everything's growing in our garden
jason todd x wife! reader
synopsis: Jason comes back from patrol with a baby and soot in his hair. He never thought he deserved anything good, but you build something soft anyway.
words: 3.8k
warnings: crying baby. no use of y/n
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The building is coming down around him.
Smoke curls like claws through the stairwell, the air thick with heat and sirens and screaming — but none of it matters. Not really. Not since he heard the crying.
He kicks down the last door on the left. Inside: scorched drywall, a mattress half on fire, and—
There.
Curled in the corner like a forgotten blanket. No older than a few weeks, swaddled in soot, mouth open and wailing. Eyes wild. Reaching.
Jason doesn’t think. Doesn’t breathe.
Just moves.
He’s across the room in three steps. Drops to his knees. Checks the baby over with hands he can’t make stop shaking. No visible burns. Still breathing. Covered in ash.
The moment he lifts him, the baby latches onto his flak vest with tiny, furious fingers.
Won’t let go.
Jason’s heart punches his ribs.
"Hey, hey," he rasps, trying to make his voice gentle. “Got you. I got you.”
A beam groans above them. He doesn’t wait. Tugs his jacket off and wraps it around the baby like armor. One hand under the neck. One against his chest. Head down. Go.
Out the hall. Down the fire escape. Through the smoke.
The baby doesn’t cry anymore. Just holds on.
And Jason?
Jason runs like hell.
—
You are not expecting a baby tonight.
In fact, the only things on your to-do list are:
Recharge.
Hydrate.
Kiss your hot husband when he gets home from his nightly war on Gotham’s crime statistics.
You are currently achieving two out of three. Your AirPods hum low-fi jazz into your ears, and the cucumbers on your eyelids are starting to slip down your cheekbones. Somewhere across the apartment, your diffuser is puffing lavender-scented clouds into the air like a sleepy little train. You smell like a coconut-sugar candle and your nails are drying. Life is good.
You’re just starting to doze off when the window clicks open.
Of course. Jason never uses the damn door.
You expect the usual: a grunt, a dropped helmet, maybe a kiss pressed to your forehead before he stumbles into the shower.
Instead, what you get is smoke. Soot. A strangled cry.
You sit up.
Cucumber slices slide down your cheeks and onto your hoodie. One AirPod clatters to the couch cushion. Your husband is standing in the middle of the living room, soot-streaked and wide-eyed, holding a bundled shape in his arms like it might vanish if he so much as blinks.
You stare at him.
Then at the bundle.
Then at him again.
“…Jason,” you say slowly. “That is a baby.”
“I know,” he blurts. “I know. I just—I didn’t think, okay? I saw him and I—”
“Jason.”
He takes two steps forward, the bundle squirming weakly in his arms. There’s a tiny, high-pitched hiccup. The shape shifts and reveals a round, red-blotched face, mouth open in the start of another wail. Soot clings to chubby cheeks.
Jason looks wrecked. More than usual. Helmet hair, bruised, a tear down the seam of his jacket. His arms are trembling.
“There was a fire. A ring. The bastards were running kids out of Crime Alley and I—he was just there. Crying. Everyone else gone. And he grabbed me. Grabbed my glove like he wasn’t letting go, and I just—” His voice breaks. “I saw myself for a second. Just. I moved. I didn’t think. I couldn’t leave him.”
You blink. A slow breath leaves your lungs.
“Come here,” you say, voice soft.
Jason hesitates. “Sweetheart—”
“I said come here.”
He obeys, like he always does when your voice dips into that tone.
You reach for the baby.
Your fingers graze the edge of the jacket and pause. The baby’s eyes flutter up. Red, watery, still in panic mode, but he looks at you. Just for a second.
You smile. “Hi there,” you whisper, more breath than words.
And then, gently, you ease the baby out of Jason’s arms.
He goes without a fight. The baby whimpers, grabbing your shirt with one sooty fist, and tucks himself into your chest with the kind of blind trust that makes your throat ache.
You sway a little, automatically. Muscle memory from a life you never thought you’d need.
“You did the right thing,” you say.
Jason’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out. His chest rises like he’s about to sob and collapse all at once.
