc, but it’s like… au… so he’s going to act different anyway…

wc: 16k part 2 coming soon!

Your eyes stayed fixed on the figure reflected in the gold-framed vanity mirror.

An opulent piece carved with sunbursts and curling vines, polished so thoroughly, not a sign of usage despite its purpose. You were still, holding your spine straight, shoulders set, your expression serene and deliberate.

Not a single flicker of discomfort crossed your face despite the coordinated flurry of hands working over your body, yet treating you as a precious jewel that shouldn’t be allowed to rust away among the other jewels, shining brilliantly to grasp others’ attention.

Your chambermaid braced a steady palm against your back as she pulled at the silk cords of your corset, drawing them tighter until your ribs felt caged in ivory.

Another guided gentle fingers through your hair, combing and coiling each strand into place, pinning it with jeweled slips that caught the morning light.

A third knelt before you with a delicate hand, brushing a soft flush onto your lips with a color you’ve familiarized, then rubbing an ointment of jasmine warmed with rose against your pulse points, a fragrance to linger amongst others.

You were a jewel to be admired, but never claimed.

However, that changed.

Your Creator, your Father in name, and your King in every breath of duty, had finally declared you of age. At eighteen years old, he believed you were ready to be promised to another, ready to be shaped into a bride, ready to surrender whatever pieces of yourself still belonged to you.

The announcement did not come softly.

It arrived with the weight of ceremony, delivered by messengers who bowed too deeply and guards who watched you too closely. Whispers carried through the halls long before the words reached your ears, whispers that curled beneath doors and drifted between tapestries, reminding you that your life was no longer your own to hold.

To him, eighteen was not a milestone of freedom.

It was a doorway he had been waiting impatiently to open. A number that transformed you from a child under his roof into a valuable asset to be placed, traded, or used for whatever purpose suited him best.

In the King’s eyes, you were finally ready to stop belonging to yourself.

You were to be promised to a man from the North, a figure spoken of in hushed tones, a commander whose reputation was threaded with cruelty and cold ambition.

He ruled his lands with iron and winter, a wicked man by every whispered account, yet perfectly suited to uphold the alliance your father had been scheming toward for years.

Once you were fully prepared, you rose from the vanity, the skirts of your crimson gown cascading around you like a pool of silken light.

The dress had taken hours to assemble, the layers of soft fabric resting one over another, the outermost embroidered with gold thread that shimmered whenever you moved.

The bodice hugged your waist with elegant rigidity, the neckline framed with delicate lace that brushed your collarbone. Every step made the gown whisper against the floor, a reminder of the role you were expected to play.

You turned to face your mother, who stood near the edge of the room in her own formal attire, a muted gown of deep plum that contrasted sharply with her expression. Her hands were clasped in front of her, knuckles tight against the smooth gloves she wore.

Despite her practiced composure, her eyes carried a weight she could not disguise.

She offered a small, solemn nod, her gaze sweeping over you as if trying to anchor herself in the sight.

“You are to be engaged in two years,” she said quietly.

Though she tried to keep her voice even, a faint tremor pushed through the words. She lifted her handkerchief to the corner of her eye, catching the tear before it slipped down her cheek, patting lightly so the carefully applied powder on her face would not smear.

“My poor daughter,” she wept, her voice breaking as she stepped forward and placed her hands on your shoulders.

Her palms rested atop, fingers trembling slightly against the puffs of your dress. Up close, she smelled faintly of lavender water and pressed petals, a familiar comfort that only made the moment feel heavier.

Her chin quivered as she looked at you, her eyes glassy and rimmed red despite her efforts to stay composed. Everything about her, your mother’s posture, her gown, her jeweled hairpins was arranged with elegance, yet nothing could hide the quiet devastation beneath it.

“Mother, it’ll be alright,” you softly whispered, brushing a gentle smile onto your lips, crafted more for her comfort than your own conviction.

You lifted a hand to cover hers, hoping the touch alone might steady her trembling worries. You tried to sound certain, even though the truth sat heavy in your chest: you were destined to become the bride of a tyrant, a future carved by power rather than choice.

“There are still two years before the wedding,” you continued, your voice warm but thin around the edges, as if the reassurance was something delicate you were afraid might shatter in your own hands. “There’s still time for His Majesty to change his mind.”

You knew he wouldn’t.

But even so, your mother’s expression eased, her distress smoothing into something calmer, something she could bear before her arms fell from your shoulders to her lower stomach, clasping each other with the handkerchief.

You gathered a breath, arranging your gown with a practiced sweep of your hands before speaking with the composure expected of a royal daughter.

“Let us make our way to His Majesty’s throne,” you stated, adopting the refined cadence drilled into you since childhood. “His Majesty has summoned our presence for the Accolade Ceremony, and I am to be bestowed a knight sworn to my protection and service.”

The words left your tongue with a dignified elegance, each one carefully measured— courtly, polished, befitting someone raised under gold ceilings, intricate vases, and sharpened expectations.

You offered your mother your arm, lifting your chin.

“We must not keep Him waiting and the audience.”

You both linked arms, the movement elegant and measured as you stepped forward together. Still, a faint tremor shivered through your body.

A sense of impending doom lingered at the edge of your thoughts, whispering that your fate had already been written.

In truth, it had.

When you reach your twentieth year, you will be wed to the northern lord, bordering his fifties.

You would not be his first wife.

You would not be his only wife.

You would simply join the ranks of his household, becoming another treasure displayed to solidify the alliance that would keep your father’s kingdom from falling under the northern control.

While you serve to be a brood mare, just as your mother once had.

Your mother had fulfilled her duty by bearing a child, only to be cast aside when the child was a daughter rather than the son your father desired to inherit the crown. He had treated her usefulness as something finite, something that ended the moment she placed you in his arms.

Now you were still expected to inherit the crown, just as your sisters were.

The royal blood in your veins was a burden more than a blessing, a promise wrapped in silk and thorns.

Yet even that inheritance carried no true freedom.

Each princess of the Eastern Kingdom was destined for the same ending, no matter the gilded titles whispered into her cradle.

A crown would grace your head one day, but it would not be the familiar circlet of your homeland.

It would not bear the sunburst crest of your lineage or the engraving of your ancestors. Instead, you would wear a foreign coronet, forged in a kingdom that did not raise you, ruled by a man who did not love you, only lust for you.

Your future throne would stand in a land where the winds were colder and the language harsher, a place where your presence would serve as a symbol of alliance rather than a claim of your own authority.

You would bow to customs not your own, smile for nobles who would watch you with calculating eyes, and settle into a role designed to bind two realms together.

But did you want that?

No.

Why would you ever desire such a fate?

Who in their right mind would welcome a life built upon sacrifice, silence, and servitude?

The very thought of being forced into such a life ignited a cold, merciless fury within you, a rage sharp enough to carve through bone.

You watched the towering doors ahead of you, their surface carved with intricate patterns of curling vines, rearing griffins, and panels of hammered gold that caught the light like captured fire.

At the center of each door gleamed the sigil of your house, etched so deeply into the wood that it seemed almost alive beneath the gilded finish.

The guards pushed them open in perfect unison, the motion smooth and ceremonial.

A rush of sound spilled out first, the hum of chattering courtiers, rustling fabrics, and clinking ornamentation. The doors continued to widen, and that noise softened, thinning until only the slow, resonant creak of the ancient hinges remained.

The nobles beyond turned toward the entrance one by one, the hall falling into a hush as if the very air bowed in acknowledgement of your arrival, thinning to silence to signal the beginning of the Accolade Ceremony as the trumpets began to make noise.

You would rather spill your own blood across the marble floors than submit to a fate that sought to reduce you to flesh and function, nothing more than a royal mare bred for convenience.

Your heels clicked in perfect harmony with your mother’s, each step measured and regal as you crossed the threshold into the throne hall. You kept your gaze forward, steady and unflinching, as etiquette demanded of a princess making her entrance.

Squires stood lined along both sides of the hall, their polished armor catching the glow of the chandeliers above.

Their expressions remained disciplined and neutral, yet every one of them straightened as you passed, acknowledging your rank with silent deference. Near the base of the dais stood the commander of the royal regiment, a man forged from discipline and iron, positioned close to your father like a loyal shadow.

The long red carpet unfurled before you, guiding your steps toward the elevated throne where your father awaited. The throne itself rose beneath a canopy of silk and gold, flanked by the seated consorts who had once held the King’s favor.

You and your mother advanced to the foot of the dais, the red carpet soft beneath your heels. At the first step leading upward, your mother slowly slips away from your arm to meet your father at his side, giving a slight bob of her gesture of respect to Him.

He gives a slight nod of acknowledgment to your mother before his gaze finds yours.

You begin to lower yourself.

Your Creator, the King who shaped every path you tread.

The moment your head inclined, the blare of trumpets faded into perfect silence, as if the entire hall inhaled and held its breath in reverence.

All eyes remained fixed on you, the daughter kneeling before Him.

“Your Majesty, I, the Twelfth Lady of the Eastern Kingdom, humbly present myself to formally honor the sacred bestowal granted on this day.”

The words flowed from your tongue with the poise of courtly upbringing, each syllable shaped with reverence and precision.

Your gown swept around you in a flawless arc as you remained bowed, the gold embroidery on your crimson gown catches the throne hall’s light like captured starlight while many eyes are on you, drawing attention as if you were a shooting star.

Your voice, though soft, carried through the chamber with the clarity expected of a princess addressing her sovereign.

“Your Royal Highness,” he intoned, your name following with the same immaculate precision one might use when reciting a decree.

The words carried ceremony rather than sentiment, authority rather than kinship.

“It is My honor to bestow upon you the assignment ordained for this day. We shall now proceed with the Accolade Ceremony. The final squire to kneel before this throne shall rise as your Dutiful Knight.”

He instructed you with the full gravity of his this moment, even though you already knew every step of this ritual.

You had watched it unfold for your elder sisters, one after another, at least five times since you were three years old before your turn arrived, the last daughter.

You nodded, rising smoothly to your feet, your gown settling around you in a soft sweep of fabric. You moved to stand at your father’s opposite side, the position reserved for the royal heir undergoing a ceremony.

From there, you watched him ascend from his throne with deliberate majesty, every motion controlled and steeped in authority.

The Commander stepped forward, presenting the ceremonial sword with both hands.

The blade gleamed like captured moonlight, its edge honed to perfection, its hilt wrapped in dark leather and adorned with the crest of the Eastern Kingdom.

The man who offered it, Bruce Wayne, was your father’s own Dutiful Knight, loyal to the crown with a reputation carved from discipline and unyielding honor.

Your father accepted the sword with a solemn nod, the hall falling into absolute stillness as the weight of tradition settled over the room.

Then he began to call forth each squire by name, summoning them with the full ceremony and gravity befitting the honor of knighthood.

One by one they stepped forward, each young man kneeling before the throne to receive the sacred touch of the sword upon shoulder and brow.

It was a ritual steeped in centuries of tradition, a privilege reserved for those deemed worthy to stand as shields of the realm. Each name echoed through the vaulted hall, carried by the hush of courtiers who understood the significance of witnessing a new knight being bestowed upon the crown.

“Cassandra Cain!” your father called, his voice carrying through the throne hall with the weight of absolute authority.

From the line of squires, Cassandra stepped forward.

Her movements were quiet and controlled, each stride purposeful. Her fierce gaze did not waver even as she lowered herself onto one knee before the King. Her head inclined in flawless submission, her fist pressed against her heart.

Your father lifted the ceremonial sword, its polished blade catching the glow of the chandeliers above. He touched the flat of it to Cassandra’s left shoulder, then her right, before resting the tip lightly at her bowed head.

“By the grace of the Eastern Crown,” he declared, each word resonating through the hall, “I confer upon you the sacred title of Knight of this Realm, the first woman to gain this honor. You shall rise as protector of this kingdom, defender of its people, and sword of unwavering loyalty.”

He lifted the blade slightly, continuing the vow.

“Serve with honor, stand with courage, and uphold the laws that bind our kingdom in peace. Let your strength be a shield against all who seek to do us harm. Rise now, Cassandra Cain, Knight of the Eastern Kingdom.”

He lowered the sword with finality.

Cassandra rose in a single, fluid motion, her face composed into a mask that revealed nothing.

The audience whispered in shock while her pledge was sealed, her place among the King’s chosen carved into the air with silent certainty.

How interesting.

The first woman to ever claim the title of Knight of this Realm now stood before the throne, unshaken and utterly formidable.

You felt a stir of something rare within yourself, a faint mix of admiration and unfamiliar yearning.

You wondered if you could ever possess that kind of strength, the kind that allowed a person to wield steel without trembling, to lift a weapon not as an ornament but as an extension of their will.

For a fleeting moment, you imagined yourself in her place, carrying a blade rather than a burden, standing in defiance instead of obedience.

Serving this God-forsaken kingdom with a sword in your hand rather than your body on an altar.

But such thoughts were luxuries, and luxuries were dangerous.

Then, after all the chosen squires, or knights were rightfully given the title, an hour flew by.

The unexpected happens.

Your Majesty deliberately withdrew the sword, the very blade he had solemnly laid upon each knight’s shoulder throughout the ceremony, and extended it once more to the commander, Bruce Wayne.

The seasoned knight’s brow furrowed in unmistakable confusion, his fingers tightening briefly around the hilt as if seeking clarity amid the unexpected turn.

“Your Grace,” the commander began with measured deference, his voice steady yet edged with hesitation, “you have overlooked Her Highness—”

Before the words could fully leave his lips, Your Creator raised a commanding hand to silence the chamber.

He settled once more into the carved throne that bore the weight of countless generations, his gaze fixed upon you with a calm intensity that burned with unmistakable intent.

“Her Highness shall bestow her own Knight.”

A delicate ripple of disbelief spread through the hall, soft as the rustle of silk yet sharp as a finely honed blade.

The assembled nobles stiffened in their seats, caught between rigid protocol and sudden astonishment.

Every eye turned toward you, brimming with expectation, inquiry, and incredulity.

Such a moment was not inscribed in any ceremony you had been taught to expect.

No whispered counsel nor rehearsed recital had ever hinted at this unprecedented decree.

The familiar script of tradition fractured before your very eyes, replaced by a summons to seize an uncharted destiny.

Your gaze met your father’s and there it was— an unwavering, almost sinister smile curling upon his lips. It was a silent challenge, a game woven in shadows and cunning design.

His expression dared you to rise and wield this sudden power, no matter how uncertain or perilous the path.

Your mother’s breath caught audibly as her delicate hand tightened against the folds of her gown, surprise and concern flickering across her composed features.

He turns to His Majesty, concern flashing over her eyes.

“Your Majesty, this is not part of the—”

He raised a hand to silence her which made your mother’s shoulder droop with unease.

She was right.

This isn’t part of the ceremony.

And you weren’t sure what to exactly do.

Yet, it must go on.

Murmurs rippled through the grand chamber like a rising tide, the air charged with tension and anticipation.

The hall, once steeped in solemn ritual, now pulsed with the quiet thunder of impending change.

Every breath seemed to hang suspended in the gilded air, every eye drawn irresistibly to you— the daughter, the princess, the unexpected sovereign summoned to claim this newfound authority.

Though the weight of the moment pressed heavily upon your shoulders, you met your father’s gaze and offered a deliberate nod, cloaking the flutter of doubt within you behind a mask of unwavering poise.

With measured grace, you stepped forward, the hem of your gown lightly tracing against the polished marble floor, closing the distance to where Bruce Wayne, the stoic commander, awaited with the sword in hand.

The past five Accolade Ceremonies, you’re trying to remember each procedure—

What do you even say?

How do you—

Oh gosh, what’s the Knight’s name?

The commander answered your last question softly, his words cutting through the stillness like a finely honed blade.

