claw my way out @warmcookiepuff - Tumblr Blog

Dec 17, 2025

impossibly, you

pairing : jason todd x singlemom!reader

summary : when jason’s brothers start digging into the quiet, hidden love he kept before his death, they uncover far more than any of them expected. and once they know, jason can’t help but learn the truth too. now he has to face the reality that his death didn’t just take him from you, it took him from the daughter he never knew he had.

author’s note : i love this trope with jason sm and i see it quite often so i wanted to do my own take on it. i really got carried away writing this if you couldn’t tell. some more parts mayyy be in the works if you guys like it. i didn’t proofread sawry but i don’t have the time to reread 12k words over and over again unforch.

Jason Todd isn’t selfish.

At least, that’s what he tells himself as he looks down at the worn-out polaroid in his hand. Most people in his position, not that many die and come back from the dead, would’ve gone straight to the girl wrapped around Jason in the photo after returning to Gotham. But not him, not in a state as broken and hollow as he is now.

You’re probably better off, he thinks. Surely you’ve moved on, found bigger things in life to hold onto. You were only fifteen after all, though that factor hasn’t stopped Jason from thinking of you with a persistence that matches the beat of his heart. But that’s him, with all his scarring and quiet ache. Not you, sweet and steady you, who could calm even the fiercest storm.

But Jason is something worse than a storm now.

He tells himself that staying away is mercy. You don’t need to see what he’s become, what’s left of the boy who used to walk you home after school, his fingers brushing yours just to feel alive. You loved a boy who believed in second chances, in doing good. What stands in his place now doesn’t even believe in redemption, only in revenge that feels too much like breathing.

Sometimes he catches himself walking near your old neighborhood during patrol. The streets haven’t changed much. The same flickering lamppost on the corner. The same cracked pavement where you once tripped and he caught you, laughing. The memory hits too hard. He tells himself he’s just checking in, making sure you’re safe, but even he doesn’t believe that lie anymore.

He wonders if you still keep that soft, faraway look when you’re thinking. If you still write poems in the margins of notebooks or hum songs without realizing it. He tells himself that it doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. But there’s a part of him—quiet, stubborn, human—that still aches to know.

And when he dreams, it’s always the same. The sound of your laughter. The light in your eyes when you used to say his name. And then the silence that follows, the kind that only the dead can understand.

“What are you doing?”

Jason whips his head around at the voice, muscles tensing as if he’s been caught committing a crime. The polaroid in his hand glints faintly under the cave lights before he shoves it halfway into his pocket. Damian stands just behind him, arms folded, brow furrowed in that permanent mix of irritation and suspicion.

“Patrol starts in five,” Damian says after a pause, his tone sharp and precise. He sounds older than he looks, every word heavy with command.

“Yeah, sorry,” Jason mutters, his voice uncharacteristically soft. His usual edge is gone, replaced with something quieter, maybe nerves, maybe guilt. He doesn’t look at Damian, doesn’t offer his usual sarcasm or smirk.

Damian’s gaze drops toward his pocket, catching a glimpse of the corner of the photo. “What are you looking at?”

“Nothing,” Jason says quickly. Too quickly. “Mind your own business, kid.”

He grabs his helmet and stalks toward his bike, the movement too sharp, too rehearsed. Before Damian can ask another question, the engine roars to life, echoing off the stone walls of the cave. By the time the sound fades, Jason is gone, leaving the air smelling faintly of exhaust and something unspoken.

Damian glances around the space where Jason had been standing. Something small rests on the edge of the workbench. The photo.

He hesitates only a moment before picking it up. It’s old, the corners creased and soft. A younger Jason, maybe fifteen, smiling wide beside a girl his age. She’s bright-eyed, laughing at something behind the camera. Damian studies the image longer than he means to, struck by how open Jason looks. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen that version of him.

Curiosity pulls him deeper into the cave. The computer hums to life under his fingertips, the screen filling with layers of search prompts. He uploads the image, isolates the girl’s face, and runs it through the facial recognition system.

The search takes a few minutes. While he waits, Damian leans back, studying the picture again. The girl’s smile is so real it almost feels like she’s still laughing somewhere, still out there.

A soft beep breaks his thoughts. Results populate across the screen. Name, address, employment. She stayed in Gotham. No criminal record, no aliases. A normal life, at least on paper.

He clicks through her files one by one, reading the small, ordinary details. Then something catches his eye; a hospital record dated five years ago. Childbirth. The listed father’s name is blank.

He narrows his eyes, pulling the full medical document. The patient’s age, location, the date of birth — all of it lines up. He cross-references it with his family’s old files, timelines, mission logs.

Jason Todd’s official death certificate: Eight months before the child was born.

For a long moment, Damian just stares at the screen. The cave hums around him, low and distant. He glances at the photo again, at Jason’s younger face, bright and alive, then back to the data in front of him.

He’s so focused he doesn’t hear footsteps until a voice breaks the silence. “Whatchu looking at?”

Tim stands behind him, hair messy, one hand still holding a mug of coffee. He blinks at the computer screens, at the old photo Damian hasn’t hidden, and frowns. “That’s Jason, right? He looks young. Who’s the girl?”

Damian doesn’t answer. Instead, he brings up another window, layering records, piecing together the information faster now that he knows what to look for. “She had a child,” he says eventually, his voice quieter than usual. “Five years old. Born eight months after Todd’s death.”

Tim steps closer, leaning in and setting the mug down beside the keyboard. “You think the kid’s his.”

“I don’t think,” Damian replies, scrolling through the files. “I know.”

Tim leans forward, scanning the data himself. Medical records, school enrollment, archived birth certificate. The child’s last name matches the mother’s, no mention of a father. He looks closer at the child’s listed name.

First name: Elizabeth

Middle name: Todd

“Holy shit,” Tim murmurs.

They work in silence after that, every keystroke measured, methodical. Tim tracks down old addresses and cross-references them with known Red Hood sightings over the past few years. Damian pulls up archived city cameras, comparing timestamps and locations.

Tim’s voice is quieter when he says, “He doesn’t know.”

“No,” Damian replies, his expression unreadable. “He doesn’t.”

The two of them exchange a glance — not the usual tension, but something heavier. For once, neither has a quip ready.

Tim finally breaks the silence. “We can’t just tell Bruce.”

“Of course not,” Damian says. “Not now at least.”

Tim nods, rubbing the back of his neck. “So what do we do?”

“We find proof,” Damian says. “Irrefutable. And then we tell him ourselves.”

Tim lets out a long breath but doesn’t argue. He sits beside Damian and opens another database, his fingers moving in rhythm with the younger boy’s.

The hours slip by. Medical records confirm it again and again. The timelines overlap too perfectly to be coincidence. Jason Todd died, and eight months later, a child with his eyes was born.

When they finally stop, the evidence glows across the monitors in quiet, damning light.

Tim leans back, staring at it all. “He’s going to break when he finds out.”

“Maybe,” Damian says, folding his arms. “But he deserves to know.”