“Breathe, Jay,” you tell him. “In. Out. Again.”
He listens.
One breath. Then another. Then a shuddering sigh.
“I didn’t know what to do,” he whispers.
“You brought him home,” you say simply. “That’s what you did.”
He swallows.
“Go shower. You’re bleeding. You smell like fire.”
“I can help—”
“You will. But after you shower.”
Jason hesitates. “We don’t even have wipes or—”
“Are you kidding me? You’re the Red Hood. You own three brands of baby wipes. You said they’re the only thing that gets the powder residue off your guns.”
He squints. “You said you wouldn't make fun of that anymore”
“Go. Shower. We’ll be here.” Jason shoots you a grateful look and then turns to go to the washroom after promising the baby he’ll be back.
You settle onto the floor with the baby curled against your chest, sitting cross-legged by the coffee table like this is any other Tuesday night and not a total deviation from reality. Your fingers are already moving before your brain catches up, brushing soot from his forehead, rocking him in slow, instinctual sways.
He’s hiccuping. Sharp little spasms that jolt through his tiny body, each one punctuated by a shaky breath and a soft, broken sound from the back of his throat.
Your heart squeezes.
“Shhh,” you whisper, rocking a little more. “I know. I know, sweetheart. We’re gonna fix it, okay? You’re safe now.”
The baby wipes, Jason’s fancy, unscented ones, sit in the middle of the table like some cosmic joke. You grab them with one hand and ease the little boy into your lap with the other.
He blinks up at you, lashes crusted with ash, lips trembling. You think he’s trying to cry again, but he’s too tired. Instead, he lets out a low, wheezy whimper that turns into another hiccup, and you feel it all the way through you.
“I know,” you murmur. “Big day, huh?”
You unwrap Jason’s jacket that's been wrapped around the baby slowly, piece by piece. It’s warm from his body heat, and the baby makes a small sound of protest as the cooler air hits his skin.
“Oh, I know, I know,” you croon, voice going higher and softer without you meaning to. “Almost done. Let’s get you all cleaned up, little guy.”
What’s left of his onesie is charred at the edges, barely clinging to one shoulder. You tug at it carefully, apologizing every time the fabric catches. He doesn’t seem to notice. His hands are curled into little fists, still clutching invisible threads.
You grab the first wipe and start gently, his forehead, soft and warm, dotted with grime. You trace along his eyebrows, then sweep carefully down the bridge of his nose. Each stroke is featherlight, the kind you might use for glass.
He hiccups again, but it’s quieter this time.
“There you go,” you whisper. “See? Not so bad.”
You work your way down. Cheeks, chin, neck. There’s a smudge of blood near his ear that you clean with extra care. Not his, thankfully. His arms are sticky, tiny fingers coated in smoke and something that might have been applesauce at some point.
You talk the whole time.
Not because he understands, but because you need it. Because it keeps your hands steady. Because if this baby is going to live in your world now, then he deserves to hear words that are soft and steady and safe.
“You’re doing so good,” you say as you clean under his chin. “Brave little man. Bet you didn’t think you’d end up in a vigilante’s living room tonight, huh?”
He blinks, hiccups again. Then lets out a slow, shuddery sigh.
That’s the first time he really settles.
Not asleep, not yet. But no longer vibrating with fear. His hands uncoil a little. One of them smacks softly against your chest, fingers opening and closing. Grabbing. Seeking.
You let him wrap them around the drawstring of your hoodie.
“Got me?” you whisper. “Yeah. I’ve got you too.”
You work your way down to his belly, where there’s more ash than baby skin, and clean it in little circles. His legs twitch when you get to his feet. He lets out a hiccuping noise that might almost be a laugh.
You smile, watery and wide.
“Ticklish, huh? I’ll remember that.”
Once he’s clean, or as clean as he can be, you reach behind you for the towel you spotted earlier, fresh and fluffy from laundry day. You lay it out on your lap and ease him into it slowly, like wrapping a present made of porcelain.
He doesn’t cry. Doesn’t protest.
Just lets you fold the corners around him and pull him close.