“Jason Todd,” he intoned quietly to you, loud enough for both of you to hear, the name carrying the weight of destiny and duty alike. “That is your chosen knight. Call him forth.”

The hall seemed to grow even quieter, the grandeur of the chamber swallowed by the thick hush of anticipation.

The moment your hand closed around the sword, its weight settled heavily against your palm, but heavier still was the pounding of your heart, each beat echoing the restless tide of nerves and the silent fear of failure.

You feared not just faltering in the ceremony, but becoming a spectacle, an embarrassment beneath the gilded ceilings and watchful eyes of the court.

You stepped forward to the very spot where your father had stood moments before, the weight of countless expectations pressing down upon you.

You close your eyes for a fleeting moment, you sought to still the tempest of nerves swirling within, to silence the tremor that threatened to betray you through a stutter or a crack in your voice.

Your hands moved deliberately, fingers curling around the cold steel of the sword’s hilt. You took a slow, measured breath, willing yourself to steady the faint slickness of sweat that betrayed your resolve, anchoring yourself to the ritual and the gravity it demanded.

Your eyes flutter open, the weight of the hall’s deafening silence pressing upon you like a tangible force. Every breath held, every heartbeat amplified in the stillness as countless eyes bore down, waiting with bated breath.

With a voice steady yet commanding, you speak into the hush that stretches like a silk thread across the chamber.

“Jason Todd, step forward.”

The words ripple through the air, crisp and clear, carrying the full authority of your newly claimed station.

The summons hangs heavy, a summons that will forever alter the course of both your fates.

Within a heartbeat, a figure detached himself from the ranks of bestowed Knights that only left him and stepped forward, breaking the taut silence like a sudden storm.

His presence commanded the room without a word, a magnetic force that drew every gaze toward him.

He was striking, an embodiment of noble strength and refined grace.

His piercing blue eyes gleamed like polished sapphires, sharp and clear, holding a depth that seemed to both challenge and captivate.

Those eyes alone could steal one’s breath away, cool and penetrating, yet flickering with an unspoken fire beneath their icy veneer.

His features were sculpted with classical perfection.

A strong, chiseled jawline framed lips set in a line of quiet resolve. High cheekbones caught the ambient light, lending his visage an almost statuesque quality.

Dark hair, impeccably kept yet tousled with effortless charm, crowned his head like a shadowed halo.

His stature was commanding, tall and broad-shouldered, every movement measured and controlled.

He carried himself with the unwavering confidence of a born leader, the kind forged in battle and tempered by discipline. The weight of the ceremonial armor he bore seemed light upon him, as if it were but a second skin, each plate and chain tailored to accentuate his powerful frame.

He lowered himself gracefully to one knee, the polished armor glinting as he bent forward in a gesture of solemn respect. His gaze first fell upon the delicate peak of your heels, their hue perfectly matched to the rich fabric of your gown, before slowly lifting to meet your eyes.

When his piercing blue eyes met yours, there was a flicker of something unreadable— a subtle trace of surprise, perhaps, or an unspoken question. In that moment, the weight of the ceremony hung between you both, charged with expectation and the silent promise of what was to come.

The cool weight grounding you amidst the swirling currents of expectation.

The hilt felt smooth beneath your fingers, a tangible connection to the centuries of tradition and power the blade embodied. Drawing a steadying breath, you lifted the sword and began the solemn rite.

First, you lowered the flat of the gleaming blade gently onto his left shoulder.

The metal pressed softly against the polished armor, sending a faint echo through the stillness of the hall. You held it there for a moment, the silence deepening as the significance of the act settled upon all present.

Slowly, with equal reverence, you moved the sword to rest upon his right shoulder, the cool steel a tangible symbol of trust and charge.

Your voice rose then, clear and unwavering, carrying through the vaulted chamber like a solemn vow.

One that spoke differently than Your Creator.

If He wants a surprise, then you’ll show Him a surprise.

“With this blade, I do not merely charge you as a Protector of the Inherited Crown but as the keeper of my honor and the executor of my will. You shall stand unwavering beside me, a sentinel against the shadows that seek to undo us.”

The red carpet beneath your feet seemed to absorb your decree, etching it into the very foundation of the kingdom. This was no mere ritual passed down by heart. This was your assertion your sovereignty wrought in steel and spoken with the undeniable power of your voice.

The hall seemed to lean closer with bated breath as your words wove through the air, binding him to a sacred trust far deeper than the ceremony itself.

“Let your sword be sharp, your resolve unbreakable, and your loyalty as enduring as the mountains that guard this realm.”

Slowly, you raised the sword, its tip resting lightly upon his bowed head, the gleam of the blade catching the light in a halo of purpose.

“Rise now Jason Todd,” you proclaimed, your voice steady and commanding, “not as a mere knight but as the shield of my blood and the sword of my justice. Carry this honor with fierce courage, unyielding loyalty, and a heart tempered by fire.”

“From this day forth you are bound to me and to the fate we shall carve together.” You finished, watching his eyes stare indefinitely at you.

A profound silence followed, thick with the weight of destiny and solemn duty.

Jason lifted his head at last, the movement slow and reverent, as if savoring the gravity of the moment that bound your lives together.

When he rose to his feet, the armor upon him whispered with the sound of tempered steel, each shift of metal echoing through the vast chamber like the heartbeat of something newly awakened.

He stood tall before you, his eyes no longer merely piercing but alight with a fire, as though your words had struck something deep within him. The hall remained suspended in breathless silence, the gathered nobles and courtiers watching with rapt attention. Even your father leaned forward ever so slightly, curiosity sharpening the lines of his expression.

Jason bowed his head once more, a full 90-degree gesture full of respect and a silent pledge of devotion with a pound of his fist against his heart.

His voice followed, low and steady, carrying across the room with the smooth resonance of a promise sealed in iron.

“I accept this charge with my life, Your Royal Highness. The sword is yours to command, my shield and armor are to protect your blood, my strength is yours to wield and my loyalty is yours to claim.” His words fell like a vow carved in stone, unyielding and complete.

Trumpets blared their triumphant notes once they noticed a complete silence from the room that soaked in his words, the sound rising to the vaulted ceilings in a celebratory roar. The courtiers bent in a synchronized bow, paying homage to the newly appointed knight and to the princess whose authority had shaped this moment into something more profound than tradition.

Your mother exhaled softly beside you, her gloved hand pressing to her heart, relief mingling with worry.

The consorts bowed their heads in acknowledgement, their jeweled veils glittering. Even the seasoned Commander Bruce Wayne regarded Jason with a subtle nod of recognition, the faintest signal of approval.

As Jason stepped back into formation, no longer a squire but a knight bound to your command, the tension in the hall loosened at last. In its place rose a swell of triumphant sound, a roar that rippled through the chamber like a rising tide.

Nobles and courtiers lifted their voices in exuberant acclaim, celebrating both the sons and someone’s daughter who had earned their knighthood and the Princess of the East who now stood before them with a protector of her own.

The applause thundered beneath the vaulted ceilings, echoing through the marble pillars and across the gilded balconies.

Before you fully realized it, the glamour of the ceremony began to ebb away. The dances slowed, the cheers softened into distant echoes, and the triumphant calls of trumpets faded beneath the vaulted ceilings. What had once been a spectacle of gold and sound dissolved into murmurs and movement as the court shifted onward.

Through it all, you felt your father’s gaze linger upon you. His expression had darkened into a frown, yet beneath it flickered unmistakable surprise.

You had not faltered.

You had stood unshaken as you bestowed knighthood upon a squire, wielding authority with a steadiness he had not anticipated.

It lingered heavily on your mind as many advisors, sponsors, and others congratulated you on your bestowal. A surprise to many as it was not common, nor heard of from other kingdoms, including your own to watch a princess bestow their knight.

You found yourself walking the familiar corridors of the palace with your knight trailing just a step behind you.

You were internally exhausted along with your heels that emit a kind of ache that you would feel relief once you take them off, soak in a hot bath, and relax in your bed.

The silence stretched comfortably, unbroken yet heavy with awareness.

Though no words were exchanged, you felt him there all the same, attentive and watchful as you made your way toward your chambers. The torchlight cast long shadows along the walls.

“Sir Jason,” you began, your tone gentler now, threaded with a note of relief you no longer bothered to conceal. “I am thankful it was you who was chosen to be my sworn knight.”

You turned your head slightly as you spoke, allowing yourself that small indulgence. A smile curved at the corner of your lips, subtle yet sincere, softening the weight of the crown you did not yet wear.

The light caught in his armor as he slowed, then stopped, as though your words had anchored him in place. Jason inclined his head in a respectful bow, but when he lifted his gaze to meet yours, there was something earnest there, something unguarded.

“The honor is mine, Your Royal Highness,” he replied quietly. His voice was steady, but beneath it lay a warmth that had not been present in the hall. “I would have stepped forward even if I had not been named by His Lord, I would still stand at your side no matter what. It is no burden to be handed with great responsibility, it is a privilege.”

You nodded at his words with a grin, a quiet acknowledgment settling between you, but there was an expectant pause that lingered all the same.

This was not the first time your paths had crossed.

You had seen him long before today, in passing moments the court never noticed.

In the training yards at dawn, when you would linger at the balcony under the guise of fresh air and watch him spar with a ferocity that set him apart from the rest.

In the corridors near the armory, where he had once bowed too slowly, eyes lifting just long enough to recognize you before remembering his place with a sharp remark aimed towards him by second-in-command Dick Grayson.

There had even been a moment, brief and entirely improper, when a sudden storm had broken over the palace gardens.

Rain had fallen in heavy sheets, the paths slick beneath your slippers, and it was Jason who had appeared at your side without hesitation and without knowing he was there in the garden from a distance that had watched you carefully navigate the beauty despite its cloudiest night.

His hand had closed firmly around your elbow, guiding you from the open terrace and through the shadowed corridors toward your chambers. His apology had been murmured far too close, his breath warm against your ear as he ensured you were unharmed, lingering only a heartbeat longer than propriety allowed.

Another day, far less gentle in its memory, had carved itself into you just as deeply.

You had been within the East City, escorted yet momentarily separated, when danger revealed itself in the form of grasping hands and sharp voices.

Bandits, emboldened by arrogance and desperation, had tried to take you to sell.

Panic had barely found its footing before Jason intervened out of nowhere.

Steel had flashed and in a blur of movement he had pulled you free, placing himself squarely between you and danger without hesitation.

The clash of metal and the shouts of startled men rang in your ears as he moved with ruthless precision, shielding you with his own body as though it were instinct rather than duty.

He had whisked you away through narrow streets and hidden passages known only to those who lived and fought beyond palace walls.

His grip on your wrist was firm and unyielding, guiding you through alleys and winding turns, his focus absolute until the noise behind you faded and safety finally settled around you.

It was only then, as you caught your breath beneath a dim lantern, that you noticed his attire. He wore no armor, no insignia of a squire or soldier. Only a simple tunic clung to his frame, darkened with sweat, and worn trousers marked by travel and combat. There was nothing ceremonial about him at that moment, nothing polished or ornamental.

Those moments had forged a familiarity neither of you had dared to name.

He had protected you long before he was ever sworn to do so. And now, as he walked beside you in the quiet of the palace halls, bound by oath and steel, it felt less like a beginning and more like a truth finally acknowledged.

Familiarity had grown in those stolen glances and unspoken acknowledgments, quiet and restrained, but undeniably present.

Jason seemed to remember it all as well.

His gaze softened, just a fraction, and when he spoke again, his tone lacked the rigid polish of court address.

“You were never just a name spoken from the throne to me,” he mumbles quietly. “Even before today.”

You continued toward your chambers, the soft cadence of your steps echoed and matched by Jason’s own pace.

It was as if fate had chosen Jason Todd to be your sworn knight from the very beginning.

“I still have not thanked you properly for that day,” you remarked, your voice carrying sincerity in it, unguarded and genuine. “For placing yourself in danger on my behalf.”

You glanced toward him as you spoke, curiosity softening your expression.

“Is there any wish you would seek from me,” you asked quietly, your tone earnest, “as gratitude for the risk you took and the burden my situation forced upon you?”

Jason furrowed his brow slightly, giving the question its due consideration.

To refuse a royal offer outright would be considered discourteous at best, dangerous at worst. Declining such a gesture could be read as an insult, an unspoken message that said, this gift is sweet, but it is not enough to satisfy me.

Such a misstep could tarnish a royal’s image, invite gossip, or worse, turn the moment into a laughingstock that would linger far longer than intended. He understood the weight of courtly implications well enough to know that whatever answer he gave had to be chosen with care.

“If I may ask for anything at all, Your Royal Highness,” he began, his voice calm and deliberate, “then grant me this.”

He lifted his gaze to meet yours, unwavering and sincere, devoid of pretense.

“Allow me to remain near you whenever duty permits. Not merely as a knight in title, but in practice. Let me walk where you walk, stand where you stand, and keep watch when others would assume you are already safe.”

There was no greed in his request, no hunger for status or reward. Only quiet resolve, steady and unyielding.

“It would be honor enough.”

A few weeks passed in the quiet wake of the Accolade Ceremony, the grandeur of that day fading into routine and whispered memory. Life within the palace resumed its measured rhythm, yet something had undeniably changed.

Jason carried out his duties as any knight of the realm would, but always as yours first and foremost. He followed you through marble corridors and sunlit courtyards, stood vigilant outside council chambers, and lingered just beyond the threshold of your private studies. His presence was constant yet unobtrusive, a steady shadow shaped by loyalty rather than obligation.

Where once you had walked alone or flanked by interchangeable guards, now Jason remained at your side, attentive and watchful, moving in quiet sync with you as if this had always been his place.

However, this also meant that he accompanied you during your quietest hours, in moments untouched by ceremony or expectation. He followed you into the small sunlit room tucked into the palace’s corner, a place that overlooked a forgotten stretch of courtyard that few ever noticed and none ever lingered in, except you.

Here, the light spilled softly through tall windows, warming the room and filling the space with a rare stillness. There were no courtiers to impress, no duties to perform, no titles that demanded acknowledgment.

The room held little in the way of excess. Only a small collection of books rested upon a low shelf, their spines worn from your hands alone.

Another chair sat near the window, seldom used, and upon the table lay sheets of vellum and a quill, waiting for letters of invitation or careful replies that would later be sealed and sent away.

Here, you allowed yourself small mercies.

You slipped off your heels and set them aside, a quiet sigh of relief escaping you as your bare feet met the cool stone floor. You loosened the bodice of your gown just enough to draw a fuller breath, the tension of the day easing from your shoulders as the stillness of the room settled around you.

“You do not have to stand all day, you know,” you said, the last remnants of formality slipping easily from your voice.

The words came softer, more natural, shaped by the familiarity the past weeks had quietly built between you. When it was only the two of you, titles felt unnecessary, even burdensome.

“It would be rather unprofessional of me to do so, Your Royal Highness,” he replied, ever measured, even here.

You grinned at that, the formality only encouraging your defiance.

“There is no need to call me that every time,” you said lightly. “My name will do just fine.”

You demonstrated it for him, drawing out the vowels and careful pronunciation of your name as though it were something to be savored rather than announced.

The sound lingered in the quiet room, and at that, the corner of Jason’s lips betrayed him, curving upward in an amused, reluctant smile.

“Your Royal Highness is far too professional, and it is far too…” you paused, searching for the right word before settling on it. “Pretentious?”

He huffed softly, the hint of that smile still present.

“Well,” he replied, dry but not unkind, “you are rather pretentious.”

You frowned at his response, feigning offense though your eyes betrayed your amusement.

“I would prefer something else,” you mused, shaking your head lightly. “The title is too much.”

You tilted your head at him, studying his expression.