The cave settles into silence again, the hum of the computers steady and constant. Outside, rain starts to fall against the surface world. Steady, cold, relentless.

And somewhere in that rain, Jason Todd rides through the city unaware that two of his brothers are sitting beneath it, staring at the truth that’s about to change everything.

“That tickles!”

Lizzie’s laughter rings through the bedroom, bright and unrestrained, as you try to run the brush through her damp curls. She wiggles away from your hand, kicking her legs under the blankets, water still clinging to her lashes. Her cheeks are flushed, eyes sparkling like the day hasn’t ended yet.

“Baby, you need to calm down,” you say through your own laugh, though your voice comes out more fond than stern. You press a kiss to her temple and set the brush down, fingers still smelling faintly of her shampoo.

“I can’t, Mama,” she giggles, hopping off the bed to follow you into the bathroom. “It’s too early.”

“It’s nine o’clock,” you remind her, tossing the brush back into the drawer.

“Too early,” she insists, peering up at you with the kind of stubborn confidence that makes her look so much like him it hurts. “Can I sleep with you tonight?”

You sigh, half-exasperated, half-defeated. She always asks, and you always say yes. Because she clings to you like you’re the last solid thing in the world, and truth be told, on nights like this, you need her warmth just as much as she needs yours.

“Yeah, baby,” you murmur softly. “Go hop in bed, I’ll be there in a second.”

Lizzie grins, triumphant, and darts back into your room. You linger a little longer, washing your hands, staring at the reflection in the mirror. Tired eyes, a few stray ink stains from work still on your fingers, and that same small, wistful smile that always comes during this time of night.

When you walk back into the room, Lizzie’s already tucked under the blankets, surrounded by a pile of stuffed animals. In her lap is a worn, familiar hardcover. Pride and Prejudice. She hugs it to her chest like a treasure.

“Again?” you tease gently, sitting down beside her.

Lizzie grins, curls bouncing. “Duh,” she says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Start where we left last time.”

You smile, a quiet warmth settling in your chest. “Fair enough.”

You sit down beside her, smoothing a wrinkle from the blanket as she presses the book into your hands. The spine is cracked from years of use, the edges soft from being thumbed through so many times. You find the folded corner that marks your place and open to chapter thirty-four. You begin to read, voice soft and rhythmic, the words filling the room like a lullaby.

“When they were gone, Elizabeth, as if intending to exasperate herself as much as possible against Mr. Darcy, chose for her employment the examination of all the letters which Jane had written to her since her being in Kent.”

The words are familiar, not just to you but to her too. She mouths some of them under her breath, pretending to read along, her lashes already fluttering with the first signs of sleep.

You pause once to glance at her. She’s resting her head on your arm now, eyes heavy, one hand clutching the edge of your sleeve. You smile faintly and keep reading, slower now, letting the story unfurl.

By the time you reach the end of the chapter, her breathing has evened out completely. Her lips part slightly as she drifts off, the faintest trace of a smile still on her face.

You close the book gently, running your thumb over the worn cover before setting it aside on the nightstand. The room smells faintly of lavender shampoo and rain from the open window.

You turn off the light and lie beside her, feeling her small body instinctively curl closer. Her curls brush against your chin, and you rest your hand against her back, tracing slow circles until your own breathing matches hers…

“This feels like an invasion of privacy.”

“It is,” Damian replies flatly, not even looking at Tim as he adjusts his position on the narrow rooftop ledge. His voice carries the infuriating calm that makes Tim want to shove him off it.

Below them, through the cracked curtains, the apartment is bathed in warm lamplight. They’ve been there for almost an hour now, watching in guilty silence as you brush your daughter’s hair, read to her, and eventually turn off the light. The two boys look more like burglars than detectives. Hoods up, crouched near your window, trying not to make a sound.

Tim exhales quietly, rubbing at his temple. “You know we said we’d tell Jason the next morning after we found her, right? Not stake out her apartment like a pair of creeps.”

“You said that,” Damian corrects, eyes never leaving the window. “I said we should confirm what we saw.”

Tim rolls his eyes. “Oh right, confirm it by stalking a single mom and her kid. Real noble of you, Robin.”

“Tt. You wanted to see her too.”

Tim doesn’t bother denying it. His throat feels tight at the thought. “Yeah, maybe I did. Just… not like this.”

The room below has gone dark now, the only light coming from the faint glow of the city bleeding through the curtains. Damian shifts slightly, the leather of his boots scuffing against the concrete.

“So what do we do?” Tim asks quietly. “We can’t keep this from him forever.”

Before Damian can respond, a voice behind them says, “So which one of you is going to explain why we’re looking through this random window?”

Both of them freeze. Damian’s hand twitches toward his katana before he recognizes the voice.

Dick Grayson stands a few feet behind them, arms folded, expression unreadable in the low light. His mask catches the faint reflection from a nearby streetlight, and he looks equal parts exhausted and unimpressed.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Tim mutters under his breath.

“We can explain,” Damian says immediately, straightening his posture like he’s standing at attention.

“You better explain,” Dick says, stepping closer to the ledge and glancing down at the apartment below. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like the two of you are about three minutes away from a restraining order.”

Tim sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “Okay, but— listen, we didn’t mean for it to go this far. We found something, and then it just… spiraled.”

“Spiraled into felony-level surveillance?” Dick raises a brow. “That’s not a great look, guys.”

“Todd has a child,” Damian blurts out before Tim can stop him.

The words hang there for a moment, heavy and disbelieving. Dick blinks once. “What?”

Tim exhales. “We found records… medical, school, the whole thing. We double-checked everything. The timelines line up. She was born eight months after he died.”

Dick looks from one brother to the other, his expression softening as the words sink in. “You’re sure?”

“Completely,” Tim says quietly. “We saw them. Her and her mom.”

“Her name is Elizabeth,” Damian adds, almost defensively. “She’s five. She likes books and skipped senior kindergarten.”

Dick runs a hand through his hair, letting out a long, low breath. “Jesus.” He leans forward slightly, peering through the window just enough to catch a glimpse of the dim room below, the faint outline of you curled beside a sleeping child.

“Does he know?” Dick asks after a moment.

Tim shakes his head. “Not yet. We wanted to be certain first.”

“And?”

“We are,” Tim says. “It’s her. It’s his.”

Dick stares down at the apartment for a long while, the faintest smile ghosting at the edge of his mouth before a look of worry takes over. “He’s going to lose it when he finds out,” he whispers.

“Yeah,” Tim agrees, his tone bittersweet. “But… maybe not in a bad way.”

The three of them stand there in silence for a moment, the sounds of Gotham humming low beneath them. Distant sirens, the rattle of the wind, the faint echo of the city carrying on.

Then Dick straightens, clapping a hand on Tim’s shoulder. “Come on,” he says. “We’ll tell him tomorrow. All of us.”

Damian nods, glancing one last time through the window before turning away. “He deserves to know.”

Tim lingers a moment longer, watching the faint glow behind the curtains, the shadow of the woman and child asleep inside. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “He does.”