You lift him again, now swaddled and warm and smelling like Jason’s baby wipes. His cheek presses to your shoulder. One final hiccup rattles out of him, soft and damp.
Then stillness.
You stroke a hand down his back and feel his breathing even out, the rhythm finally syncing with yours.
“See?” you whisper. “We’re okay.”
You hold him like that for a long time, rocking gently, chin resting atop his head. His grip on your hoodie string tightens once more, like he knows this is something new, something he doesn’t have a name for yet, but he wants to keep it.
You kiss the top of his head, right over a little fuzz of hair.
“Welcome to the world, baby boy,” you murmur. “Let’s make it better than the one you came from.”
You hear the bathroom door creak open before you see him. He appears in the doorway, soft footsteps, damp hair dripping onto his shirt, a slight limp that he’s trying (and failing) to hide. He’s in one of his plain black tees and a pair of sweats that hang low on his hips, clean for the first time in hours.
But he looks older.
Not just tired, aged. Like whatever he saw in that warehouse tonight carved something new into his bones. His shoulders are hunched. His hands tremble at his sides. He’s blinking too much, like the light hurts.
You don’t say anything. Not yet.
You’re still on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, and the baby, your baby now apparently, is curled into your chest, wrapped in the fluffy towel, finally calm. One chubby fist clings to your hoodie drawstring. His little mouth hangs open slightly, breath puffing soft and warm against your collarbone.
Jason sees the two of you and stops like he’s been gut-punched.
His mouth opens, but no sound comes out.
You meet his eyes.
“Well,” you say softly, “you missed bath time.”
He swallows. His voice, when it comes, is hoarse. “You look…natural.”
“Do not make a MILF joke right now,” you warn him.
His lip twitches. Not quite a smile. But almost.
He crosses the room slowly, barefoot and silent, and sinks onto the coffee table across from you, elbows on his knees. His eyes don’t leave the baby. You watch his fingers flex, twitch, then curl into fists against his thighs.
He’s still shaking.
You shift the baby slightly so he’s more visible. “He’s clean now,” you murmur. “Mostly soot. One scratch. Nothing serious.”
Jason nods, jaw clenched tight.
“Want to hold him?”
He blinks. “I—I’ll drop him.”
“No, you won’t.”
“I’m not—he’s so small. I don’t know what I’m doing.”
You look at him. Really look at him. The man who faced death a hundred times, the man who ran into fire tonight without flinching. He’s more afraid of this baby than he ever was of a bullet.
“You okay, Ma?” he asks, voice low.
“Jay,” you say gently. “Meet your son.”
Jason sucks in a breath.
You shift the baby carefully, transferring the little bundle into his arms. Jason’s muscles go taut. You guide his hands. One behind the neck. One under the towel. The baby stirs a little, but does not wake.
Jason just stares.
“Our son,” he says quietly. Then, softer, like it costs him something: “You’re already better at this than me, Ma.”
“Not a competition.”
“If it was, you’d be winning.”
You smile. “Let me know when you’re ready for diaper duty.”
He doesn’t laugh. His throat bobs.
“He held onto me,” Jason says. “When I picked him up. Like he was already used to me. Like he knew.”
“He probably did,” you reply. “You’re loud.”
“Sweetheart.”
You glance at him, lips twitching.
He looks back, eyes full of something you don’t have a name for, and murmurs, “You’re killing me here.”
You grin. “Good.”
He snorts, and the sound breaks something in both of you.
You pull a small notepad from the coffee table and hand it to him. Folded. Torn out with care. You made the list while he was in the shower, one-handed, with the baby hiccuping on your chest.
Jason takes it with one hand, still awkwardly cradling the baby in the other.
He unfolds it.
Formula (small can to test for allergies) Bottles (with the little slow-flow nipple things) Diapers (Get all from size newborn to size 3 just to be sure) Wipes (unscented, non-alcohol) Pacifier (whatever brand looks trustworthy) Blanket
He stares at it for a second.
Then he says, “You’re terrifying when you’re calm.”
“You said that already.”
“Still true.”
He glances up. “You sure you’ll be okay here?”
You raise a brow. “I just cleaned a crime scene off a one-month-old with gun wipes and wrapped him in a bath towel. I think I’ve earned your trust.”