“Would you rather I call you Sir Jason every time?” you added, hint of mischief threading through your tone. “I know it irritates you. You always huff at the title, and I even saw you roll your eyes when one of the advisors referred to you as such.”

Jason stiffened at that, his shoulders tightening almost imperceptibly as realization dawned that he had been caught.

His lips pressed into a thin line, posture straightening with sudden discipline, as if composure alone might undo the admission.

You almost laughed.

“Then,” he begins, choosing his words with deliberate care, “when it is only the two of us, in private, you may refer to me simply as Jason.”

You perked at that, listening closely, already hearing the unspoken but lingering in his tone before he could finish the thought.

“I will still address you by your proper title,” Jason finally stated, his tone firm but not unkind.

He watched as your shoulders slumped ever so slightly, the playful confidence draining from your posture. You bit the inside of your cheek, resting your chin against your hand, a gesture that betrayed your disappointment more than any words could.

The subtle expression of dissapointment on your face made the corner of his lips twitch upward, a brief betrayal of amusement before he smoothed it away.

“I believe calling you by your given name would be far too informal,” Jason explains after a moment, his tone careful, considered.

“The most I can offer is this. I will call you Princess.”

Your brow arched at that, interest immediately piqued.

Of all the titles he could have chosen, that one sat just right. It was a quiet concession, a step down from Your Royal Highness without crossing into impropriety.

It carried respect without the grand title, familiarity without presumption.

You found yourself enjoying it more than you expected.

“Okay,” you nodded, leaning more heavily into your hand. “I suppose I can accept that.”

You would happily accept it, as it turned out.

A grin curved across your lips as you reached for one of the books, opening it with practiced ease. The bookmark rested exactly where you had last left off.

“I am not joking,” you added, glancing up from your book, your tone gentle but insistent. “You may sit down, Jason.”

He obeyed your silent command, settling into the chair across from you with a quiet smile playing at his lips.

His gaze drifted to the books resting on the table, lingering thoughtfully over the worn spines and delicate pages.

You watched as Jason’s gaze lingered on a single book, its cover unlike the others.

The leather was richly embossed with delicate patterns, each line and curve carved by the steady hand of the author, a rare and precious detail.

You recognized it immediately— a romance, obvious by its faded title and the worn edges that spoke of many readings. The story told of a poor woman who, against all odds, became a princess overnight and a prince that had danced with her before she had gone away.

“Would you like to read the book?” you asked gently, watching him with quiet curiosity.

Jason bit the inside of his cheek, breaking his gaze from the worn cover. “Thank you, but I’m okay,” he replied, though the tension in his shoulders was unmistakable.

You sighed softly, not convinced.

“Are you sure? I really don’t mind…”

You nudged the book a little closer to him, your fingers brushing the leather.

Jason hesitated for a moment, the tension in his body flickering with uncertainty.

Then, almost reluctantly, his finger traced along the edges of the cover, flipping to the back before slowly opening the front page, then the next for a brief second, skimming briefly with a furrow to his brow.

He could only sigh, closing the book before he placed it back onto the table.

“… your offer is kind, Princess.”

You blinked at him, watching him shift awkwardly.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“There’s no one around us, you can read—”

You try to nudge, but his voice raises slightly.

“I can’t read, Princess.”

Ah.

You… didn’t think about that.

It was well known that education was a luxury, a rare gift not afforded to many.

One might assume that knights, sworn to protect and serve, would be literate, but most were only familiar with the essentials, reading the layout of battlefields on maps, knowing the names of kingdoms, understanding commands and orders, and the skill to take aim.

“Does Commander Bruce Wayne not teach?”

Jason shook his head, relaxing at your tone that didn’t seem to take any offense of his words or his slight hostility.

“No, it is not his duty to teach literacy. His duty is to train us in the art of the sword and the knowledge required to be a knight.”

He glanced back at the book with a faint exhale.

“Books are tools of duty, not objects of leisure or pleasure.”

The idea of reading simply for enjoyment was foreign to them, a privilege reserved for those born into worlds of quiet study and sheltered halls.

“Then, do you want me to teach you?”

You blurt that out unexpectedly, as if it was instinct to say.

Jason was surprised.

The idea of being taught to read by a Princess was never an offer and an unexpected privilege that kindled a subtle warmth deep within Jason, a sudden mix of feelings from a background that didn’t have the luxury to afford bread, is suddenly offered to have the one thing he wanted.

It was a small kindness, something far removed from the harsh demands of his duties and the rigid expectations placed upon him.

Jason had long feared that you might mock his origins or take amusement in the hardships he had endured.

He was no noble, born into wealth or privilege.

Rather, he came from a humble background, the son of a woman who struggled tirelessly to make ends meet, battling every hardship just to provide for him before her death.

In her final days, she struck a desperate bargain with Bruce Wayne, who had taken pity on the both of them when he made visits to the city, seeing the frail woman beg on her knees to have her son have warm bread on the table.

It was Bruce who had brought the young Jason Todd within the walls of the castle, offering shelter and a chance at a new life once his mother had passed away.

In that moment, beneath the quiet light of the sunlit room, he felt the faintest glimpse of possibility— something beyond obligation, beyond honor, a connection that promised something quietly profound and unexpectedly human.

“Your generosity is unexpected, and I am unsure if I am worthy of such a privilege. It feels… beyond my place,” Jason admitted quietly.

You smiled warmly, shaking your head gently.

“Nonsense. You greatly underestimate yourself. This is not about privilege or status.” You close your book that you haven’t even read a single word from where you left off, leaning slightly forward with your arms crossed, listening intently.

“This is simply two people sharing knowledge, nothing more.” Your eyes held steady, filled with quiet conviction. “There is no room here for doubt or hesitation— only the willingness to try. If you are willing to learn, then I will be here to teach.”

Jason tapped his finger thoughtfully against the table, eyes narrowing as he considered your offer.

“I cannot have you empty-handed, if it is two people sharing knowledge.” He slowly phrased, his voice low and deliberate.

“Is there anything you wish for me to teach in return for your lessons?”

You hummed thoughtfully of his offer, your mind wandering through the lessons you had been given as a princess— how to embroider delicate patterns by candlelight, to sing melodies that could soothe even the harshest of crowds, to dance with grace and poise, to carry yourself with impeccable manners, and to wield words as carefully as a blade in diplomacy.

But none of those lessons had ever prepared you for the weight of ruling, or the quiet strength needed to stand firm when the world demanded sacrifice.

Perhaps there was something more practical, something deeper, that only someone like Jason could teach you.

Lessons that lay far beyond courtly grace and polished smiles.

Lessons of resilience, courage, and survival, earned not through words alone but through action.

Your thoughts drifted back to the ceremony.

To the woman who had been bestowed a knight.

To the weight of the sword that had required both of your hands to steady it as you bestowed Jason with knighthood.

You remembered the unfamiliar balance of the weapon, the quiet thrill of holding something meant for command rather than ornament.

They were dangerous thoughts.

Luxuries of admiration and yearning, of defiance rather than obedience.

Perhaps it would not hurt.

You had only two years left.

You might as well make them worthwhile.

“Would you… teach me to wield a sword,” you asked softly, then added after a breath, “or a dagger?”

Jason stared at you blankly.

“Excuse me?”

You straighten slightly, resolve settling into your posture.

“Could you teach me how to wield—”

“Are you absolutely sure?”

He cuts in, disbelief plain in his voice.

He studied your face as though searching for the trace of a jest, for any sign that this was a passing fancy rather than a considered request.

There was none.

His expression shifted, concern threading through the surprise. “Princess,” he began more carefully now, “those are not lessons of sport or ceremony. A blade is meant to wound. To kill.” His jaw tightened. “Once you learn, there is no pretending otherwise.”

The room felt smaller, the sunlight heavier.

Still, he did not dismiss you.

He waited.

“I understand,” you said, lips thinning as you held his gaze. “But I saw how Cassandra Cain was able to become a knight, and I have thought…” Your voice trailed, your eyes lowering to your hands.

They bore no scars, no calluses, no marks of labor or battle. Delicate and unblemished, shaped only by silk, parchment, and needlework.

“I have thought it might be nice, for a change,” you continued quietly, “to learn what it is like to want something that was not simply handed to me. To learn something not placed before me by tutors chosen by my mother and His Majesty.”

You curled your fingers slightly, as though imagining weight where there was none.

“To earn it.”

Jason remained silent for a long moment, processing your words that held a quiet strength to them.

His gaze followed the subtle curl of your fingers, as though he could already picture the weight you imagined there, the unfamiliar heft of steel against skin untouched by hardship.

The disbelief in his expression slowly gave way to something more measured, more thoughtful.

“You speak as though effort has been kept from you,” he said at last, his voice low, not unkind. “Yet to want to earn something rather than inherit it is no small desire.”

He shifted in his seat, posture straightening, the discipline of a knight settling into place. “If I agree to this, it will not be gentle, your hands will blister, your muscles will ache, and you will fall more times than you will stand.”

His eyes lifted to meet yours, steady and unwavering. “I will not allow this to be a game, nor a passing act of defiance.”

There was a pause, deliberate.

“But if this is truly what you want,” he continued more quietly, “not for novelty, not for rebellion, but for yourself, then I will teach you as I would any other.”

He leaned towards you with his hands folded against his chest..

“Tell me plainly, Princess. Is that what you choose?”

You did not hesitate.

“Yes,” the word leaves you steadier than you expected.

“That is what I choose.”

Jason studied you in silence, as though committing the answer to memory, searching for any flicker of doubt.

Finding none, he exhaled slowly.

“Then we begin carefully,” he replied. “It will remain between us for now. The court does not need to know, and neither does His Majesty.”

You grinned at that, unable to hide your satisfaction, and in return he allowed himself a small smile, brief but genuine.

“We will begin with a dagger,” he went on, his tone steady and assured. “Every two days. It is lighter, easier to hide, and far more truthful in its purpose. A sword thrives on space and display. A dagger requires intent.”

His gaze softened, just slightly, the severity of a knight tempered by quiet reassurance. “We will train your hands first. Your strength will come in time while control must come before courage.”

You nodded, agreeing to his terms. “Then I shall teach you how to read on the days between,” you replied with your own proclamations. “Before the days you taught me how to wield a dagger.”

Jason gave a small nod in return, accepting without any fuss. The plan formed easily between you, and a spark of excitement flickered through your veins.

And since you were already here, tucked away in this secluded corner of the castle, you find the easiest book you have on the table, aiming it slightly toward him and said softly—

“Read with me.”

Jason hesitated only briefly before leaning closer, his attention settling on the open page.

He shifted in his chair, one arm resting against the table as though bracing himself for something unfamiliar.

“All right,” he said quietly, a trace of anxiety threading through his tone.

You noticed it at once and softened your gaze. “I am only trying to understand where you are,” you said gently. “What words you recognize, what comes easily to you. I am not expecting perfection.”

Jason relaxed a tad-bit.

You began with the first line, reading it aloud at an unhurried pace, letting each word fall clearly into the space between you.

When you finished, you tapped the page lightly.

“Your turn.”

He followed the line with his finger, brow furrowing in concentration.

The first few words came slow and uneven, spoken carefully as though each one carried weight. He stumbled once and twice, then paused, inhaling through his nose before trying again.

You did not correct him.

You waited.

When he finished the sentence, imperfect but complete, you smiled. Not wide or indulgent, just enough to let him know he had done well.

“Again,” you said gently, turning the page.

And so you read together.

Sentence by sentence.

Page by page.

The sunlight shifted across the floor as time passed, the world beyond the room continuing on without either of you. For Jason, the words slowly stopped feeling like obstacles and began to take shape, meaning forming where there had once only been symbols.

You reached for a fresh sheet of parchment and pulled it closer, dipping the quill before carefully writing out the alphabet, each letter deliberate and neat.

“I suppose I should have started with this,” you softly spoke, a small, almost sheepish smile touching your lips. “But I wanted to see what you already knew first.”

You turned the parchment so it faced him, the ink still dark and fresh.

“Most people are taught this first,” you continued gently. “But that does not mean it must be the beginning for everyone.”

Jason leaned in, studying the letters with focused attention.

His eyes traced the shapes, committing them to memory as though they were unfamiliar weapons.

He nodded once, slow and thoughtful.

“I know a few of these,” he admitted. “Enough to recognize they form words, and stuff.”

“That is more than you think,” you replied easily.

You slid the quill toward him.

“Try.”

He hesitated, then took it, fingers stiff and uncertain around the shaft of the quill. His first attempt was careful, awkward, the letter uneven but legible.

He frowned at the result, dissatisfaction plain on his face.

“I don’t see the point in this.”

You chuckled quietly, shaking your head. “It matters if you wish to read,” you gently nudged with encouragement. “You must recognize the letters, sound them out, and write them yourself to truly understand. There is no need to rush, and certainly no need to make your handwriting beautiful.”

He slowly nodded his head, listening as he tried again.

The two of you bent over the table together, quiet save for the soft scratch of ink against parchment.

Each letter came with effort, but also with a growing sense of accomplishment. When he finally set the quill down, his shoulders eased, just slightly.

He glanced at you then, something new in his expression.

“Thank you,” he whispers, low and sincere.

You met his gaze, surprised by the softness in his voice, and smiled in return.

“There is nothing to thank me for,” you replied just as quietly. “You did the hard part.”

Jason let out a slow breath, eyes drifting back to the parchment as though seeing it differently now. The letters no longer looked like enemies to be conquered, but steps, small and steady, leading somewhere new.

“I never had the time for this,” he admitted. “Or patience, I suppose.”

“Then we will make time,” you said simply, closing the book beside you, attaching a bookmark. “Little by little. There is no hurry.”

That earned a faint smile from him.

In a secluded clearing deep within the forest, far from the watchful eyes of the court, your mother, and even your Creator, the lessons came to an end sooner than expected.

Sunlight filtered through the canopy above, warm against your skin, as the world felt momentarily untouched by titles, rules, or expectation.

You held the wooden dagger as Jason did, your long skirt brushing against your calves as you adjusted your stance. It fell just above your ankles, light and breathable, nothing like the heavy gowns of court, and for once your movements were not restricted by a bodice or corset.

You could breathe freely, bend, shift, and move without resistance, your body finally allowed to exist without constraint.

“Here, I’ll help.”

Jason stood close beside you, so near that the warmth of his presence wrapped around you like a quiet tide.

His hands reached out gently, fingers brushing lightly as he guided your wrist into the proper angle. The touch was subtle but overwhelming, each movement deliberate and careful.

You felt your heart quicken, a flutter of warmth rising to your cheeks.

Your breath hitched slightly as his steady gaze met yours, and for a moment, the world beyond this secluded clearing seemed to fade.

“Balance first,” he murmured, his voice low and calm. “The weapon follows your hand, not the other way around.”

You shifted your footing, mirroring his stance, though your fingers trembled ever so slightly around the dagger’s handle.

Jason’s fingers lingered a moment longer than necessary as he adjusted your grip once he noticed it was off, and you couldn’t help but swallow hard.

The steady rhythm of his breathing mixed with the faint rustle of leaves overhead, filling the quiet space between you.

“Focus on your center,” he advises, his voice steady but gentle, as if grounding you. “Feel the weight of the dagger, let it become part of your arm.”

You nodded, trying to steady the rapid beat of your heart, but every time his gaze met yours, a wave of heat rose to your cheeks. It was a strange feeling— both unsettling and strangely comforting. You realized just how much his presence had already begun to affect you.

Jason stepped back slightly, giving you space but never breaking eye contact. “You’re doing well,” he compliments quietly.

“One step at a time.”

You offered a small, grateful smile, cheeks still flushed, as you readied yourself to try again.

The wooden dagger felt heavier now, not just in your hand, but with the weight of new possibilities resting on your shoulders.