And as they disappear into the night, the city stretches out below them — endless, sprawling, alive, unaware that one small apartment has already changed everything.

The morning light creeps in through the blinds like it’s testing Jason’s patience. He groans, rolling onto his back and staring at the cracked ceiling for a while before deciding to move. His alarm never went off. Or maybe he turned it off in his sleep again. Either way, the sound of Gotham outside feels a little too loud for the early hour.

He drags himself through the motions. Shower, toothbrush, dark jeans, worn jacket. The mirror fogs up while he runs a hand through his damp hair, the smell of cheap coffee grounds already drifting from the kitchen. Routine keeps him steady, the predictability of it.

He burns the toast. Again.

“Figures,” he mutters, scraping the black edges off with a knife that’s seen better days.

His phone buzzes. Roy’s name flashes on the screen. He ignores it. Then a message from Dick, something short like “You coming by the manor today?” followed by a smiley face emoji.

He frowns. Dick doesn’t usually text before noon.

Still, he goes. He tells himself it’s because Alfred probably made something worth the trip, not because part of him misses the noise of the manor.

The drive’s quiet. Gotham’s skies hang low and gray, the sort of morning that smells like rain but never delivers. The gates swing open automatically when he pulls up, and the manor looms above him, too big, too familiar.

Inside, it’s the same as ever. Spotless. Quiet except for the faint clink of dishes from the kitchen.

Tim’s in the dining room when he walks in, sitting with a newspaper that he’s definitely not reading. The paper’s upside down, for one.

“Morning,” Jason says.

Tim startles slightly, straightening the paper like that’ll hide it. “Hey,” he says, smiling too quickly.

Across from him, Damian’s hunched over a sketchbook, though his pencil hasn’t moved in the last two minutes. He doesn’t look up.

“You two look… normal,” Jason says, drawing the word out as he pours himself coffee.

“We are normal,” Tim says immediately.

Damian grunts. “Speak for yourself.”

Jason hums, leaning back against the counter. He takes a slow sip of his coffee, watching them like someone waiting for a punchline.

Something’s off.

Tim’s voice is too even. Damian’s too quiet. Neither of them will meet his eyes.

“Where’s Dick?” Jason asks after a beat.

“In the cave,” Tim says. “Busy.”

“Busy with what?”

“Things.”

“Ah,” Jason nods, smirking. “Things. Very specific.”

Tim clears his throat and looks back at the paper, pretending to read about stocks or politics or whatever the upside-down headline says. Damian shifts in his seat, his expression calm in that fake way he gets when he’s hiding something.

The silence stretches, heavy and strange.

Finally, Jason pushes off the counter and grabs a piece of toast from the plate on the table. “You two are terrible liars,” he says easily, half a grin tugging at his mouth. “Whatever you broke, it’s not my problem.”

Tim forces a laugh that sounds way too bright. “We didn’t break anything.”

Damian rolls his eyes. “Stop talking.”

“You stop talking.”

“No, you—”

“What did I say about bickering in the dining room?” Alfred’s voice cuts through the air as he steps in, carrying a tray of coffee refills.

They both shut up instantly.

Alfred sets the tray down, offering Jason a polite nod. “Good morning, Master Jason. Lovely to see you joining us.”

“Yeah, well,” Jason says, shrugging, “couldn’t pass up the chance to see Gotham’s most awkward breakfast club.”

Tim hides a nervous smile behind his mug. Damian pretends not to hear.

Alfred gives them all a look that could probably disarm a bomb, then turns to leave. “Eat while it’s still warm,” he says, and disappears down the hall.

Once he’s gone, the tension creeps back in.

Tim fidgets with the corner of the paper. Damian’s gaze flicks toward his brother, then away again. They’re both quiet — too quiet for them — and it’s starting to make Jason’s skin itch.

“Seriously,” he says finally, “what’s going on with you two?”

Tim’s head snaps up. “Nothing’s going on.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Really.”

“You’re acting weirder than usual, and that’s saying something.”

“We’re fine,” Damian insists, voice clipped.

“Sure you are,” Jason says, but his tone softens. He lets it go, mostly. There’s only so much weird he can handle before his second cup of coffee.

Still, as he sits down, he catches the brief look that passes between them — a flicker of something unspoken. Guilt, maybe. Or nerves.

Whatever it is, it’s about him. He can feel it.

And when Dick finally walks in a few minutes later, hair hanging to his forehead from the shower, smile too easy, both Tim and Damian straighten just a little too fast.

“Morning,” Dick says.

They echo the greeting in unison.

Jason squints at them over his mug. “What, you three rehearsing lines now?”

“Just being polite,” Dick says with that same practiced calm, but his eyes don’t quite meet Jason’s.

And that’s when it hits him. The subtle shift in their voices, the quiet glances, the way they move around him like something fragile’s about to crack.

Jason’s halfway through his second cup of coffee when Dick gives Tim a look across the table, all eyebrows and silent communication. Damian catches it too, and for once, doesn’t immediately roll his eyes. The three of them seem to share a collective breath, like they’ve silently agreed this is it.

“So, uh,” Tim starts, shifting in his seat. “There’s something we kind of need to tell you.”

Jason hums, not looking up from his plate. “If it’s about my stash in the garage, that’s not for you.”

“No, it’s not—” Tim pauses, realizing how that sounds. “Okay, it’s definitely not that.”

Dick leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. “It’s… something important, Jay.”

There’s a tone in his voice that makes Jason finally glance up. The usual sarcasm drains a little, replaced by cautious curiosity. “Okay,” he says slowly. “Then what is it?”

Damian looks uncomfortable. That’s new. His posture’s too rigid, and he’s been staring at the same crumb on the table for the last minute like it might save him.

“It concerns your—” Damian begins.

But before he can finish, the sound of heavy footsteps fills the hallway.

Bruce walks in first, looking like he hasn’t slept in three days. Which, to be fair, he probably hasn’t. Duke trails behind him, scrolling through something on his phone, and Steph follows last, her hair pulled into a messy ponytail and her hoodie about three sizes too big.

“Morning, bitches,” Steph says brightly, grabbing a chair and spinning it around so she can straddle it backward. “Alfred said there’s bacon left. I call dibs.”

“Good morning,” Duke adds, smiling as he sits beside her. “You’re all up early.”

Bruce doesn’t say anything, just nods and heads straight for the coffee pot. The room fills with the quiet clink of the mug and the faint shuffle of movement.

Dick visibly deflates. Tim’s mouth opens, then closes again. Damian looks like someone just stole his sketchbook.

Bruce finally sits, stirring his coffee absently. “Alfred insisted.”

“Of course he did,” Tim mutters under his breath.

The conversation around the table drifts into something normal. Or at least as normal as it gets in the Wayne household. Steph teases Duke about his playlist, Damian complains about Cass stealing his training gear, Tim keeps fidgeting with his phone, and Dick… keeps looking at Jason like he’s trying to work up the nerve to say something again.

But there’s no way now. Not with Bruce here, not with half the family joking and passing plates around. The timing’s gone.