Jason exhales, slow and shaky. He leans down, presses the gentlest kiss to the baby’s forehead. Then one to your temple.
“I’ll be back in ten,” he says, voice gruff. “Don’t let him grow up without me.”
“No promises,” you say, already pulling the baby back into your arms. “He’s learning fast. Got a strong grip.”
He grabs his keys and is halfway out the window before you call out, “Hey!”
He pauses.
“You’re doing good,” you tell him.
He looks over his shoulder, silhouetted by the streetlight behind him.
“Only ‘cause I’ve got you” he says.
Then he disappears into the night.
You look down at the baby, who is still fast asleep, tiny chest rising and falling like the most fragile promise.
“Well,” you whisper. “That went okay.”
The baby grunts.
You take that as agreement.
–
You and the baby were doing okay for a while.
After Jason left, you wrapped the baby a little tighter in the towel and curled up on the couch with him tucked against your chest. The apartment was warm, quiet, filled only with the soft hum of the fridge and the occasional rustle of the blanket nest you’d made. You could feel the baby’s little breaths on your collarbone: slow, sleepy, steady.
You thought maybe you’d both doze off.
But then he shifted.
Just a little.
His head tilted back, eyes blinking open. Still a little glazed from fatigue, but alert now. Searching.
And you watched him look around the room.
His gaze skipped past the shelves, the ceiling, the lamp. It wasn’t random. It wasn’t newborn twitchy nonsense. He was looking.
Your chest squeezed.
“Yeah,” you whispered, brushing a thumb along his cheek. “I miss him too.”
The baby let out a soft sound. Not quite a cry. Just a broken little whimper, like something in his tiny chest had snapped loose.
And then came the tears.
Big, hiccupy sobs, full of confusion and exhaustion and something too big for his little body to hold. His face scrunched. His fists clenched in the towel. He started wailing like his heart was breaking.
And somehow, that was the thing that undid you.
You tried. You really did. You held him, rocked him, whispered, “Shh, baby, shh, he’ll be back soon,” over and over again.
But your voice wobbled. Your throat tightened. And somewhere between one sob and the next, your own tears started falling.
You’re still crying when the window opens.
You don’t look up at first. You just whisper, “Jay?” like maybe you’ve imagined him, like maybe you’ve gone soft with shock and longing.
But then—
That’s when the window bangs open again.
You jump, clutching the baby tighter, but then—
“Sweetheart,” Jason breathes, breathless and wind-chapped and bag-laden, “I’m back. I got it all. I—holy shit, are you crying?”
“No,” you sniff, snuggling the baby closer. “We’re both crying.”
Jason’s face crumples. He’s across the room in two strides, bags thunking to the floor.
“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, crouching in front of you. “It was ten minutes. What happened?”
“He missed you,” you whisper, gesturing at the baby. “I missed you.”
Jason leans forward and kisses your forehead, your cheek, your temple, like he’s trying to seal the cracks. “I’m here now. Okay? You’re not doing this alone.”
The baby lets out one last watery squeak before going quiet, little fists still clinging to your hoodie strings like they’re lifelines.
Jason exhales hard. “Alright,” he says. “Let’s do this.”
He scoops the bags off the floor and starts unloading: bottles, formula, wipes, a six-pack of tiny diapers, a giraffe pacifier, and, somehow, a stuffed penguin wearing a bowtie.
“I panicked,” he says when you lift an eyebrow at the penguin. “He looked trustworthy.”
You laugh, a little teary still, and set the baby down gently on the blanket-nest you made on the couch. “Okay. You want bottle or diaper?”
Jason eyes the baby warily. “I’ll take diaper. Can’t mess that up too bad, right?”
You make a noise that is not confirmation and head to the kitchen to figure out formula.
Behind you, Jason crouches over the baby like he’s defusing a bomb. “Alright, little man. Let’s not make this weird.”
You’re measuring formula powder into the bottle when you hear a yelp.
“Did he pee on you?”
“Direct hit.”
You bite back a snort. “Wipes are next to you.”