“Wow! That felt a lot different than before,” you exclaimed, your fingers brushing over the dagger’s handle as you tested the new stance Jason had carefully helped you adjust.

He let out a quiet chuckle, the sound low and easy. “It’s all in the details,” he said softly. “Small changes make the difference between fumbling and control, Princess.”

His eyes met yours, a flicker of approval hidden beneath the calm exterior.

For a while, Jason patiently guided you through the basics, demonstrating a few maneuvers and watching closely as you moved under his careful instruction.

His corrections were gentle and precise, often the same small adjustments repeated— your stance, the angle of your wrist, the placement of your feet.

You weren’t slow to learn.

You knew exactly what you had done wrong and how to fix it.

Yet, despite your awareness, you found yourself making those mistakes to feel when his hands lingered a little longer on yours or slipped briefly to your waist.

His quiet praise, a soft “you’re doing great,” whispered close enough to catch your breath, sent a wave of warmth down your neck, behind your ears, and a wave of butterflies in your stomach.

You caught yourself thinking, half-jokingly, that you might just get a heat stroke from the warmth that spread through you— an unexpected side effect of lessons far more distracting than the dagger itself.

Then, all of a sudden, the air between you shifted after a couple of hours of learning. It became less about the lessons, less about titles of your honor, and it became just you two.

You both laid against the tree, soaking in the warmth and the wind that would bypass.

Jason’s gaze softened, and his voice dropped just enough to feel like a shared confidence rather than a command.

“You know,” he began hesitantly, “it’s easier to teach when the person wants to learn… not just because they have to.”

You smiled, “I want to learn,” you admitted quietly. “More than just what’s expected of me.”

He nodded slowly, as if understanding something deeper.

You spoke without thinking, your voice barely above a whisper as you watched Jason absently fiddle with the blades of grass slipping through his fingers.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do when I’m engaged to the Lord of the North,” you confessed softly, the weight of the words settling heavily between you.

Jason’s eyes lifted slowly to meet yours, the usual steadiness replaced by something softer, more thoughtful. “You won’t have to face it alone,” he comforts quietly, though there was an edge of uncertainty beneath his calm.

You looked away, tracing patterns in the dirt beneath your feet. “I’m scared,” you admitted. “Not just of him, but of everything— losing myself, my home, and any freedom I thought I had.”

Jason’s hand hovered near yours, hesitant but steady, a quiet offering of comfort that carried more weight than words.

“It’s possible His Majesty may change his mind,” he repeats the words your mother has told you, though the doubt in his voice betrayed the hope that you knew.

You gave a small shrug, sighing heavily.

“I still have two years,” you murmured. “There’s freedom in that time, but it feels more like an impending doom, counting down to a fate I can’t escape.”

For a moment, silence wrapped around you both, filled only by the soft rustle of leaves and the steady beating of two uncertain hearts.

Then Jason’s voice broke the quiet, gentle but curious.

“Then, what does your ideal freedom look like? What would it feel like to truly be free?”

You hesitated, considering the question as your eyes drifted to the dappled sunlight filtering through the branches above. “It would mean… having a choice,” you slowly began. “To live without fear of being traded like a token, to follow my own path, to wake each day knowing I belong to myself and no one else.”

Jason nodded, his gaze steady and understanding.

“A hard thing to want when the world expects so much else.”

“But worth fighting for,” you said quietly, a flicker of determination lighting your eyes. “I want to know what freedom feels like right now— to be bathed in warm sunlight, to sit by the water’s edge with a book in hand, feeling the soft breeze on my skin.”

You paused, a smile tugging at your lips as a vivid image formed in your mind.

“And to have you feed me fresh fruits, one by one, as I laugh at how clumsy you might be with something so simple.”

Jason’s eyes brightened with amusement, the usual seriousness in his expression softening into a genuine, rare smile. “I suppose I would have to be a very dedicated servant,” he jokes, his voice low and warm, carrying a teasing kindness.

In that moment, surrounded by the gentle rustle of leaves and the quiet flow of time, you spoke softly once more of your wishes of a future you couldn’t grasp, “I want to live in a cottage with fields of flowers all around. I don’t want anything grand or filled with riches— just simple, peaceful days where I can breathe and be myself.”

Jason slowly nodded, absorbing your words with quiet thoughtfulness.

After a pause, you met his gaze and asked a question.

“What about you, Jason? What is it that you want?”

Jason hesitated, his eyes darkening with memories he rarely voiced.

“I… I’m not sure,” he admitted quietly.

“For most of my life, I have been fighting just to survive— each day a struggle to keep going, to stay alive in a world that didn’t give me much of a choice.” He glanced away for a moment, jaw tightening as if wrestling with the weight of his past.

When his gaze found you again, it was softer, almost vulnerable.

“Perhaps what I want most now is simply peace.”

The words settled between you, quiet and unassuming, yet they struck something deep within your chest.

You did not realize it then, did not name the way your breath caught or how your heart stumbled over itself, as though it had recognized something before your mind could.

You only knew that you looked at him differently after that, as if the world had shifted ever so slightly on its axis.

Time, relentless and careless, moved on.

Days turned into weeks, weeks into months.

Lessons became routines, and routines became moments you found yourself waiting for with excitement with each passing day. You would read together in sunlit rooms while your Butler Alfred would make a surprise visit of tea, fruit, biscuits, and such with a kind smile, you would train in hidden clearings, shared silences that felt fuller than conversation.

And somewhere along the way, without ceremony or permission, you realized you had fallen for him.

Just as, in ways just as quiet and just as inevitable, Jason had fallen for you.

“‘It isn’t possible to love and part. You will wish that it was. You can transmute love, ignore it, muddle it, but you can never pull it out of you. I know by experience that the poets are right: love is eternal.’”

The room fell quiet once he finished, finishing the paragraph without a stutter.

He stared at the page for a moment longer than necessary, as if the ink itself might change if he looked hard enough. Then he exhaled softly, something unguarded passing across his expression.

“After six months since your first lesson,” he quietly whispers, almost in disbelief, “I went from learning the alphabet, to sounding out vowels, to reading small books.” His thumb brushed the edge of the page, grounding himself. “And now I can read a paragraph from a classic without stuttering.”

Your grin came easily, bright and unguarded, even as your heart betrayed you.

He had chosen that passage without stumbling, you didn’t know whether it was on purpose, or accidental, but without hesitation he read it, and the simple fact of it felt far heavier than it should have.

You said nothing, but something in your chest tightened all the same.

The words he had read rang painfully true, settling into you like both a quiet curse and an unspoken promise.

It was not possible to love and part.

You could pretend otherwise. You could tell yourself that duty would dull the edge of it, that time would soften what it carved into you, that distance might make it manageable. You could try to reshape it into something safer, bury it beneath obedience, ritual, and silence, until it resembled nothing more than fond regard.

But love did not leave.

It did not bend to crowns or borders or the slow turning of years. It lingered in stolen glances held a heartbeat too long, in the memory of his hands guiding yours with patient care, in the way his voice softened whenever he spoke of peace, as though it were something delicate and rare.

You understood it now with a clarity that ached.

The poets were right. Love was not fleeting, nor fragile.

It was enduring, stubborn, and eternal.

And once it took hold, it stayed.

“I’m so glad,” you laughed softly, warmth lacing your voice, “my lessons paid off.”

You had not realized just how close the two of you were until then, seated near enough that your shoulders brushed with every small movement.

The contact felt unremarkable and yet impossible to ignore.

Jason’s lips curved into a faint smirk, his gaze lifting to meet yours for a fleeting moment before drifting downward.

His eyes lingered on your hands.

The skin there bore faint evidence of your training.

Blisters that had once burned and split had long since healed, leaving behind only slight traces, reminders of effort rather than pain.

He remembered tending to them, the careful way he had applied ointment, his touch steady and unhurried, as if he were handling something precious rather than merely wounded skin.

“They did,” he said quietly, approval woven into his tone. “You’ve grown steadier with the dagger. Are you certain you do not wish to learn the sword as well?”

You shook your head without hesitation. The answer felt settled, known.

“I will be all right,” you replied softly. “The dagger feels right in my hand. I can wield a sword if I must, but I think I am content without it.”

Before you could second-guess the motion, you leaned in, resting your head against his shoulder.

The cool steel of his pauldron brushed your chin, grounding and solid, so unlike the fragile silks you were accustomed to.

Jason stilled at once, breath catching almost imperceptibly, yet he did not pull away.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The closeness felt natural, dangerous, and comforting all at once, a quiet defiance against everything waiting beyond these walls.

“Did Advisor Gordon’s daughter, Barbara, lend you more books?” Jason asked, his tone curious. “I have never seen this one among your stacks.”

His thumb remained tucked between the pages as a careful marker while he studied the cover. The maroon leather was plain but well worn, the title A Room With a View carved neatly into the surface, the author’s name set modestly at the corner.

You nodded lightly. “She did. She said I would enjoy it.”

Jason hummed softly in response, eyes lingering on the book a moment longer before lifting back to you on his shoulder, a quiet appreciation in his gaze.

“You still have to work on your handwriting,” you teased, a grin spreading across your face.

Jason let out an exaggerated groan, tilting his head back in mild annoyance. “I fight sweaty men with swords and train every day,” he muttered, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “Yet ink and vellum are what defeats me.”

Despite his protest, there was no real irritation in him.

There was only the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips, betraying how far he had come and how little he minded your teasing.

“You’ve come a long way,” you leaned a tad-bit closer into his shoulder, closing your eyes. “It does not look like careless chicken scratches, if that’s what you were worried about.”

Jason let out a low chuckle.

“Ah, so it did look like chicken scratches before, then.”

You pulled back slightly, eyes narrowing in playful reproach as you gave his arm a light slap.

“I absolutely did not say that.”

He raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile tugging at his lips.

“You implied it, Princess.”

“I did not imply that, Jason.”

“Denial isn’t the answer, Your Royal Highness.”

The audacity a man could conjure.

Jason only grinned wider at your silence, unfazed and utterly charming in his boldness.

“Do not test me, Jason Peter Todd. I will have you know I hold the power to forbid your attendance at tomorrow’s Winter Ball if you continue this debate.”

He met your gaze with a sly smile, unbothered and teasing from the usage of his full-name.

“Is that so, Princess? Then I suppose I must find a way to truly earn my place there.”

You leveled him a pointed look, though the faintest smile betrays your stern gaze.

“Yes, you must find and know your place,” you declared, folding your arms with a tilt of your chin in a mock display of haughty arrogance. Jason couldn’t help but exhale a low chuckle at your playful act.

He leaned in slightly, one hand resting firmly on the edge of the table while the other settled gently on the back of your chair, closing the distance between you.

His eyes flickered down to your lips, sparkling with a mischievous challenge before it met your eyes.

“And tell me, Princess, would a single dance be enough to earn forgiveness and favor from your ever-devoted knight?” He murmured, his voice low and smooth, sending an unexpected flutter through your chest.

You were suspended in that fragile moment, caught between the irresistible pull of his lips and the depths of those half-lidded eyes, which held a fierce tenderness that both unsettled and captivated you.

Your pulse thundered in your ears, narrowing down to the warmth of his presence and the flicker of temptation in his eyes.

The world around you faded away until nothing remained but the magnetic tension that hummed in the space between your breaths, an unspoken question hanging in the air, daring you to close the distance.

For a moment, time seemed to hesitate, holding its breath alongside you.

Then, just as his lips brushed the edge of yours, a distant sound shattered the spell— a sharp knock echoing through the quiet room.

“Sir Jason, Second-in-Command: Richard Grayson, has requested your presence!”

Jason pulled back slightly with an annoyed sigh, mumbling under his breath of a curse onto the Second-in-Command, the intensity of the moment breaking like glass.

His shoulders were so depleted that it looked comical.

His gaze locks onto yours for a brief second, running a hand through his dark hair as an unspoken apology is told in his hues before his usual composure settles back into place.

“Forgive me, Princess.” He grumbled, “duty calls.”

You blinked, your cheeks still feeling rather flushed as you watched him rise from his seat, the playful challenge in his eyes softened by the interruption.

Unfortunately, you don’t see Jason the entire day.

The day stretched long and quiet without Jason’s presence.

It was expected— tomorrow was the Winter Ball, and he was undoubtedly occupied with preparations, assigned to tasks that demanded his unwavering attention.

Still, the absence left an unfamiliar emptiness, a silent reminder of how much you had come to rely on his steady figure.

It wasn’t as if you had time to dwell on it. Moments after Jason’s departure, one of your advisors arrived, bustling in with updates and reminders. The days ahead were filled with preparations— your dresses to be fitted, dances to be rehearsed, and alongside your mother, the ever-important task of reviewing the guest list for the Winter Ball, this year held in the East Kingdom.

The palace buzzed with activity, but beneath the flurry, your thoughts drifted back to Jason, wondering when you might see him again.

You longed for that single dance with him amidst the grandeur, a fleeting moment stolen from the swirling opulence.

Yet before you could linger on the hope, the day slipped quietly away, giving way to the grand night.

The ballroom blossomed with shimmering chandeliers, whispered conversations, and the elegant steps of the kingdom’s highest society, each movement weaving into the tapestry of the Winter Ball’s dazzling spectacle.

You wore a royal blue ballgown that seemed to capture the very essence of winter itself.

The fabric shimmered like frost-kissed ice beneath the ballroom’s glowing chandeliers, its rich hue echoing the deep, clear sky of a cold winter’s night. Delicate embroidery traced along the hem and bodice, resembling swirling snowflakes and icy tendrils, perfectly blending with the sparkling decorations that adorned the grand hall. The air was crisp with anticipation, and you felt as though you were part of the season’s very soul.

You scanned the glittering crowd, your heart lifting with hope as you searched for Jason’s familiar figure.

You longed to catch his steady gaze and gladly accept the hand he would offer for a dance.

Before you could find him, a sharp clearing of the throat cut through the music and chatter, commanding attention with its unmistakable authority.

It was not Jason’s usual casual sound that is soft and hesitant.

Your eyes snapped toward the source, curiosity and a flicker of unease tightening in your chest.

The Lord of the North stood before you, strands of gray weaving through his dark hair, his face etched with wrinkles that spoke of years spent maneuvering through power. His eyes gleamed with a calculating sharpness, and a sleazy smile curled on his lips as he bowed with practiced charm.

“Your Royal Highness, it is very much a pleasure to finally meet the future consort of the North Kingdom,” he greets smoothly, his voice polite but carrying an unmistakable edge beneath the surface.

“Oh, um, it’s a pleasure to meet you, My Lord,” you replied with a graceful bow, though a flicker of nervousness betrayed your calm facade.

This was your first encounter with the Lord of the North, and you already knew it would not be your last.

“Do you care for a dance?”

He extended his hand with a knowing smile, one that left no room for refusal. The customs of the court made it clear that rejecting a dance with the future consort of the North Kingdom would be seen as a serious slight. It was not just a matter of personal respect but of honoring the alliance their marriage symbolized.

Your fingers hesitated for a fleeting moment before slipping reluctantly into his, the heavy burden of duty settling firmly upon your shoulders.

“I could care for a dance.”

As the orchestra swelled, the music wrapped around you both, binding your movements in a measured rhythm. His other hand slid confidently to your waist while your own rested lightly on his shoulder.

The contact felt unfamiliar and stiff, a rigid reminder of the obligations you bore.

Still, you forced yourself to move gracefully, pushing past the discomfort to fulfill the role expected of you.

He chuckled low, the sound tinged with a mix of amusement and something sharper. “Your father, His Majesty— he is quite the man, isn’t he? I must say, I find it rather entertaining how he offered you as a bargaining chip to keep his lands out of my hands.” His eyes gleamed with a cold amusement, the weight behind his words hanging heavy in the air.