Jason doesn’t notice. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to. He’s too busy buttering toast, half-listening to the noise around him, pretending this feels like just another morning.

“So what was that thing you wanted to tell me?” he asks casually, looking up from his plate.

The table goes quiet for a second too long.

“Uh,” Dick says, clearing his throat. “It can wait.”

“Yeah,” Tim echoes, forcing a grin. “Nothing urgent.”

Damian’s jaw tightens. “For now.”

“For now?” Jason repeats, eyebrow raised.

Bruce looks up from his mug, gaze flicking between them. “Something you three need to share?”

“Nope,” Dick says a little too quickly. “Just… something minor.”

Bruce studies him for a beat longer, then goes back to his coffee.

Jason snorts, unconvinced but not pushing it. “You’re all getting weirder by the day.”

“Takes one to know one,” Steph mutters, earning a smirk from Duke.

Dick laughs, the sound too forced. He glances at Tim, who’s avoiding his eyes, and at Damian, who looks one deep breath away from snapping.

They’d planned to tell him. They’d agreed this was the morning.

But as Bruce starts discussing patrol rotations, and Steph reaches for more toast, and Jason leans back in his chair with that familiar half-smile — that same unguarded ease that makes him look younger, lighter — the words die in all their throats.

Not now. Not yet.

Because how do you tell someone their life changed five years ago without them ever knowing?

So they wait. For a quieter moment. For better timing. For courage.

The quieter moment never comes.

The manor settles into its usual hush after midnight. Lights dim, footsteps fading, the soft hum of the cave below like a heartbeat under the floorboards. Jason gets back from patrol long after the others, armor still dusted with grime and the faint sting of adrenaline wearing off in his veins.

He heads down to the Batcave out of habit more than need. Barbara’s offline, her chair empty and monitors dark. It’s quiet, which means he can use the Batcomputer without her watching over his shoulder or Bruce hovering with a lecture.

The glow of the screens paints him in blue light as he types in a name. A trafficker he’s been hunting through the Narrows, a lead that’s been eating at him all week.

Then something flickers.

A new file loads. It’s not what he was looking for. It’s a list, cross-referenced names, civilian records. His brows knit as he scrolls down, irritation quickly turning to confusion.

And then he sees it.

Your name.

He freezes. His fingers stop moving, breath catching in his throat.

He scrolls down again, slower this time. One name becomes two. The second is smaller, placed under yours, in the neat system font that suddenly feels cruel. A child. Five years old. Birthdate falling eight months after he died.

He stares at the screen, the cursor blinking like it’s mocking him. Each click opens another page, another piece of your life that he didn’t get to see. Schools, medical forms, birthdays, grocery receipts, even a video still from a city camera, your face turned toward the little girl with the same dark hair and green eyes that could only come from him.

The realization hits like a punch to the gut.

He can’t breathe.

For a second, all he can hear is the low hum of the cave and the echo of his own heartbeat. Nausea curls up from his stomach, tight and hot, but the sickness quickly burns into something else. Something sharper.

Anger.

It floods through him, quick and merciless.

His chair scrapes hard against the floor as he stands, every muscle locked tight. His fists shake. There’s too much heat in his chest, too much static in his head.

And then he hears it. Footsteps. The sound of the elevator doors sliding open.

Bruce.

He’s barely through the entrance before Jason’s on him.

“How fucking dare you?”

Bruce doesn’t even get a word out before Jason’s got him by the collar, slamming him against the concrete wall hard enough for the sound to echo through the cave.

“Jason,” Bruce grits out, his hands half-raised. “What—”

“Don’t you dare play dumb,” Jason snaps, voice low, shaking, almost vulnerable. “How long have you known? About her? About them?”

Bruce stares, eyes narrowing in genuine confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t lie to me!” Jason’s voice cracks, raw and furious. “You’ve been keeping tabs on them, haven’t you? All this time— my kid, my kid, and you never said a goddamn word!”

Bruce’s brow furrows, the confusion deepening. “Jason, I don’t—”

But Jason’s already pulling back like he might hit him, the fury boiling over. His knuckles are white, chest heaving, tears threatening to fall down his face. “You had no right,” he spits. “No fucking right—”

“What’s going on?”

The voice cuts through the noise.

They both turn.

Dick’s standing at the entrance to the cave, still in his suit, mask pushed back onto his curls. Tim and Damian are behind him, both looking something between exhausted and dreadful.

The air in the cave shifts instantly.

Bruce straightens, brushing off his collar, his jaw tight. “Your brother seems to think I’ve been keeping something from him.”

“Seems?” Jason laughs, sharp and humorless. “You’re damn right you have—”

But he pauses for a moment when he sees Tim’s face.

Guilt. Plain and visible, written all over him.

“Tim,” Jason says, voice dropping an octave. “You knew too.”

Tim hesitates, eyes darting to Dick, then to Damian, then back to Jason. “Jason, listen—”

“You knew.”

Damian steps forward before Tim can speak again. “He’s right,” he says bluntly. “We did.”

The words hang in the air like smoke.

Jason’s whole body stills. His grip loosens. “We?” he repeats.

“It wasn’t Bruce,” Dick says quietly. “It was us. We found something a few days ago. Records, photos. We wanted to tell you, but we needed to be sure.”

“Sure?” Jason’s voice shakes, half disbelief, half rage. “You thought you’d just play detective with my life until it was convenient?”

“We didn’t want to blindside you,” Tim says quickly. “We didn’t even know if—”

“If what?” Jason cuts in, stepping toward him now. “If she was mine? If it mattered?”

Damian folds his arms, meeting his brother’s fury with a steady, solemn expression. “It always mattered. We just wanted to confirm the truth before we handed you pain you weren’t ready for.”

“Don’t talk to me like you know what I’m ready for,” Jason snarls.

“We weren’t trying to hurt you,” Dick adds, voice low but firm. “We were trying to protect you.”

“Yeah?” Jason laughs bitterly. “You ever think maybe I didn’t need protection? Maybe I just needed someone to tell me the damn truth?”

Silence.

Bruce stands back, still tense, still confused, but quiet now. Letting the brothers hash it out.

“How long?” Jason finally asks, quieter now, but no less angry.

Tim swallows hard. “Almost a week.”

“And you watched me sit here,” Jason says slowly, like every word is costing him something, “not knowing that I had a daughter out there.”

Tim looks down. Damian stays still. Dick doesn’t speak.

For a moment, all that fills the cave is the distant hum of machinery, the faint clicking of cooling metal.

Then Jason laughs again. Hollow, tired, aching. “You’re all real pieces of work, you know that?”

He turns away before any of them can respond.

“Jason,” Dick calls softly, but he doesn’t stop.

He grabs his helmet from the workbench, the red light flickering to life as he slides it on. “Don’t follow me,” he says, voice muffled but firm. “Not tonight.”

And then he’s gone. The rumble of his boots fading into the sound of the elevator doors closing behind him.