Jason mutters a prayer to whatever gods govern newborn hygiene and starts cleaning up. You screw the bottle lid on and flick the kettle on to heat a little water.
A minute later, you yelp and yank your hand back.
“Babe?” Jason says, halfway through taping the diaper.
“Burned my finger,” you say, holding it under cool water. “He better appreciate this. Formula smells like wet chalk.”
Jason is quiet for a second. You look over and shout out, “You okay?”
“I’m fine. You?”
You glance down at your finger, still under cool water, then over at him, on the floor in front of the couch, legs splayed awkwardly, baby wrapped in a blanket in his lap like something sacred and possibly radioactive.
“I’ve never been better,” you say.
You mean it.
Jason searches your face, like he doesn’t quite believe you yet. But you watch the tension in his shoulders loosen, just a little. The kind of shift that says okay, we can breathe now. Just for a minute.
You dry your hands on your hoodie and grab the warm bottle from the counter. “Alright, Jay,” you say gently, “feeding time.”
He adjusts the baby in his arms slowly, carefully. Like he’s still convinced one wrong move will make the kid detonate. But the baby just blinks up at him, quiet now, eyes big and glassy.
You lean in, helping Jason guide the bottle toward the baby’s mouth. “Remember what the video said? Just enough tilt to keep the nipple full.”
“Like a fuel injector,” he mutters, which is a sentence that absolutely does not belong here and yet somehow fits perfectly.
Then softly, hesitantly the baby latches.
Jason freezes.
And then the baby starts drinking.
A tiny sound, halfway between a slurp and a sigh, escapes his mouth as he settles in, hands curled against Jason’s shirt like he’s staking a claim.
Jason’s voice is barely audible. “He’s eating.”
You press your shoulder against his. “You’re feeding him.”
“Holy shit.”
You laugh. “Exactly what the baby was thinking, I’m sure.”
The room is so still. Gotham hums beyond the windows with distant sirens, the occasional horn, but inside, it’s just the three of you. Just this quiet miracle.
The baby drinks slowly, pausing now and then to blink up at Jason. There’s something so trusting in that look, like he already knows this is his person. Like he knew the moment soot-covered arms scooped him from the wreckage.
You rest your head on Jason’s shoulder. He leans into you instinctively.
“I thought I broke everything I touched,” he says quietly.
“You didn’t break him.”
He looks down again, awe softening the edges of his face. “No. I didn’t.”
When the bottle’s almost empty, you pull back gently. “Okay. Now for part two.”
Jason squints at you. “Part two?”
“Burping. Remember the video?”
Jason blinks. “Oh God.”
You laugh. “Don’t panic. We’ve got this.”
You lift the baby from his arms and place him carefully against your shoulder, one hand supporting the back of his head, the other patting his back in slow, rhythmic taps.
Jason watches like it’s surgery.
“Not too hard,” he murmurs. “Not too soft. Just right.”
“What is he, a porridge?”
“I swear—”
And then the baby lets out a very small, very proper burp.
You both freeze.
Jason’s mouth drops open. “That was—he—he did it.”
You beam. “He did it.”
“No you did it. You’re the baby whisperer.”
You lower the baby back down, curled against your chest now, heavy with milk and sleep and trust.
Jason reaches out and brushes a single finger down the baby’s back. His hand is so big next to that tiny body, but the touch is impossibly gentle.
“He looks like he’s already dreaming,” Jason whispers.
You nod, watching the baby’s eyelids flutter. “I hope it’s something soft.”
A pause. Then:
“What do you think he dreams about?” Jason asks.
You smile. “Right now? Probably warm bottles. And maybe you.”
Jason’s quiet for a beat too long.
You glance over.
He’s staring at you.
Like the world just narrowed down to you and the sleeping baby and the way your voice wraps around both of them like a blanket.
“I really love you,” he says softly.
You blink.
“Say it again.”
“I love you”
You smile. You tilt your head until your temple touches his.
“Back at you.”
The baby lets out one last sigh and goes completely still.
You and Jason don’t move. You just sit there, watching the baby sleep, your arms wrapped around the beginning of something new. Something that still smells like formula and burnt fingers and trust.
And the thing is?
You’re not scared.
Not even a little.