You stiffened slightly, the cruel truth in his words striking a nerve.

Your voice remained steady, though laced with quiet defiance.

“Perhaps, but I am not a prize to be traded or a pawn to be moved. I am more than a land or a contract.”

You met his gaze, unwavering despite the tension that tightened in your chest.

“Do not mistake my presence here as acceptance of your terms.”

His laugh was low and amused, carrying a hint of challenge as he pulled you closer, spinning you effortlessly. The deep blue of your gown fluttered gracefully across the polished marble floor, catching the light with every turn.

Your feet moved with surprising ease, matching the unpredictable rhythm of his steps, though a flicker of tension remained beneath the dance’s surface.

He pressed closer, his voice dropping to a smooth, almost conspiratorial tone.

“Yet, here you are— tied by the contract, yes, but only because it suited my terms. You chose to accept it, did you not? All for the sake of protecting your people. How noble of you, to sacrifice so willingly, just like your father.”

You bit down your tongue, exhaling deeply.

Your eyes locked with his unwaveringly, a fire simmering beneath your composed exterior. Your voice held a steady strength, laced with the anger that had quietly built since that very first day six months ago.

“I will not be a pawn in your game, no matter how skillfully you weave your schemes.” Venom laced in your tone and his grin that only widened. “Your aim is clear— not just to claim land, but to unseat His Majesty from his throne. I may not possess the education of men like you, but make no mistake, I am His Majesty’s daughter, the twelfth daughter of the throne and I am neither blind nor deaf to your intentions.”

You held his gaze, unwavering and fierce, each word a deliberate challenge.

“You and His Majesty both know I am no bird to have my wings clipped. Though, I stand for the people of our kingdom, I am no dove to be tamed, caged, or claimed.”

Your voice was steady, carrying the weight of a spirit that refused to be broken or subdued.

His voice dripped with a dark amusement, every word carefully laced with poison that you’re forced to intake as he spins you around under the chandelier.

“What a bold claim— to dream of unseating His Majesty, to imagine overthrowing the very land that raised you, and to call yourself a dove untamed, so free and defiant. Tell me, Princess,” he says in a mocking tone. “Are these the fantasies that dance through your mind when you read novels? Or are they merely the desperate daydreams of someone clinging to a throne that will never be hers?”

Then, as the music faded to silence, he eased his movements to a stop, his gaze locking onto yours with sharpened intent.

He smiled— a slow, knowing curve of his lips that sent a chill through you.

“Entertain me,” he demands, “who has been whispering these dangerous ideas into your ear? Who dares to fill your head with such rebellious thoughts?”

A firm hand gently clasped your shoulder, steady yet urgent.

You turned to see a man whose eyes held a warm, practiced enthusiasm, though the tightness in his jaw betrayed the seriousness beneath.

“Your Royal Highness,” he declares softly but with purpose, “I’ve been searching for you everywhere throughout the Winter Ball— you’ve been summoned.” His gaze flicked quickly toward the imposing figure of the Lord of the North standing nearby, a silent acknowledgment passing between them.

With a measured, respectful bow, the man addressed the other of higher status, “Lord of the North, it is an honor.”

Then, the Northern Lord’s eyes landed on the knight, his voice dropping to a low, respectful grunt as he added, “Second-in-Command, Richard Grayson. A surprise, your achievements speak for themselves— impressive beyond measure.”

“Why, thank you, I appreciate the compliment.”

The slight nod that accompanied his words carried weight and sincerity, a rare and unspoken approval that hung heavily in the air.

Though the Lord’s words of Richard’s accomplishments carried a trace of annoyance rooted in the past and tad-bit of regret, the Lord’s chuckle was dark and laced with bitter irony.

“If only I had taken you in under the North’s decree,” he mused, the weight of old wounds evident in his tone.

Richard Grayson let out a low laugh, sharp and defiant. “Yeah, If only you hadn’t killed my mother and father, the entire village of my people. I would’ve possibly agreed.”

The exchange hung between them, heavy with history and unspoken pain, the tension thick beneath the polished surface of the ballroom.

“Now, if you’ll excuse us— I must take Her Royal Highness,” Richard offered a respectful hand to guide you, his frown deepening as he watched the Lord retreat with a bow, but not without a word.

“Until we meet again.”

Richard weaved smoothly through the crowd, his grip firm but gentle on your hand. He catches the faint frown that had settled on your lips, glancing at you with quiet worry.

“You okay?” he asked softly, his voice low enough to be only for you.

“Oh,” you snap out of your thoughts from the interaction between them, “yeah, I’m fine, thank you for saving me back there, Commander.” He shook his head with a smile.

“It’s not a problem, Your Royal Highness,” you hummed at that, letting a brief second of silence overtake as Richard led you through the crowd without hesitation. After a moment, curiosity nudged at you.

“Actually, where exactly are we headed?”

He glanced back with a playful wink.

“Like I said, someone had summoned you.”

You followed him, the soft murmur of conversations and the clinking of glasses fading into the background as your mind raced with questions, wondering where you’re being led to.

Richard guides you toward a more secluded part of the palace.

The grand chandeliers above cast a warm, golden glow, their light flickering off the polished marble floors.

As you approached a heavy oak door, Richard paused and looked over his shoulder with a subtle smile.

“Go ahead,” Richard gestures quietly to the door, positioning himself beside the entrance rather than opening it.

“I’ll be guarding this area.”

You raised a brow as your hand pressed against the heavy oak door, the wood cool and solid beneath your palm. It gave way with a low creak, and the moment it opened, the night rushed to greet you. Cool air swept over your skin, tracing along your shoulders and arms, carrying with it the faint scent of damp stone, winter flowers, and distant pine.

It slipped beneath the fabric of your gown, a sharp contrast to the warmth and perfume of the ballroom you left behind, the sounds of the ballroom faded behind you, replaced by the hush of wind through hedges and the distant trickle of a fountain. Lanterns hung along the terrace walls, their light soft and golden, casting long shadows across the stone beneath your feet.

The night was cool, crisp, carrying the faint scent of pine and frost.

For a moment, you thought you were alone.

Then you noticed a familiar figure standing near the balustrade, his back to you, shoulders squared as he stared out over the gardens as if they held answers he could not find inside the palace walls.

Jason.

The armor had been exchanged for formal attire, it was rare for a knight, especially Jason, to wear a suit that had a blue tie, matching your gown of the Winter Ball. It was dark and immaculate, but his posture was unmistakable.

The same steady presence you had come to recognize, now framed by moonlight instead of the candle glow of the armor that reflected your figure on it.

He turned at the sound of your heels clicking against stone.

And just like that, the world seemed to narrow to the space between you.

The blue of his tie drew your attention first, rich and deep, the color sharpening the intensity of his own blue eyes when they lifted to you.

They did not rush, nor did they linger crudely. Instead, his gaze moved with quiet reverence, taking you in as if committing the moment to memory.

The way the gown draped over your form, the way the fabric caught the light, how its color softened your complexion and made your presence feel unmistakably radiant. There was an unspoken appreciation in his expression, something thoughtful and restrained, as though he were struck by the careful balance you carried.

You looked poised yet young, graceful yet unguarded, a meeting point between the girl you had been and the woman you were becoming. And in the way his eyes returned to yours, steady and warm, you could tell he thought—

“You’re beautiful.”

It was a simple word, nothing ornate or rehearsed.

“…Thank you,” you find yourself replying after a pause with a smile that graces your lips. “You look rather handsome, Jason.”

It wasn’t like the elaborate verses or flowery declarations that poets might weave in grand gestures. No rehearsed lines, no lofty metaphors meant to dazzle a crowd or win favor of your heart.

It was a single, honest word spoken quietly between two people.

And Jason was nothing like that.

Your Jason isn’t a poet.

He’s your sworn knight, a man of few words but deep meaning, a presence that anchored your world through the steady rhythm of everyday moments.

You hadn’t fallen for the grandeur of romance or spectacle, but in the quiet spaces shared between lessons, conversations, and silences filled with understanding.

So when he said it, just once, just softly, beautiful, it struck harder than any sword could.

Your heart clenched with an intensity you had no language for. The word sank into you, warm and unguarded, melting something deep inside your chest.

His voice, steady and unpretentious, transformed a mere compliment into a declaration that echoed louder than any poetic stanza.

He extends his hand.

“Do you care for a dance, My Lady?”

The chill of the night wrapped around you, but the warmth that spread through your chest as your fingers slid into his was undeniable.

A soft laugh escaped you from the change of title, gentle and sincere, as you nodded. Your other hand found its place on his shoulder, steady and sure, ready to move with him beneath the stars.

Jason’s grip was firm but careful, guiding you with practiced ease as the music swelled softly from within the palace that could barely be heard from outside. The cool night air brushed against your skin, but with him so close, the cold seemed to fade away.

“I thought you were stationed,” you nudged your head to the side to emphasize the ballroom, controlling a bit of the dance when you found yourself moving more of the waltz. “I was trying to look for you.” You admit, watching him shake his head with a glance to the oak door.

“I was with Dick, or well, Richard,” Jason admitted as he stumbled for a moment, nearly missing a step.

He caught himself quickly with a furrow of his brow in concentration before it relaxes, guiding you smoothly back into the rhythm of the waltz before spinning you gently.

Your gown fanned out in soft waves and fluttered like a delicate breeze. “He was… teaching me how to dance,” Jason added, his voice steady now. “He’s someone I trust to give us a little privacy.”

You responded with a soft hum of approval, your hand sliding naturally to rest against his chest. Your fingers felt the steady beat of his heart beneath the fabric, grounding you as your eyes locked with his.

His gaze lingered, tracing the curve of your lips before drifting back to your eyes— slow, intense, and familiar.

The memory of that secluded room flickered between you.

The worn wooden chairs tucked by the window, the stacks of well-loved books scattered about, and the quiet garden beyond where the sunlight spilled gently through the glass.

It was a world away from the glittering ballroom, yet the same quiet intimacy thrummed between you now.

Jason’s voice lowered to a soft murmur, a secret meant only for you. “The way you look at me,” he confessed, each word tender and heavy with longing, “it makes me want to step beyond the bounds of what a knight is meant to be. Tell me, is it so wrong that I want to kiss you?”

You didn’t hesitate— your head shook gently, and the hand that had been resting in his found its way around the nape of his neck, fingers curling into the soft strands of his hair.

Your other hand joined, warm and sure, as both of his hands slid down to your waist, drawing you closer to him with an urgency that took your breath away as your head rested against his.

The music around you blurred into a distant hum, the grand ballroom fading into shadows.

Time stilled.

Your bodies moved together, no longer bound by the rhythm of the waltz but by the unspoken pull between two hearts.

“Do you want to kiss me?” Your voice was barely more than a whisper, fragile and full of hope.

Jason’s eyes met yours, breaking open like dawn spilling light across a shadowed world. His gaze held something deeper than want, something urgent and undeniable.

“Yes,” he breathed, voice thick with something raw and true. “Every day since the moment I have fallen for you, I have needed to kiss you the way the earth needs rain. Without it, I wither. You are the water that sustains me, the breath that steadies my heart.”

Without thinking, you closed the small space between you.

And in that moment, the weight of the princess’s crown and the knight’s oath slipped away.

Your hands moved to cradle his face gently as your lips met his.

The kiss was tender at first, a soft merging of two souls that had longed for this moment from lingering touches, shoulders brushing, eyes that would find each other, and the simple presence of one another in day-to-day lives.

It grew warmer, more certain, as if every moment spent apart had built to this quiet, perfect union.

When you slowly pulled away, barely breaking the contact, Jason’s eyes darkened with a raw, aching need.

His breath hitched as he reached up, gently cupping your cheek, his voice trembling with longing.

“Please.”

He whispered, his tone desperate yet tender.

“Don’t stop,” he whispered against your lips, his voice raw and desperate. “I’ve waited so long for this— for you.”

You could see the hunger in his eyes, the way his entire being seemed to lean into that single word.

Your heart tightened at the sight of his vulnerability— the knight who had always stood strong now unguarded before you, breaking down from the simple pull.

Without hesitation, you closed the small space between you once more, your lips meeting him in a kiss that was softer this time, but no less full of promise and an addiction that you couldn't find yourself to stop.

His other hand tangled itself in the fabric of your dress, fingers gripping tightly as if afraid you might drift away.

And in that breath, your heart ached with a quiet, unbearable longing.

You wished with every part of yourself that Jason was the one you were meant to wed.

You wished the white gown you would wear on your wedding day is for the man in front of you.

You wished you weren’t a princess with a duty to protect your own kingdom.

You wished you had been a commoner girl that Jason happened to meet in town and fallen in love without any expectations of a princess and a knight.

But the weight of the world pressed down on you both, and the impossible truth lingered between your trembling hearts like a fragile, bittersweet shadow.

And, so you wished the world had not been so cruel to ignite a fire between your hearts, a flame that burned too brightly and too fiercely, only to fade quietly in the shadows of what could never be.

A love born in stolen moments and silent rebellion, destined to remain unclaimed, for he was no longer a protector of the inherited crown.

a/n: did I cook or DID I COOK? 👩‍🍳 I’m not dead, yall. LMFAOO I actually cried when I made the ending of this, because the pure imagery in my head and the plans I have for part 2. Sigh. I already said it, but there will be a HAPPY ENDING. though there’s a bit of angst, lol. I’m actually really proud of this, I had started this like…. Last month? But never got the motivation until now, so I hope it was up to your satisfaction!!! Please like, comment, and reblog!!! I would appreciate to hear everyone’s thoughts on this piece of work. And lmk if yall want to be tagged for part 2!!

@t1mbits and thanks to MY GOAT!!! for listening to my ideas for this fic and giving me the motivation to FINISH THIS IDEA!! I hope this genuinely reached your expectation 🫶

🏷️ : @rorel1a @filmcamerasanddice and thank you guys for commenting on this idea and wanting this out!! I appreciate you guys!!

[shisuni]

ᯓ➤ your mom will make you soup later yeah?

← ʙᴀᴄᴋ. ⋮ ⌞ jason todd ✘ reader + platonic! damian wayne ✘ reader ⌝ .ᐟ .ᐟ

ৎׅ ׄ synopsis ⋮ Damian is too scared to go home like this, so Jason calls you to them. His home that makes good soup, his home with soft hands, his home that Damian is about to steal the heart of. word cnt. 9.6k

aka ›››› "Father...?" "Yeah bud?" Jason replies so casually you want to strangle him.

To say Jason was pissed didn’t even begin to cover it. The anger sat low and molten in his chest, a constant burn he couldn’t shake no matter how carefully he replayed the night in his head.

The mission was supposed to be nothing. A quick, forgettable errand before something that actually mattered. Before you. He’d timed it down to the minute, even swallowed his pride long enough to loop Bruce in, asking—reluctantly, irritably—for advice on evidence collection. In and out. Clean. Efficient. Four hours, max.

He’d planned it like a promise.

Seven o’clock: cuffs, charges, done.

Eight: showered, blood washed from his hands, the city scrubbed off his skin.

Nine: knocking on your door, pretending he hadn’t been counting down the hours since morning.

Damian hadn’t factored into any of it.

That was the problem.

Jason could have handled anyone else. He always did. Dick would’ve laughed it off later, bruised and dramatic. Tim would’ve brushed past it with that tight little smile, already turning the pain into data, into something useful he could throw back at Jason. Jason could’ve dumped either of them back at the warhouse—bloody, scowling, alive—and walked away without looking back.

But Damian—

Damian is a kid.

And that truth claws at him now, sharp and relentless. Because this time, the weight doesn’t slide off his shoulders. It settles. It presses down until his ribs ache with it. A kid got hurt, and Jason was there, and suddenly the mission isn’t clean anymore. It isn’t forgettable. It follows him, sticky and stubborn, refusing to wash away.