The three brothers stand in the silence he leaves behind, the echo of his anger still heavy in the air.

Bruce looks at them finally, his expression unreadable. “What did you find?”

Tim hesitates, then quietly answers, “His family.”

Jason doesn’t go home that night.

He rides until the city bleeds into nothing, until Gotham’s skyline becomes a smudge of light and shadow in his mirrors. The wind bites at his face, sharp enough to sting but not sharp enough to quiet his thoughts. The hum of the engine under him feels like the only thing tethering him to the present. Every streetlight he passes flickers like it’s judging him, like the whole city knows what he found.

Eventually, the roads thin out, and he ends up at one of his safe houses. One of the older ones, one that nobody else remembers exists. The lock sticks; he kicks the door open and lets it slam behind him. The sound echoes in the empty space.

He drops his helmet on the table and stares at it. The silence that follows is too heavy.

He runs a hand through his hair, pacing. He doesn’t want to sit down because sitting feels too final, too much like giving in. But when he finally does, the couch creaks under his weight, and all the air leaves his lungs at once.

The file still burns in the back of his mind — your name, the child’s name, the dates that line up too perfectly to ignore. He can still see your face in the picture, smiling that small, distracted smile that used to drive him crazy when you were trying to look composed and couldn’t quite manage it. Beside you, a little girl with wild curls and bright eyes. His eyes.

He doesn’t need a test to tell him. He knows.

He thought he’d buried every version of himself that could still be surprised by pain, but apparently not. Because this isn’t the sharp kind. It’s the deep, sinking kind that makes it hard to breathe.

He presses his palms into his eyes, like maybe he can push the thoughts away if he presses hard enough.

You must’ve gone through hell.

Raising a kid alone at an age so young. Working. Surviving Gotham. Doing all of it while he was underground, rotting, clawing his way back to a life that kept moving without him. He tries to picture it, you holding a newborn, probably exhausted, probably crying, but still fighting. Because that’s who you were, who you are.

And where was he? In a coffin. In a pit. In the Red Hood’s armor, trying to pretend revenge could fill the hole in his heart.

You deserved better. Both of you did.

The anger he feels isn’t loud. It’s quiet, simmering, the kind that builds and builds until you forget where it started. He’s angry at himself, at the universe, at everyone who knew you back then and never told him. And beneath all of that, beneath the guilt and the fury, there’s something gentler, something terrifying.

He still loves you.

He realizes it like an old scar’s ache. Faint, but impossible to ignore. Maybe it never really went away.

He remembers the sound of your laugh, the way you’d quote books he never understood, how you’d press your hand against his chest when he got too wound up and just whisper, “Breathe.” He hadn’t thought about that in years.

And maybe what he feels now isn’t exactly love. Maybe it’s something tangled up with memory and regret. But it’s close enough to hurt like it.

Love doesn’t survive death. It shouldn’t. But maybe the part of him that came back from the grave brought it with him anyway.

When morning comes, he’s still on that couch. The city light spills pale through the cracked blinds, dust motes turning in the air like snow. He’s exhausted but wired, an exhaustion that sleep won’t fix.

He makes coffee — black, bitter, cheap — and stands by the window as he drinks it, staring at the streets below.

What’s she like? Does she smile like you? Does she talk too much, read too fast, ask too many questions? Does she have your patience or his temper?

He swallows hard.

Does she know him at all? Did you tell her stories about him, or did you let him become a ghost? A name you never say out loud?

The thought twists something in him, but he can’t blame you for it. Maybe you were protecting her. Maybe that’s what good mothers do.

He wants to see her. That’s the part that terrifies him most. Not the idea of finding you, but of seeing her and realizing what he missed. The birthdays, the first steps, the scraped knees, the school plays. Five years of moments that never had his shadow in them.

How do you make up for that?

He doesn’t know. He’s never been good at soft things, never been good at asking for forgiveness. He’s rough edges and broken timing. What could he even say to you? Sorry for dying? Sorry for coming back too late?

He laughs under his breath, but it sounds hollow.

The next few days pass in fragments. No sleep, no real meals, just coffee that goes cold before he finishes it and the constant lump in his throat. He doesn’t go back to the Manor. He can’t. The thought of facing them, of seeing pity in their eyes, makes his stomach twist even more.

He keeps his distance, but he can’t stay still. Jason’s always been a man who needs motion when his mind gets too loud. So he rides all through the night, through alleys and rooftops and streets that mesh together until he forgets where he’s going. When he finally stops, it’s outside a convenience store. He picks up a copy of the Gotham Gazette without even thinking about it.

He doesn’t expect to see your name there.

But it’s printed right under the title of a feature column, small and neat, the same way it was written in the school newspaper, though it feels a lot more serious now.

He stands on the curb, reading the first few lines, helmet under one arm. It’s about something mundane. A story on a community garden opening in West Gotham. But he can hear you in it. The way you write is the same as you used to talk: quiet, observant, warm. You always noticed small things other people didn’t.

He buys every paper he can find after that. Stacks of them end up on his kitchen counter, some old, some new. He spends hours going through the archives online too, scrolling through old columns, human-interest stories, interviews. The more he reads, the more he feels the years collapsing in on themselves.

You never left Gotham. You stayed right in the heart of it, writing about its people like you still believed there was good to find here. He doesn’t know if that makes him proud or furious.

He reads a short editorial you wrote two years ago for the Gotham University newsletter about motherhood, about how it changes the way a person measures time. Some days it feels like I’ve lived a lifetime in three years, you wrote, and some days it feels like I blinked and she grew up.

He rereads that one more times than he’ll admit.

It’s strange. He’s spent his whole life trying to understand people through what they do, through what they fight for. But with you, it’s in what you notice, what you choose to write down. There’s an intimacy in your words that feels like home, even after all this time.

And then there’s the part that hurts: he can see traces of her in your stories. Little mentions. Not by name, never in detail, but enough to tell him you’re proud. My daughter insists flowers grow better when you talk to them, one line reads. Another mentions a little girl who believes every cat in the city is secretly a vigilante.

He reads those lines until they blur.

Each time he closes the paper, he promises himself he’ll stop. But every morning, he finds himself looking again. He doesn’t even know what he’s looking for anymore. Maybe a sign, maybe an opening, maybe proof that it’s not too late.

The nights are worse. He finds himself standing on rooftops near your neighborhood without meaning to. He knows exactly where you live now. He didn’t want to know, but he couldn’t stop himself once he started digging.

He never gets closer than a block away. Just stands there, hands in his jacket pockets, watching the warm glow of your apartment light through distant windows. It’s pathetic, he thinks, but he can’t help it. There’s something grounding about knowing you’re still there, real and alive in a way he didn’t think he deserved to see again.

The more he learns, the heavier it gets. The anger, the guilt, the longing. It all churns together until he doesn’t know which is which. He wants to be angry at himself for not telling anyone about you back then. He wants to be angry at himself for dying, for making it impossible for you to tell him about her.

But mostly, he just feels tired.