He drags a hand over his face, exhales hard through his teeth, and thinks of you—how he was supposed to be with you right now, how you were supposed to be the thing that grounded him at the end of the night.

Instead, he’s left standing in the wreckage, anger curdling into something uglier.

Guilt.

And Jason hates that most of all.

And now he’s fumbling with his cracked phone, thumb slipping against the spiderwebbed glass as Damian Wayne clings to his back, breath coming shorter, rougher by the second. The kid’s forehead presses into Jason’s shoulder, voice thin and stubborn even as his grip tightens.

“Not the manor,” Damian mutters. Again. Like a plea. Like a command. “Not the manor.”

Jason clenches his jaw.

He wants to grab the kid by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. Wants to sit him down, shove him into a metaphorical time-out until he’s Bruce’s age and then go find Bruce himself and shove him into the same corner for good measure. Wants to scream about contingency plans and backup and the fact that he thought he agreed that children should not be bleeding in alleyways while pretending they’re indestructible. How the fuck did he get past the security system?

Instead, he exhales sharply through his nose.

“Screw you,” Jason huffs, shifting his grip, hooking his arms under Damian’s knees and hauling him higher, more secure against his back. The kid’s weight settles there—too light, too fragile for someone who carries a sword like it’s an extension of his spine. “You’re going home. Fuck—do you know how much trouble you’re in, kid?”

Damian doesn’t answer. Just breathes. Too fast. Too shallow.

The night bites at them, cold even by Gotham’s standards. An ugly, cutting wind snakes through the alley, carrying smog thick enough to taste, clinging to the back of Jason’s throat. The city feels especially mean tonight, all sharp edges and dim lights, like it’s watching to see what breaks first.

They’re wedged between a burger joint and a narrow antique shop—the kind that smells like dust and old paper and forgotten things. Jason recognizes it with a jolt of something unwanted. One of the places you dragged him into after a date night once, all soft laughter and teasing commentary about cursed objects and ugly lamps. He shoves the memory away before it can root itself.

Now he’s crouched between two dented dumpsters, knees protesting, Damian pressed against his back, and his phone trembling slightly in his hand. The screen flickers when he taps it, the crack splitting light in the worst possible way.

Jason swallows, anger buzzing beneath his skin, tangled tight with fear he refuses to name.

He doesn’t drop Damian.

He never would.

But God—he’s going to have words for Bruce.There are no trackers. Not on either of them. Nothing Oracle can latch onto, no quiet safety net humming in the background. For one, Barbara was never looped in—this wasn’t supposed to be that kind of mission. For another, Jason and Damian had both taken the same unspoken ‘precaution’, stripping themselves clean of anything the family could use to find them.

Independence, they’d called it. Control.

Now it just feels like a mistake.

“Your either going to B or you’re going to Dick,” Jason hisses, the words sharp as he adjusts his footing. The stench of stagnant alley water crawls up his nose, mixing with the copper tang of Damian’s blood until it makes his stomach roll.

“No— no, no, Dick.” Damian’s protest is weaker than it was about Bruce, but the conviction is still there, stubborn even as his voice slips, fraying at the edges.

Jason stops short. “What the fuck is your problem now?”

“Father will know,” Damian coughs, the sound wet and wrong. “If I go to Dick.”

The words land heavier than Jason expects.

He tightens his grip without thinking, fingers curling beneath Damian’s knees, anchoring him there. Of course Bruce would know. Of course it would get back to him, echo through the manor halls, sharpened into disappointment and anger and whatever passes for concern in that family.

Jason exhales through his teeth, staring down at the glowing fracture in his phone screen.

Great.

Jason is two seconds away from popping a blood vessel.

From yelling at the kid that this is his own damn fault for following him in the first place. From telling him he’s dragging him—by the ankle if he has to—straight to Dick and Kori’s apartment whether he likes it or not. From letting the fear burn off into something loud and ugly and easier to carry.

And then—

“Father will be angry.”

Damian’s voice comes out small. Not sharp. Not defiant. Just… thin. Frayed.

“I— not today,” he whispers, breath hitching. “Just— just leave me here. I’ll find a drugstore in the morning and—”

Whatever argument Damian is trying to build collapses before it reaches Jason. The words blur together, fading into static.

Father will be angry.

Jason freezes. Because that’s it, isn’t it? Not the pain. Not the blood soaking through Damian’s clothes. Not the fact that his breathing is still wrong, still too shallow. It’s that disappointment—Bruce’s particular brand of it, sharp-edged and suffocating, wrapped in concern that feels a lot like judgment.

The kid would rather bleed out in an alley than face it

Jason swallows hard, throat tight, hands curling reflexively where they hold Damian in place. The anger drains out of him all at once, leaving something heavier behind.

Yeah, he thinks grimly.

Yeah. He would too.

And that realization settles deep in his chest, ugly and familiar, as the city hums on around them like it doesn’t care at all.

Damian’s argument cuts off abruptly when Jason lets out a long, frustrated groan, scrubbing a hand down his face.

“Fuck—my phone’s broken,” he mutters, staring at the shattered screen like it personally betrayed him. “Couldn’t—god, you’re fucking annoying. I can’t even take you to Dick if I wanted to.”

The lie stutters where it leaves his mouth, uneven and rushed, but Damian’s already too far gone to catch it. His weight slumps heavier against Jason’s back, breath hitching once, twice.

“You better be—” Jason swallows, jaw tightening. “Fuck. You better not say a damn word to her. You got that?”

There’s no answer.

Damian goes limp, consciousness slipping away before the warning can reach him. Jason feels it immediately—the shift, the sudden dead weight—and his heart kicks hard against his ribs.

“Shit,” he breathes, softer now.

The alley feels colder. Narrower. Like it’s closing in.

Jason shifts his grip, careful now, but every movement sets fire through his muscles, tendon and bone screaming in protest. The anger is gone, replaced by something sharper, something primal—a protective rage that doesn’t care about pride, or rules, or consequences. Only survival.

He hauls himself up the side of the antique shop, scraping against rough brick, the ache in his left leg a screaming reminder of the bullet that tore through him. Blood seeps past the torn fabric of his pants, warm and sticky against the cold bite of the night. Fantastic. Perfect. Wonderful.

A few blocks later, he reaches a rooftop and finds the water tower looming like a dead sentinel. He collapses on his side against it, letting the world tilt and sway around him. Damian is still draped across his back, pale and trembling, a thin line of blood seeping from a cut near his temple, matting strands of hair to his forehead.

Jason lowers him into his lap, careful but clumsy, hands slick with his own blood and Damian’s, pressing him against his chest to stop him from sliding off. He peels off his jacket and wraps it around the kid, ignoring the wet patches that cling like a second skin. His cape already wraps around him, but the darkness has its own weight, and Jason tucks the jacket over Damian’s small frame wherever the fabric of the cape won’t reach, shielding him from the cold—but unable to shield him from the horror still clinging to them both.

The city smells of smoke and rot tonight, alleyway blood and smog curling up through the night air. Every distant siren, every echoing footstep feels like it’s coming for them, and Jason presses his forehead against the top of Damian’s hair, whispering words he doesn’t trust to carry weight. 

Safe, he tells him. For now, you’re safe.

And yet, beneath it all, the taste of iron is on his tongue, and he knows—knows—that the night isn’t finished with them yet.

Jason pulls his phone out with hands that tremble just enough to make the cracked screen wobble under his grip. Each movement feels jagged, raw, as though the cold has leeched into his bones, sharpening every ache, every burn in his muscles. He positions the phone near his ear, thumb hovering over your name.

“Pick up… pick up… pick up…” he mumbles, each repetition ragged, desperate, a whisper swallowed by the bitter wind that curls under his helmet. The chill isn’t just outside—it snakes through the lining of his armor, seeps into his chest, into his fingers, into the taut, coiled terror of his gut.

Every second stretches, unbearable. The night presses in from all sides, black and cold and smelling faintly of iron and smoke. He can feel Damian’s small weight against him, limp and bleeding, the blood warm but thin beneath his hands, and the city hums like a predator circling, waiting.

Jason bites back a curse, pressing the phone closer, willing it to connect. Pick up, pick up, pick up.

Because if you don’t answer… he doesn’t even want to think what comes next. He has only expired antiseptic and old and opened gauze that is probably half of Damian’s age. His apartment doesn’t even have heating. It works for him but he doubts it’s what the kid needs right now.

So he breaks his rule to never contact you when he’s hurt.

The ringing stops.

“…Jason.”

Fuck. You sound mad. You should be. He was supposed to pick you up five hours ago, roses in hand, pretending the world hadn’t tired to chew him up first.

“I— I’m sorry,” he blurts, the words tumbling over each other. “I need— I can’t walk, babe—”

He hears movement immediately, fabric shifting, something clattering as you scramble to your feet. “Hey—what—where are you? Jason, what’s wrong?”

“I need blankets. Water—” His gaze drops to Damian, slack and frighteningly still in his lap, blood darkening the fabric beneath him. Jason’s voice accelerates, tripping over itself until his throat burns. “Medical supplies. A heater, maybe? There should be an outlet up—”

“Jason—”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he repeats, the apology coming apart at the seams. “I can’t go into a drugstore like this with the kid, anyone could be there and—and they could— I don’t know—do something? I could fight back but— but I don’t want him hurt more in a tumble and I can’t just leave him here to get supplies so—”

“JASON!”

Your voice cracks through the night like a gunshot.

He jerks, yanking the phone away from his helmet, wincing as the sound rings through his skull. The city seems to pause with him—sirens distant, wind howling low, Gotham holding its breath.

“Send me your location!” you snap, sharp and steady and terrifyingly competent.

Jason swallows, chest heaving, fingers slick as they fumble across the screen. Relief hits him so hard it almost makes him dizzy. He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t apologize again.

He sends it.

And then he looks back down at Damian, tightening his grip just a little, bracing himself against the water tower as the cold creeps closer—counting every second until you arrive, because right now, you’re the only thing standing between them and the night swallowing them whole.

“How—how bad is he hurt?” Your voice comes out smaller than you mean it to, fraying at the edges. “Is it—wait, is it Tim or Damian—”

There’s a pause, thin and awful, stretching just long enough for your stomach to drop.

“I need to know if I’m buying painkillers since they make adult and kid—”

“It’s Damian,” Jason exhales into the line, the sound tired and wrecked and heavy with things he isn’t saying. “It’s the kid.”

Your breath catches.

You’ve never even spoken to Damian before. Not once. He’s always been a name—sharp-edged and distant, orbiting Jason’s life like something dangerous and untouchable. Tim, at least, is familiar in passing: the accidental mall run-in, Stephanie’s laughter, Cassandra’s quiet smile, Jason trying—and failing—to tug you into a store like proximity alone might shield you from the madness of his family. Dick you met once, briefly, waiting outside Wayne Manor, polite and warm and watching Jason like he was something fragile.

But Damian—

Damian is a child you don’t know, bleeding somewhere in Gotham’s dark, clutched in Jason’s arms.

“Oh,” you whisper, the word hollow. “Okay.”

You don’t ask why. You don’t ask how this happened. There will be time for that later—when the night isn’t pressing in, when no one’s breath is shallow and wrong.

“Stay with him,” you say instead, steadier now, resolve snapping into place like a blade locking open. “Don’t let him fall asleep if you can help it. I’m on my way.”

Jason closes his eyes at that, forehead tipping briefly against the cool metal of the water tower. The city groans beneath them, sounds of people bleeding into the distance, but your voice cuts through it all—real, solid, terrifying in its calm.

“He’s already unconscious,” Jason says, voice flat, distant, like he’s reading it off a report instead of holding a bleeding kid together with sheer stubbornness. “But he won’t die. Won’t have any major injuries either.”

There’s a beat of silence on the line.

“…Jason,” you hiss, sharp and furious, and for a second he thinks—dimly—that if laughing wouldn’t crack his ribs clean through, he might’ve tried.

“Honey,” he answers instead, soft and stupid and dopey, because his head feels like it’s splitting open and the world keeps tilting sideways.

And somehow—somehow—you still melt at that. He can hear it in the way your breath stutters, the way the anger doesn’t quite stick. Maybe that means he’s not a lost cause yet.

“…How bad are you?”

Jason drops his gaze to his leg. To the two bullet wounds, ugly and swollen. To the slash at his knee, raw and half-congealed. He’s still using that leg to brace Damian in his lap, muscles screaming every second he asks them to hold.

“I’m okay.”

“Jason.”

He hears it then—the click of a car door, the rush of movement, your breathing going too fast, too tight. For a second, the thought of your fear scares him more than the blood.

“I’ll be okay,” he repeats, quieter now. He sets the phone down beside him and fumbles with the clasps of his helmet, fingers clumsy and slick. When it comes free, the Gotham night slams into his skin, cold and wet and real. He hesitates only a second before lowering it over Damian’s head instead—too big, swallowing his small face whole, ridiculous and wrong and necessary all at once if it means shielding him from the cold slightly better then the kid’s hood could do.

“I just need ya to kiss the boo-boo,” he adds weakly, because deflection is easier than admitting how bad it hurts.

“I hate you,” you say, exasperation thick in your voice, edged with fear.

Jason smiles.

Then winces immediately, sharp pain blooming across his mouth. He lifts a hand, comes away with red. Ah. Right. Of course.

“Give me twenty,” you snap, and now he can hear the engine, the unmistakable sound of you driving like the city owes you something. “We are not doing this on a rooftop. Stay on the line.”

Jason leans back against the water tower, exhales slow and shaky, and tightens his hold on Damian just a fraction more.

Twenty minutes.

He can do twenty minutes.

“What if someone breaks into the car?” he asks, the words slipping out before he can stop them. He lets his temple rest against the cool metal of the water tower, the chill seeping into his skull like a weak attempt at relief.

“You have a gun,” your voice cuts back immediately, sharp and unyielding. “Use it.”

The blunt certainty in your tone lands harder than reassurance ever could.

Jason huffs out something like a laugh, breath scraping. Yeah. Right. Of course he does. He adjusts his grip on Damian, fingers tightening reflexively.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, eyes sliding shut for half a second. “Yeah. I know.”

The city groans beneath them, distant and uncaring, but your voice stays in his ear—firm, present, real—keeping him upright when his body is more than ready to fold.

“Mm… sorry about our date,” he murmurs after a moment, the words slow and slurred at the edges, half apology, half anchor—something to keep himself awake, to keep the dark from creeping in too close.

“You should be,” you answer after a beat. Softer now. The edge dulled, worn down by worry.

“I— I’ll take you to the botanical garden?” he offers, grasping for normalcy like it’s a lifeline.

There’s a pause.

“The last one you took me to, they had litteral poison ivy next to the lilies because the tulips died and that was all they had.”

“She was hiding from Catwoman,” Jason says, forcing the joke out past the ache in his jaw, past the copper taste pooling in his mouth. “G-Get it? Cuz Poison Ivy? You know the villain and…cats and…”

“Jason.”

The joke doesn't land.

“Babe…” he starts, slow and heavy, like each syllable has to be dragged up from somewhere deep in his chest. “I— I think I’m gonna take a nap, okay?”

“Jason—” Your voice cuts in immediately, sharp now, edged with panic. “Hey—no. Stay awake.”

“Just… just a quick one,” he murmurs, eyelids fluttering despite himself. The city feels distant, muffled, like he’s sinking underwater with every breath. Damian’s weight in his lap is warm and real, but even that is starting to blur at the edges.

“Jason?” you say again, louder this time. “Hey—Jason!”

He tries to answer. He really does. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out. His tongue feels thick, useless. His head slips further against the cold metal, the chill no longer biting—just dull, just quiet.

“Jason!” you shout, his name breaking over the line, fractured and scared.

The phone slips slightly against the rooftop concrete, your voice echoing tinny and distorted through the speaker as the night closes in. Jason exhales, long and shallow, and lets his eyes fall shut—not because he wants to, but because his body finally stops asking his permission.

–

Your fingers are brushing blood from his brow by the time Jason drifts back into something like awareness. Consciousness comes in pieces—warmth first, then sound, then the steady hum of an engine fighting the cold. His body aches in places he hasn’t catalogued yet, but he’s not on a rooftop anymore.

That’s something.

The car is parked crooked in some narrow alley, illegally close to a dumpster, the heater blasting like it’s trying to resurrect him through sheer spite. The passenger seat is laid all the way back, giving him just enough room to exist without hurting worse. Every breath fogs faintly in the air before the heat catches up.

Damian is in the back seat.

Jason’s eyes slide toward him slowly. The kid’s bundled in lightweight throw blankets—yours, he realizes dimly—the kind that usually live folded over the arm of your couch. Clean bandages peek out where blood used to be. You must’ve patched him up somewhere in the blur between panic and movement, hands steady even when your heart clearly wasn’t.

The back seat light is on. Just one.

It casts a soft glow over your face, turns your eyes glassy, makes your skin look unreal and warm in the dim car. Jason smiles, stupid and unguarded, because even through half-lidded vision and a pounding skull, you look perfect.

“Prince Charming saved me,” he murmurs.

You sniff.

It’s small. Broken.

Oh.

You’re crying.

Jason’s brows knit together slowly as he notices the way your hand shakes, the way you dab gently at the corner of his mouth, wiping away blood like it offends you personally. Your thumb trembles, betraying everything you’ve been holding in since you heard his voice crack through the phone.

“Idiot,” you whisper, voice thick.

Jason exhales something close to a laugh, then thinks better of it. He reaches—slow, clumsy—and lets his fingers curl weakly around your wrist, grounding himself there.

“Hey,” he mutters, softer now. “I’m okay. You're okay.”

It’s a lie.

But you’re here. Damian’s breathing. The heater’s on. And for the first time tonight, the fear loosens its grip just enough for him to stay awake.

“He’s so tiny,” you whisper, the words barely louder than the hum of the engine. The alley presses in around the car—brick walls slick with old rain, shadows pooling thick and oily where the streetlight can’t quite reach. Somewhere nearby, water drips steadily, each plink echoing like a countdown. “Who would do that to a baby?”

Jason doesn’t respond how that ‘baby’ almost put those men six feet under if they even landed one hit. Torture to the line of honoring Bruce’s wishes to not kill. That honoring of Bruce’s wish is the only reason that ‘baby’ is passed out right now.

“He’s okay,” Jason says softly instead. His head rings like it’s been struck with a bell, sound warping at the edges. He shifts slightly and pain lances up his leg, bright and nauseating. The bandages you wrapped are already blooming dark again—blood seeping through in slow, stubborn stains. Beneath them, his flesh aches where bullets tore through muscle, where you dug metal out with shaking hands and grim determination. There’s a deep, angry slash at his knee too, stitched tight but swollen and raw, skin pulled red and uneven like it might split if he moves wrong. Much better stitching than he’s ever done on himself.

Jason glances down, jaw tightening. “You got the bullets out,” he murmurs, half impressed, half stunned. “Didn’t think you’d be so good at that.”

“I’m dating you,” you say quietly. “Gotta be.”

Your voice sounds scraped raw, like the alley itself has clawed at it. Jason’s chest tightens when he realizes—again—that you’ve been crying this whole time. Not loud. Not hysterical. Just silently falling apart while you worked, while the dark watched.

“…He’s patched up fully?” Jason squints as a flicker from outside—the passing headlights of some distant car—cuts through the windshield, making his skull throb. The alley smells like rust, oil, and old blood that doesn’t belong to him, it seeps into the car even as your car freshener tries to fight it. “How long was I out?”

You swallow. The sound is loud in the confined space.

“An hour and forty-two minutes,” you say softly.

The number settles between you like something alive.

Jason exhales, slow and shaky, the sound rattling in his chest. Too long. Long enough for the alley to feel like it could have swallowed all three of you whole. Long enough for the blood to cool and the fear to sink its teeth in.

Said exact enough that he knows he’s going to owe you for a life time.

“Do you need help with him?” Jason asks gently.

You shake your head on instinct, shoulders tightening, but Jason is already moving—gritting through it as he forces his body to turn, muscles screaming, wounds pulling wet and hot beneath the bandages.

“Jason, I said no—”

“I’m here,” he cuts in, voice low, deliberate, stripped of humor. He’s breathing harder now, jaw clenched, but his tone stays careful, steady. “I can help. Just tell me what to do.”

You stare at him.

The car feels impossibly small, the alley outside pressing close like it’s listening. The heater rattles softly, fighting the cold that seeps in through rusted metal and cracked seals. Somewhere beyond the brick walls, something skitters loudly—rats, maybe. Or just the city settling around its secrets.

Your eyes shine in the dim backseat light, tears gathered but not falling, and Jason hates that look more than any gunshot wound. He’d take another bullet before seeing it again.

Your gaze shifts—not to him, but to Damian. Like the kid is safer to talk to. Like if you speak toward him, your voice won’t break.

“…I patched him up as best as I could,” you say quietly. “It was… a lot of blood loss.” Your throat tightens. “He has a fever. We—I need to buy medicine. I didn’t go to the drugstore. Once you passed out, I just… I came straight to your location, so—”

Jason nods once, rough and immediate, cutting you off before the guilt can finish forming.

“I’ll go.”

The words are simple. Certain.

Your body snaps toward him so fast it’s almost violent. Fear flashes across your face, sharp and immediate, like you’ve just watched him step back toward a cliff’s edge. Jason can feel blood sliding warm down his leg again where the bandage’s loosened, can feel the deep ache in his ribs grinding with every breath—but none of that matters.

He’s already reaching for the door.

“Are you an idiot?!”

Your hands snap up to grab his shoulders before you can stop yourself, and Jason lets out a sharp groan, pain flaring bright and nauseating. Immediately, you recoil—hands flying away like you’ve been burned—only to settle again at his sides, grip gentler now but no less firm.

“You can barely walk,” you hiss.

“I’ll be fine,” Jason grunts, breath hitching as he steadies himself. “The kid— the damn brat needs the fever gone by morning or B is gonna—”

“I will kill Bruce Wayne myself if he is the reason you’re getting up right now,” you snap, voice low and lethal as you tug uselessly at him.

Jason actually pauses at that.

Raises a brow. Even now. Even bleeding.

“You think you can kill Bruce Wayne?”

“I have two of his bleeding sons hostage,” you say plainly, pinching hard at his side until he jerks and lets out a small, involuntary, “Ouch—!” “What do you think?”

Despite everything, something like a breathy laugh escapes him—cuts off immediately when his ribs protest.

“Look—” Jason starts, slower now, choosing his words carefully. “The… the kid doesn’t want Bruce to be mad at him.” His jaw tightens. “So it’s best we at least try to get him back to something normal by tomorrow morning. So B doesn’t notice.”

The alley outside seems to lean closer at that, darkness pressing against the windows like it’s listening. Damian shifts faintly in the back seat, blankets rustling, a small sound slipping from his throat.

Jason’s hand curls against the door frame, knuckles white. Blood seeps again through the bandage at his thigh, slow and inevitable, but his eyes stay fixed on Damian in the rearview mirror.

“This isn’t about me,” he adds quietly, glancing back at you. “I…I don't want the kid to be scared to go home.”

“You—” You start, then stop, exhaling hard through your nose. Because this is how all of Jason’s worst ideas are born—not from recklessness, but from care twisted into something self-sacrificial and stupid. You still try, though. You always do. “Why can’t I go?”

Jason’s smile is stiff, pulled tight at the edges like it hurts to hold. “Babe, I— I’d rather have you in a locked car where you’re safe,” he says gently. “Not out in Gotham at three in the morning.”

You scoff, sharp and disbelieving. “I can protect myself. I dragged you and Damian off a fucking water tower.”

“I know…” Jason murmurs, nodding even though the motion makes his face pinch, pain flaring behind his eyes. “But that was when I was unconscious.” He pauses, breath shallow. “And I wasn’t able to worry about you.”

The words settle heavy between you.

Outside, the alley exhales—trash shifting, a distant siren wailing and then cutting off too abruptly. The shadows beyond the windshield feel thick, hungry. Gotham at its most honest.

Jason looks at you then. Really looks. Like he’s committing your face to memory in case this is the last quiet moment he gets. His voice drops, rough around the edges.

“If something happened to you while I was awake,” Jason continues, slowly, like he thinks it sounds stupid but says anyways. “I wouldn’t survive it.”

Not the night. Not the guilt. Not himself.

The heater hums on, Damian breathes softly in the back seat, fevered and alive. You stare at Jason, jaw tight, eyes shining again despite your best efforts.

He reaches for one of the guns you left on the driver’s seat—careful, deliberate, like his hands don’t entirely trust themselves anymore. The keys are still in the ignition. You’re in the back seat. Another reason he doesn’t exactly trust you loose in Gotham at two in the morning, because what the fuck, babe. Yeah—leave guns in a car with the key in and drivers seat empty.

Jason moves slowly, almost hunched as he opens the door, the cold knifing in immediately. His leg protests viciously when he puts weight on it, blood tugging warm and sticky beneath the bandage. Jason locks his jaw, breathes through his teeth, and forces himself upright anyway.

Before he closes the door, he turns his head just enough to look back at you. His neck is stiff, movement jerky—like it still remembers the way it hung uselessly while he was out cold.

“Just medicine?” he asks, voice low, roughened by pain and exhaustion.

“And more gauze if you can,” you reply softly. You don’t raise your voice. You don’t rush him. Like you’re afraid sudden sound might shatter him. “And get a change of clothes if they have any… I know that store. It’s full of random shit.” A beat. “Buy some soup from the 24/7 place next to it.”

Jason nods once, committing the list to memory. Antibiotics. Fever reducers. Gauze. Clothes. Soup. Simple things. Normal things. Things that feel unreal against the blood still crusted under his nails.

“I’ll be quick,” he says, though neither of you believe it.

The door closes with a soft, final thud. The lock clicks.

You watch through the window as he limps away into the alley, silhouette swallowed piece by piece by shadow. The brick walls loom tall and damp, graffiti bleeding into darkness, trash bags shifting in the wind like something breathing. A flickering streetlight buzzes overhead, casting Jason in and out of existence as he goes.

He keeps one hand near the gun. Keeps the other tight against his side, pressing where it hurts the worst.

Behind you, Damian stirs faintly, fevered breath fogging the blanket.

Ahead of you, Gotham opens its mouth.

And Jason steps into it anyway.

You watch him disappear into the alley, figure swallowed by shadow, then slowly shift your gaze to Damian’s sleeping form. His chest rises and falls unevenly, breaths shallow and rattled. You murmur softly, almost to yourself, “I guess it’s just you and me now, huh, bud? This wasn’t exactly how I thought I’d meet you.”

The boy stirs, a faint twitch in his head, eyelids flickering, as if the pain in his sleep is clawing at him from the inside. You let out a quiet sigh and reach to lower the window, the cold biting your fingers even through the glove. Carefully, you lift Damian’s small body, resting his head outside the frame. His brow scrunches at the chill, but your hands move quickly, smoothing and adjusting, trying to steal comfort from the night itself.

You had two thermoses of hot water with you. Even cooled slightly, steam curls upward in lazy spirals as you unscrew the lid. One hand steadies the boy; the other pours, careful not to scald, letting the warmth seep into his hair. Dirt, grime, and streaks of blood run down in small rivulets, slipping through your fingers like a cruel reminder of the alley’s violence.

And for the first time all night, Damian’s shoulders sag—not fully awake, not fully conscious, but somehow lighter. Relief seeps slowly into his small form as you run your fingers through the dark strands, gentle, deliberate, trying to scrub away the horror of the night with nothing more than warmth, water, and your touch.

“You’re so tiny,” you murmur again, in the dark, for what has to be the twentieth time that night.

Because he is. So small. Too small for burns across his ribs, too small for deep slashes on his arms. Too small for the cut on his lip, the scrape on his temple, the blood matted into his dark hair.

You hope whoever did this to him is dead. If not… this might be the first time in your life you actually encourage Jason to kill.

“So stupid,” you whisper softly, letting your wet fingers brush the blood from his brow. “So small and so stupid… who do you think you’re fighting, hm? Elmo? You think Joker is Elmo?”

Your voice is ridiculous. Maternal, soft, broken—but it’s the only thing you have that feels safe.

Maybe that’s why Damian’s eyes flicker open, just barely, through the haze of steam and heat you’ve conjured around him. They’re so slight you almost don’t notice—he doesn’t look conscious, not really.

Not until a soft, hoarse whisper escapes, barely audible over the faint hiss of the water and the heater.

“…Mother?”

The word lands in your chest like a punch you didn’t expect. Small, trembling, impossibly young. And you realize your heart has been holding its breath this entire night—and now it doesn’t know how to stop.

You don’t say anything. Nothing. Words feel wrong here—clumsy and insufficient. You don’t know this boy, and he doesn’t know you. And yet… if you were ten, alone, hurt, and cold, you would have called for your mother too.

Maybe that’s why your hands move almost on instinct. You snap the thermos closed, slide the window up, and gently lower him fully onto the back seat again. Carefully, like he might shatter, you settle on the floor of the car beside him. One hand tugs the blanket higher over his small frame, the other brushing his damp hair in slow, patient circles, using Jason’s jacket to dry it.

The alley outside presses against the glass, dark and hungry, but inside, it’s quiet. Only the heater hums. Only the distant thrum of the city filters in.

“Sleep…” you murmur, voice low, soft, steady. “You’re safe.”

“It’s not my fault,” Damian mutters, voice hoarse, eyelids fluttering as he finally closes them fully again. “…M… it’s all Todd’s fault.”

“I know,” you whisper, fingers brushing lightly over his brow, gentle and deliberate. “A true idiot he is.”

He exhales slowly, a tiny weight leaving his body, like he had been bracing to defend himself from more blame than the words could carry. “…M’not sorry,” he mumbles, stubborn even in exhaustion.

You can’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. What a brat. Of course this little boy is Jason’s brother. Who else could be like this?

“Sleep,” you murmur again, voice soft as velvet, wrapping around him like the blankets, like the warmth you’ve coaxed into him, trying to shield him from the dark waiting outside the car.

“Will… will you be here when I wake up?”

The words hang in the air, soft and fragile, and before you can even start to answer, Damian is asleep again—his breathing shallow but steady, chest rising and falling beneath the blanket.

You let yourself focus on something else, anything else, and continue to dry his hair, tracing the dark strands with the soft interior of Jason’s leather jacket. Each stroke is careful, slow, a small ritual to keep yourself from spinning.

Your arms ache from holding them, dragging them down from the roof. Your feet throb from the rush of movement, your head pounds from the fear. But your fingers can’t stop themselves, and they move over every feature like memorizing a map you’re terrified of losing.

Brows just like Jason’s, dark and expressive. The small bump along the bridge of his nose—you hesitate, heart tightening, because it’s swollen and red and he winces whenever your fingers graze it. You pray it’s not fractured, that he just took a hit there, that the world hasn’t carved him up any further.

His lashes are impossibly long, dark and silky, catching the dim glow of the backseat light in a way that makes you pinch your own face in envy, just like you do with Jason’s.