Every night ends the same. Him on the couch, papers spread out, your words staring back at him. His fingers trace over your byline like it’s something fragile, something alive.

He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do next. Not that he needs to—Dick decides that for him.

The knock at his door starts early in the morning. He thinks at first it might be a neighbour or some delivery mix-up. It keeps going, steady and rhythmic, until a voice follows.

“I know you’re in there, little wing.”

He groans. He knows that voice. It’s warm but firm, laced with that eldest brother patience that makes him want to hit something.

“Not today,” he mutters to himself, sinking deeper into the couch.

The knocking gets louder.

“I’m serious, open the door or I’m climbing through the damn window,” Dick says.

That gets him up. He drags himself to the door and opens it halfway, squinting into the morning light. “You’re unbelievable,” he mutters.

Dick doesn’t wait for permission. He walks right in, taking in the apartment like someone stepping into a storm shelter after a hurricane. His eyes land on the papers scattered across the table, your name printed over and over.

“You’ve been busy,” Dick says, voice careful.

“Don’t start,” Jason replies, shutting the door behind him a little too hard.

Dick looks at the mess again. There’s no judgment in his face, only that infuriating mix of concern and sympathy. He’s holding back questions, Jason can tell.

“You’ve been off the radar,” Dick finally says. “Tim said you’ve been ignoring him. Damian too. Well, everyone really.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not really in the mood for family bonding.”

“You never are.”

Jason glares at him. “You here to lecture me or what?”

“I’m here because you’re hurting,” Dick says simply. “And because I know what it looks like when you try to pretend you’re not.”

Jason exhales through his nose and rubs the back of his neck. “You think you know everything, don’t you?”

“I know enough.” Dick steps closer to the table and picks up one of the Gazettes. He scans the byline and looks up at Jason, eyes softer now. “She’s good,” he says. “Really good.”

Jason looks away. “You shouldn’t know about that.”

“Tim told me,” Dick admits. “And Damian. Hell, if Damian thinks she’s good she must be phenomenal—anyway, they’re worried about you. I’m worried about you.”

Jason lets out a low laugh, sounding more tired than amused. “Great. Everyone’s worried. That’s new.”

Dick sets the paper down gently. “They only told me because they thought you might need someone to talk to. They didn’t mean to hurt you, Jason. They just didn’t want you to go through it alone.”

“Too late for that,” Jason mutters.

The silence after that feels thick enough to choke on.

“Yeah,” Jason finally says, voice low. “Before you start, I haven’t done anything. I’m not going to show up and ruin her life.”

“You don’t know that’s what would happen,” Dick retorts gently.

“Come on, Dick. Look at me. I’m not the guy she used to know. I’m not the guy she’d want around a kid. Especially not her kid.”

“You don’t get to decide that for her.”

Jason’s jaw tightens. “I think I do.”

“No, you don’t,” Dick says firmly. “You don’t get to erase yourself from her life forever just because it’s easier than facing what happened.”

“You think this is easy?” Jason snaps, voice rising. “You think it’s easy knowing she went through all that alone while I was—” He cuts himself off, swallowing hard. “While I was… gone.”

Dick doesn’t back down. “No, I don’t think it’s easy. But I think you owe it to both of them to try. To show up. Even if it’s messy. Even if it hurts.”

Jason turns away, gripping the back of a chair so hard his knuckles go white. “She’s better off without me. They both are.”

“You really believe that?”

He doesn’t answer.

Dick sighs and takes a step closer. “You can’t undo what happened. But you can decide what you do now. You’ve got a chance to make something right, Jay. Maybe not everything, but something.”

For a long moment, neither of them speaks. Everything feels too heavy.

Finally, Jason lets go of the chair and sinks down onto the couch. “I wouldn’t even know what to say,” he admits, voice quiet now. “Not like this kind of thing happens often.”

“You don’t have to have the perfect words,” Dick says. “Just be honest. Tell her the truth. Tell her you’re alive, for starters. Tell her you’re sorry.”

“You make it sound so simple.”

“It’s not,” Dick says, a small smile pulling at his mouth. “But it’s worth it.”

Jason looks down at the papers again. Your words, your thoughts, your life written in printer ink. The same voice he used to wake up to, now out there for the whole city to read.

He sighs, the sound rough in his throat. “You think she’d even listen to me?”

“I think she might,” Dick says. “And if she doesn’t, at least you’ll know you tried. At least you won’t have to keep wondering.”

Jason sits there for a while, staring at the stack of papers. His hand drifts to the top one, tracing over your byline with his thumb.

When he finally looks up, there’s something different in his expression. Not peace, exactly, but something close. Resolve.

“Fine,” he says. “I’ll talk to her.”

Dick smiles faintly, relief softening his shoulders. “Good. And hey, I can come with you if you want. Moral support.”

Jason shakes his head. “No. I’ve got to do this myself.”

“Then do it. Before you talk yourself out of it again.”

Dick claps a hand on his shoulder before leaving, the door clicking softly behind him.

For a long time after, Jason just sits there, staring at the papers spread across his table. Outside, morning is starting to break, pale light creeping through the blinds.

He breathes in slow and steady, like he used to before going into a fight. Maybe this will be one too—just a different kind.

He gathers the papers into a neat pile, grabs his jacket, and finally steps outside. The city feels heavy but alive, full of potential and second chances.

For the first time in years, Jason doesn’t turn away from it. He starts walking.

He doesn’t mean to end up there. He tells himself he’s just riding, clearing his head, burning through the nerves that have been eating him alive since Dick left his apartment this morning. But somehow, when he finally stops, he’s parked across the street from the Gotham Gazette.

He kills the engine and just sits there, staring at the glass doors. People move in and out, clutching papers and coffee, talking fast into their phones. He can see the reflection of his bike in the windows and feels absurdly out of place.

For ten minutes, he doesn’t move. His heart’s beating too hard, his palms slick against the leather of his gloves. He’s thought about this a hundred times—how it might go, what he’d say, how you’d react—but now that he’s here, the weight of it freezes him.

Does he just walk in and ask for you? What would he even say? Hey, remember me, the guy who died and came back wrong? Surprise, I know we have a kid.

He grimaces at the thought, jaw tight.

He’s still debating whether to leave when the doors open and you step outside.

You’re on your phone, scrolling, a half-empty cup of coffee in your other hand. The afternoon light hits you in a way that makes his breath catch. It’s you, but older. Softer somehow, but more mature. Your hair’s longer, your clothes are the same kind of whimsical they were when you were fifteen, but now work-worn. He shouldn’t notice this much, but he can’t help it.

It’s noon, he realizes. Lunch break. Fate’s cruel sense of timing hasn’t changed.

He takes a step forward before he can talk himself out of it.

You don’t look up right away. You’re smiling faintly at something on your screen, and for a split second, he gets to see what your life looks like when you’re unbothered, unguarded. And then your eyes lift, catching on the figure standing across the street.

You freeze.

The world goes silent for a beat. Your fingers slip slightly on your phone, your breath stalling. It’s like your brain tries to make sense of what you’re seeing, but it can’t. Because it can’t be him. It can’t.