You trace every line that belongs to the love of your life—small echoes in Damian, the same stubborn, defiant, beautiful bloodline that somehow betrays the laws of adoption—because it’s the only thing keeping your body still, keeping you from spinning apart while you wait, counting the seconds until Jason comes back through the alley, bruised, bleeding, alive.

And you’re crying again after five minutes of silence.

Because your life is never this quiet. Not like this. No sirens bleeding through the walls, no voice in your ear, no weight shifting beside you. Just the low hum of the heater and the soft, fevered rhythm of a child’s breathing. Maybe the tears are your body’s way of filling the space—something small and controlled, something only you can hear. You keep them silent, careful, so gentle that Damian doesn’t even stir.

You’re not scared.

That surprises you, a little.

You knew what you were signing up for the moment you watched Jason fire a gun with such effortless precision it was almost disarming. The ease of it. The familiarity. The way violence sat on him like a second skin he never bothered to shrug off for you—only softened, reshaped, made gentler where he could.

You knew this life came with blood. With nights like this. With waiting.

So you cry anyway. Quietly. Practiced. Letting it leak out without letting it take you apart. Your fingers keep tracing Damian’s features, grounding yourself in something real and warm and breathing, while the alley presses close outside the car and Gotham holds its breath with you.

You wipe your face with the back of your hand, inhale slowly, and stay right where you are.

Waiting.

There’s a sharp knock on the window about twenty minutes later. You jump, heart hammering, and almost fly off the floor when you see Jason standing there, smiling stiffly despite the blood, sweat, and grime clinging to him. When you lean over the passenger seat, he gestures for you to open the door.

The moment you slide it open and help him inside, he crawls toward you, still unsteady, and presses a firm, grounding kiss to your forehead.

“There’s my Penelope,” he murmurs, voice rough but warm.

“I’m not waiting twenty years for your ass,” you whisper, voice cracking as he carefully wipes away the tears still streaking your cheeks. “You’re broke as fuck. At least Odysseus was a king.”

“Well…” Jason hums, brushing his lips across your cheek where he just wiped your tears, “the Gods made you stuck with me.”

You can’t help the small laugh that bubbles up through the tension and exhaustion. He’s bleeding, bruised, and exhausted beyond reason—and still somehow grounding you in the middle of the chaos, a tiny sun in a Gotham night that refuses to stay quiet.

The plastic bag full of supplies crinkles between you as you share a slow, lingering kiss, the sound pulling you both out of the moment. You break away, fumbling for the contents inside.

“Put on this hoodie,” you instruct, tossing it toward him.

Jason blinks, holding it awkwardly. “I bought this for you.”

You pause, staring at the fabric in his hands. “Baby… it’s a men’s large.”

“Is this… not the size you like?” he asks, genuinely confused.

You blink at him, letting your disbelief settle.

“You steal all of my hoodies that are this size,” he reminds you.

You snort, shaking your head. “Yeah, babe, because they’re yours. Wear it. Make it smell like you. Then I’ll wear it, hm? How about that?”

Jason opens his mouth to protest, but whatever argument he’s forming dies when he notices you reaching into the bag for the plastic container of soup. It’s not gourmet, but it’s hot and exactly what you need right now.

“Isn’t he still out?” Jason asks softly, glancing toward the back seat where Damian is bundled in your blankets and Jason’s jacket. His eyes flicker to the faint stains of blood on the fabric, and his chest tightens. Fuck. He’s going to have to buy you new ones. And a hundred more things you’ve patched together in this ridiculous, exhausting night.

“It’s not for him,” you say softly, popping open the center armrest box to fish out a packet of mild chilli oil and a tiny sesame seed packet from past fast food runs. One goes into the soup, along with the seeds for the vegetables. “I’ll make the kid real good soup at home. This? This is for you.”

Jason snorts, shaking his head, still leaning against the seatbelt. “Babe, it’s fine, I’m—”

You glare at him.

The first time all night.

Because of course. Of course you wouldn’t be mad at Jason for calling in the middle of the night, bloodied and panicked, after missing your date. Of course you wouldn’t be mad at him for passing out in the alley, forcing you to drag him and Damian down from a water tower with nothing but sheer will and a handful of blankets.

No. You’d only be mad if he refused to eat shitty soup.

“And don’t even think about saying no,” you hiss, poking him lightly with your elbow. “You will eat it. I don’t care. Otherwise, no sex for a month.”

Jason groans, but there’s a flicker of a smile, tired and bloody, as he finally takes the soup from you.

“Go to the back with Damian,” you murmur softly, eyes on the road. “I need to make sure the kid doesn’t roll off the seat—the seatbelt would hurt too much if I strapped him in.”

Jason nods, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before sliding into the backseat at the same time you crawl into the driver’s seat.

He settles carefully, broad back brushing against Damian’s small frame, right arm stretched to keep the boy from slipping, left hand cradling the soup bowl. Small sips escape his lips every now and then, careful, deliberate, like the weight of the night isn’t enough without this little ritual.

A few minutes in, Damian shifts, sliding until he’s resting fully against Jason. The older boy doesn’t move, doesn’t even flinch. He doesn’t mind. Not at all.

And then the little boy’s eyes flicker open again, hesitant, small. “Father…?”

Your hands tighten on the wheel. Heart pinching painfully, even as your eyes stay fixed on the road.

Jason, as usual, doesn’t care about shame. He leans a little closer, voice low, measured, coaxing the small flicker of life from Damian.

“Yeah, kiddo?”

“Why are you here?”

“Mm… always here,” Jason replies, and you notice the subtle change—the slow, deep cadence, the careful inflection he borrows, unintentionally echoing Bruce’s tone. “M’Batman. You’re my son.”

Damian blinks once, eyes heavy but curious, and for a fleeting heartbeat, the dark Gotham streets outside fade into quiet. The backseat becomes its own small world—blood, fear, and all.

“You’re… you’re warmer today,” Damian mutters softly, his voice matching his age for once.

“Yeah,” Jason shrugs, shifting slightly so he’s closer to where Damian’s head rests. Steam rises from the soup, curling around the boy’s face. “Probably the soup.”

“Did… did Mother cook that…? Can I have some?”

Jason glances down at the soup—bought with your card, warmed in a hastily scavenged container—and then at Damian. Talia wasn’t exactly known for her cooking. He suppresses a smirk, letting the boy take a small sip from the corner of the bowl. One hand steadies Damian’s neck, careful, protective.

A sharp cough escapes Damian as a streak of chili oil hits him wrong.

Jason glances toward you, catching your hands twitching at the steering wheel like you want to jump in and help.

The sight makes him smile, quiet and fond, even as the Gotham’s shadows press close outside the windows.

By the time the apartment building comes into view, Damian has fallen completely asleep against Jason. His small body is impossibly light, yet heavy in all the wrong ways—slumped, warm, limp against the older boy’s chest.

“I’ve got him,” Jason mutters automatically as you reach the car door, moving to help.

“No,” you cut him off sharply, eyes narrowing. “You’re not carrying him yourself.”

Jason frowns, just a fraction, confusion and pride clashing. “I can—he’s not that heavy.”

“Jason,” you snap, voice firm enough to make him pause, “your leg.”

He shifts slightly, the wound at his thigh protesting sharply. He swallows, eyes flicking to Damian’s sleeping face and back to you. “I can manage—”

“Nope. I’m helping. And you’re not arguing,” you insist, sliding your arms beneath Damian’s small torso and legs, careful not to jar the boy. His head lolls slightly against your shoulder, warm and soft, hair damp and smelling faintly of the soup and Jason’s jacket.

Jason groans, rubbing the back of his neck as he steps forward to help support Damian’s upper body, but you turn away to get him off. “You’re hurt. You need to let me do this.”

He huffs, half exasperated, half defeated, and lets you take the lead.

Together, you maneuver Damian securely on you, careful not to wake him. His small hands twitch in his sleep, one brushing lightly against Jason’s chest, and you notice the way the older boy stiffens, heart twisting with worry that the kid might stir.

Once you’re inside the apartment, you guide Damian carefully to the couch, laying him down beneath fresh blankets. Jason flops onto the floor beside the couch, groaning in pain as he stretches his leg out, still leaning close to Damian.

“See?” you murmur softly, brushing a strand of damp hair from the boy’s forehead. “Much easier when you’re not trying to kill yourself doing it.”

Jason mutters something under his breath, but there’s no bite to it—just the tired resignation of someone who’s been through too much in the last few hours and knows you’re right.

Damian shifts slightly in his sleep, a soft whimper escaping him, and both of you freeze, watching, hearts tight.

It shouldn't surprise Jason, the way you rush to the little boy's side and stroke his brow to get him to calm in his sleep. But it does. Because he's never seen someone able to care for Damian that easily.

“Okay,” you say after a long, careful minute of settling Damian, “you’re filthy. You need a bath before you pass out on the couch like some injured soldier in a cheap war movie.”

Jason groans, flopping back against the wall like the weight of the night is finally catching up to him. “Im…not that stinky.”

“No arguments,” you say, voice soft but firm. “You can’t stay like this. Your hair and skin is wet with puddle water that was on that rooftop. You’re going to freeze, you smell like alley and smoke and it might help your muscles stop aching so… no. Just get in the bath.”

He drags himself to the bathroom slowly, every movement careful, deliberate, like each step reminds him of the bullet holes in his leg, the ache in his ribs.

“Dont use my bodywash.” You whisper yell before Jason closes the door.

He does use your bodywash.

—----

Damian wakes while Jason is still in the tub, the sound of water muffled behind the closed door. His eyes flutter open, heavy and slow, but a familiar scent draws his attention immediately—a faint, soft sweetness clinging in the air, like perfume he vaguely recognizes, like a memory tugging at the edges of his mind.

His lips quiver involuntarily as he forces his eyes to focus, muscles stiff from sleep and fever. And there, in the dim glow of the lamp, they land on you.

You’re asleep on the coffee table, curled slightly, a precarious stack of books tucked under you as a makeshift pillow. The blanket you’d thrown over yourself barely covers the curve of your shoulders. Every breath you take is soft, measured, steady—a quiet, human rhythm that Damian realizes he’s been holding his own breath against for hours without noticing.

Then it hits him. Dumbly, slowly, as if the world outside could wait: You’re Jason’s.

The image clicks into place like a puzzle he hadn’t known he was assembling. The photo in Jason’s wallet—one that had fallen out after a mission, grabbed by Stephanie, tossed to Tim, and then laughed at mercilessly by all of them—your face had been there. Now, here you are. Real. Alive.

Damian’s gaze drifts to the small chaos surrounding you: a newly opened package of gauze, a tiny cup of fever medicine, half-empty and sitting just beside your hand. You must have given it to him while he was asleep. Every careful, impossible movement you made to tend to him without waking him floods through Damian’s mind, and for the first time that night, his tense body relaxes a fraction.

He shifts slightly on the sofa, still bundled in blankets and Jason’s jacket, staring at you with wide, dark eyes, his small chest rising and falling unevenly.

“She’s almost as good as Alfred,” Jason’s voice cuts through the quiet, and Damian’s head snaps toward the sound despite the ache in his neck. Every muscle tenses as he listens, wary but curious.

“Patched us up in no time,” Jason continues, wet hair plastered to his forehead, a towel wrapped around his waist, another in his hands as he methodically dries his hair. The casual ease of it makes the room feel warmer somehow, less like the chaos of the alley outside.

“Does—” Damian starts, his voice small and strained, throat catching unexpectedly, raw and fragile.

“Don’t talk,” Jason interrupts softly, a quiet authority threading through his words. His gaze flickers to Damian only for a fraction of a second before he leans down, careful and deliberate, and scoops you up from the coffee table. Your body is light in his arms, limp from exhaustion, and he moves like he’s balancing both a feather and a brick at the same time.

He lays you gently on the opposite end of the sofa from Damian, tucking the blankets around you with the precision of someone who has done this a thousand times, though this is the first time it’s been you.

“No one knows what happened,” Jason murmurs, voice low, almost intimate, as he straightens. “I texted B that you’re sleeping over at Jon’s.”

Damian blinks at him, the words and the quiet authority sinking in despite the fever and fatigue. His small chest rises and falls unevenly, shoulders slackening just a fraction as Jason steps back, towel in hand, keeping watch like a silent sentinel.

“Im not going to yell at you right now.” Jason says after a moment, grabbing a throw and tucking it around you. “Ill do it in the morning.”

Damian’s brows furrow in frustration, sharp and tiny, and Jason mirrors the expression instantly, leaning into it like a seasoned older brother that he isn't.

“Damian,” he says, voice low but firm, “you scared her half to death. You’re staying until morning and thanking her at the very least.”

“I didn’t ask her to do anything,” Damian hisses back, words brittle with fever and pride. “I told you to leave me there. You didn’t listen. That’s not my fault.”

Jason blinks at him, momentarily caught between exasperation and something softer, then mutters under his breath, moving toward the kitchen. “Kid… she cried her eyes out at the sight of you. You can think it’s dumb all you want, but I’m asking you to stay until morning so she at least gets the peace of knowing you’re okay.”

Damian’s small chest rises and falls, voice cracking despite the bravado. “I didn’t say it’s dumb.”

Jason pauses mid-step, eyebrows raising in mock surprise. “Oh? Really?”

“I said you’re dumb,” Damian snaps, words sharper than intended, honesty raw and jagged, fever and frustration threading through each syllable. “You could have spared her all of this if you just left me there like I asked. I get it. You love her, but this isn’t my fault—”

“I’m not blaming you for her, Damian!” Jason blurts, voice rising to be firm but still a whisper in fear of waking you. “I didn’t bring you here because she told me to, I brought you because—…”

There’s a long moment of silence, broken only by the quiet hum of the apartment and the faint rhythm of your breathing from the coffee table. Jason exhales, hanging his head and rubbing the back of his neck, voice tired.

“I’m going to make pasta,” he mutters, more to himself than anyone else.

“I hate pasta,” Damian whispers under his breath, small, resentful, almost pained.

“I know,” Jason grumbles without turning back, the scrape of his steps fading as he moves into the kitchen.

The apartment settles into a different kind of quiet. Damian’s gaze drifts back to you, to the way you’re sleeping, curled slightly on the coffee table beneath the thin throw blanket. Every blink, every soft inhale reminds him painfully of Talia—the same warmth, the same scent clinging faintly in his memory, the same question if hes even going to be able to feel this again in a day.

His small hands fidget with the blanket around him, tightening it slightly as if to anchor himself to something solid and human. The fever still weighs him down, every movement a little sharp, a little slow, but he can’t pull his eyes from you.

You blink your eyes open softly, and Damian almost jolts, caught off guard by the sudden warmth of your gaze. With the way Todd had been barking orders and how exhausted you looked last night, Damian had been sure you wouldn’t stir for hours.

“Damian,” you murmur gently, voice low and even, carrying the weight of calm and care.

“...Hello,” he replies, voice hoarse and small, pulling the blanket closer without thinking, as if the fabric alone could shield him from the world.

You study him in that way—the way his mother used to, scanning for bruises or scratches, checking for injuries with a practiced tenderness—and it tightens something in his chest. He flinches slightly, half-expecting the sharp reprimand he deserves for getting blood on your sofa, for all the chaos he’s caused.

Instead, your voice remains soft, elegant in a way he’s only ever glimpsed in Talia during rare quiet moments.

“Would you like me to make you some soup?” you ask, each word deliberate and gentle, a soft anchor in the dim apartment.

Damian hesitates, small, fevered fingers tightening around the blanket, eyes flicking between you and the sofa cushions. Something in the way you hold yourself—steady, patient, unshakably calm—makes him feel like it’s safe to nod, safe to accept, even if it’s just a little.

“…Yes,” he whispers finally, voice barely above a breath, and you can see him relax fractionally, the tension in his shoulders easing as the promise of warmth, of care, settles around him.

⤷ series masterlist

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