He died.

And yet—

He looks older. Broader shoulders. A streak of white cutting through dark hair. But the eyes—God, those eyes—they’re the same. A little greener, but the same. The eyes that haunted too many dreams.

Your lips part, air hitching, but no sound comes out.

He swallows hard, his throat dry. “Hi,” he says softly, like the word might shatter if he says it too loud.

For a heartbeat, you just stare. Your mind’s racing, trying to catch up to what your eyes already know. And then the world tilts.

The sound leaves your throat in a strangled breath as everything inside you collapses under the weight of disbelief. The pavement blurs, your vision narrowing, heart hammering too fast.

You hear him say your name. Rough, desperate. But it’s already fading as your knees buckle.

He catches you before you hit the ground. His arms are around you in an instant, solid and familiar in a way that makes his chest ache.

“Hey, hey, I got you,” he mutters, voice shaking. People are starting to notice, heads turning, but he doesn’t care. He crouches low, one hand at the back of your head, the other gripping your shoulder gently.

Your phone lies forgotten on the sidewalk, screen somehow not shattered. He glances down at you, at the curve of your face, at the faint crease between your brows, and his heart breaks all over again.

You’re real. You’re here. And the sight of him made you fall apart.

He’s not sure if that’s better or worse than what he expected.

He exhales shakily, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You’re okay,” he whispers, mostly to convince himself. “You’re okay, sweetheart.”

But his hands are trembling, and his pulse won’t slow down, because the truth is, he’s not sure if you’re okay. If he’s okay. Not anymore.

He crouches next to you on the sidewalk, the sound of Gotham around him muffled beneath the rush in his ears. His heart feels like it’s caught somewhere between disbelief and panic, watching you still and pale in his arms. People pass by, some slowing down to stare, others pretending not to notice, and Jason barely registers any of it. He is too focused on the rise and fall of your breathing, too terrified that you’ll stop.

He kneels there for what feels like hours—though it’s only a minute or two—his hand shaking slightly as he brushes the stray hairs away from your face. He says your name once, quiet and uncertain, and his stomach twists when you don’t respond right away.

Then you move. A soft sound leaves your throat, a small groan, and your eyes flutter open. You blink up at him, confusion clouding your eyes.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice softer than it’s been in years. “You’re okay. You fainted, but you’re alright.”

Your eyes focus slowly. The first thing you see is him, his face hovering above yours, older but familiar in a way that makes your breath catch. You blink again, unsure if your mind is playing a cruel trick on you.

“Jason?” Your voice comes out cracked.

He exhales, shoulders sagging with relief and guilt all at once. “Yeah,” he says, voice barely audible. “It’s me.”

You stare at him, too stunned to speak. Your body feels weak, your mind a blur of memories you thought you buried forever ago. When he helps you sit up, the world tilts for a second and he steadies you instinctively, his hand warm at your back.

The sound of a door opening behind you makes both of you turn. Your editor in chief rushes out of the Gotham Gazette building, his tie loose, his face pale.

“Jesus, we thought you hit your head,” he mutters with a Gotham accent almost as thick as Jason’s, crouching beside you. “You scared the hell out of us, kid.”

You try to sit straighter, embarrassed by the growing crowd. “I’m okay,” you say weakly, but the look he gives you says he doesn’t buy it.

He glances at Jason, taking in the leather jacket, the streak of white in his hair, the way his arm is still around you. “You her boyfriend?” he asks bluntly.

You shake your head before Jason can answer. “No. He’s—he’s an old friend.”

Your editor looks between the two of you, clearly skeptical but too concerned to press further. “Fine. Old friend, boyfriend, whatever. Take her home. She’s not coming back in today. And if I see her back here before tomorrow morning, I’m locking her out.”

You open your mouth to argue but he cuts you off with a hand. “Nope. Go. I’m not losing my best writer to stress or whatever the hell this is.”

He straightens up, mutters something about needing a drink, and disappears back into the building.

The street feels quieter after that. You and Jason stay where you are for a moment, neither of you knowing what to say. The weight of five years sits heavy between you.

You finally look at him again—really look. The streak of white in his hair, the faint scar above his eyebrow, the tiredness that does not belong to someone his age. His eyes, though—those are still the same.

“You’re alive,” you say softly, as if saying it too loudly might break the illusion.

He nods once, his throat tight. “Yeah. For a while now.”

You draw in a shaky breath and press your hand to your chest like you’re trying to slow your own heartbeat. “They buried you,” you whisper, the words trembling out of you. “I saw the reports, the funeral—”

“I know,” he says, cutting in quietly. “I can explain.”

You swallow hard, your vision blurring. “How?”

He hesitates. There are a thousand answers in his head and none of them sound right. “I’ll figure it out,” he finally says. “Just not here. Somewhere a little more… private.”

The air between you feels heavy again. Your lips part like you want to reply, but you can’t think of anything to say. You can feel your knees starting to shake again, exhaustion pulling you down.

“Come on,” he murmurs, standing and offering his hand. “Let’s get you home.”

You hesitate for only a moment before taking it. His grip is steady, warm, grounding in a way that makes something deep in your chest ache.

He walks you to your car in silence. Neither of you speak, afraid that the moment will shatter if you do.

As you reach the driver’s side door, you look back at him once more, still searching for the boy you used to know in the man standing before you.

“Follow me,” you say, your voice low but steady despite the tremor running through your hands.

Jason blinks, caught off guard. “What?”

You glance up at him, the city light flickering across your face, making your expression unreadable. “Follow me home,” you repeat. “I can’t just… go the rest of the day pretending this didn’t happen. I need to talk to you.”

He wants to argue. He wants to say it’s not a good idea, that too much has happened, that he doesn’t even know what to say once you’re alone. But the words won’t come. Instead, he just breathes out slowly and nods.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “We do need to talk, don’t we?”

You give a small, almost nervous smile before stepping back toward your car. “I’ll drive slow,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I’ll keep up,” he replies.

You nod once and slip into your car, shutting the door carefully as if any sudden movement might break the fragile calm between you. The engine hums to life, headlights cutting through the faint evening mist.

Jason watches for a second, grounding himself in the sight of you actually there, moving, breathing, real. Before he turns and walks toward where his bike is parked at the corner.

He pulls his helmet on, his fingers lingering against the edge of the visor as you pull out into traffic. The red glow of your taillights catches his attention immediately. He revs the engine and follows, keeping a careful distance.

The ride through Gotham is quiet in a strange, yet peaceful way. The streets are slick from a drizzle earlier, and the glow of the streetlights stretches long across the asphalt. He stays behind you, watching the rhythm of your turns, the familiar way you drive. He remembers teaching you once. Late nights, empty roads, the two of you laughing as you stalled the car for the fifth time.

He shakes the memory away, jaw tight. This isn’t the same. Too much time has passed, too much has changed.

You drive through the old neighborhoods near downtown, the kind with brick buildings and flickering street lamps. When you finally slow and turn into a narrow street, he recognizes it vaguely. One of those quiet, tucked-away areas far enough from the chaos of Gotham to almost feel safe.

You park in front of a three-story apartment building with ivy crawling up one side. Your car door opens, and you step out, glancing behind you as if to make sure he really followed.

He kills the engine, the sudden silence pressing in on both of you.

You look at him for a long moment, searching his face for something. Anger, regret, maybe the boy you once knew. Whatever you find there makes you sigh softly, tension easing just slightly from your shoulders.

“Come on,” you say, nodding toward the entrance. “We’ll talk inside.”

You look away first, unlocking the complex door with your card, pretending you don’t notice the way he stiffens slightly at the sound of it.

He follows you up the narrow stairs, the scent of rain and coffee lingering in the air. When you unlock your door, warmth spills out—not from the heat, but from the space itself. Your apartment feels alive, soft, and lived in, like the kind of place that hums quietly even when empty.

Sunlight filters through sheer curtains, painting the hardwood floor gold. Books are stacked in uneven piles, some open, some bookmarked with crayon drawings. A record plays faintly from a corner, a low, scratchy jazz tune that makes the air feel slower.

There are plants in chipped mugs on the windowsill, a blanket tossed carelessly over the couch, and a tiny pair of pink sneakers by the door beside your own shoes. A child’s watercolor painting hangs on the fridge—a house, two stick figures, a red heart above them.

The whole place smells faintly of books and vanilla and something sweeter underneath—something warm and unmistakably you.

And standing in the doorway, Jason realizes this is exactly what he used to imagine you’d build. A world full of colour, softness, and a life he somehow missed watching grow.

You leave the door open for him, walk in without looking back, and he steps in after you, closing the door behind him.

For a moment, neither of you say anything. You set your keys down on the counter, your hands shaking slightly, and he stands in the entrance, unsure if he should sit, move, speak.

Finally, you turn to him, your expression soft but exhausted. “Five years,” you say quietly. “Five years, Jason. And now you’re just here.”

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

You let out a shaky laugh, running a hand through your hair. “I don’t even know what to ask first.”

“Start anywhere,” he says finally. “I’ll try to keep up.”

You nod slowly, moving to sit on the couch, your fingers brushing absently over the edge of a cushion as if grounding yourself. The words leave your mouth quietly, but with a steady sort of weight. “Then let’s start with how the hell you’re alive.”

He stays standing for a second, jaw tight, like he’s debating how to begin. Then, with a quiet sigh, he sits down across from you, elbows resting on his knees, eyes lowered to the floor. “It’s not a short story,” he mutters.

“I’ve got time,” you say softly.

So he tells you. Once he starts, it spills out in pieces, raw and uneven, like it’s still hard for him to believe it himself. He tells you about the Joker, about the crowbar, about the moments he remembers before everything went black. His voice goes quiet when he reaches the part about the pit—about the cold and the rage and the way it burned everything he used to be.

He doesn’t look at you as he talks about the Al Ghuls, or about clawing his way back to Gotham with too much anger and too little reason. His tone steadies when he mentions the Red Hood, the years of fighting, the half-rebuilt bridges with his family.

You listen silently, your hands clasped in your lap, every few seconds feeling the breath catch in your throat. The story sounds impossible, but the man sitting in front of you is very real, his voice rough and tired in the way only truth can sound.

He mentions how it was Damian who found your photo first, how Tim ran the records, how everything unraveled from there. The moment he says it, his eyes lift, hesitant, as if he’s not sure what comes next or how much he’s allowed to say.

The silence that follows stretches, heavy and trembling. You realize you’ve been holding your breath.

“You know about Lizzie,” you finally breathe out. It isn’t a question, not really.

He nods once, slow, eyes dark. He doesn’t trust himself to speak.

Your chest tightens, the weight of six years pressing down all at once. The sound of the record still hums faintly in the background, the low crackle filling the silence between you.

“She’s yours, you know,” you say after what feels like forever, the words coming out quiet but certain.

His head lifts at that, eyes meeting yours for the first time since he sat down. There’s something fragile in the look he gives you. A longing.

“You want to see her,” you say softly, and he almost looks ashamed.

“She thinks I’m dead.”

“So did I.”

His eyes flicker up at you again, and this time there’s something raw in them. A mix of guilt and ache and a tenderness he doesn’t know what to do with. You can tell he’s holding back, that he doesn’t want to push, doesn’t think he deserves to.

“I don’t even know where to start,” he admits, his voice small in a way that startles you. “I missed everything. Her first steps, her first words, birthdays, school, all of it. And it’s not like I can just walk in now and say hey, surprise, I’m your dad. That’s not fair to her.”

You nod slowly, fingers tracing the hem of your sleeve. “She’s curious,” you admit. “About him. About you. She asks sometimes, and I tell her the truth. That he was brave, and kind, and that he would have loved her more than anything.”

He exhales shakily, and for a moment you think he might break.

“I did,” he says, almost to himself. “I do.”

Your eyes soften, a small, sad smile tugging at your mouth. “She’d like you,” you murmur. “She has the biggest imagination I’ve ever heard of, and she’s a little too clever for her own good. She laughs like you used to.”

He looks up at you then, and something inside him shifts. A quiet realization that no amount of lost years could erase what he still feels—for you or for the child he’s never met.

You pause for a long moment, weighing something silently while Jason waits, tense and still. Then you stand. Your hands linger at your sides for a second like you are bracing yourself before you say, “Wait here a second.”

You disappear down the hallway. He hears the soft sounds of a closet door, something being shifted, then the quiet shuffle of you returning.

When you come back, your arms are full. A small stack of books, their covers worn, corners softened by years of being opened and reopened.

You sit beside him again, close but not touching.

“Baby books,” you say quietly. There is no embarrassment in it, only a kind of careful honesty. You set them on the coffee table and take the top one—a pale yellow notebook with a peeling label.

You open it. Inside, a sonogram picture is taped to the first page. The date is written in the corner in your messy fifteen-year-old handwriting.

“I started this the day I found out,” you say, thumb brushing the edge of the picture. “I was fifteen. It was May.” Your voice softens, barely more than breath. “You’d been gone for a month.”

Jason’s shoulders go rigid. He stares at the page like it might shatter if he blinks too hard.

“I didn’t believe it at first,” you admit. “I just thought everything in my life was spiraling because you were… because you were gone. I thought that was the reason I felt sick all the time. Why I couldn’t sleep. Why everything hurt.” You huff a faint, humorless laugh. “Took three tests before Mom found me crying in the bathroom.”

You turn the page. More sonograms. Notes scrawled in handwriting that’s both young and exhausted.

“I read Pride and Prejudice every night for weeks,” you continue, not looking up. “I guess I needed something that felt like you. I was debating between naming her Jane or Elizabeth, but I thought you’d want her to be named after someone a little more headstrong.”

You flip forward to a page that’s nearly torn from being handled so many times. A journal entry from January.

“The birth was… long,” you say, a soft laugh slipping out. “She didn’t want to come out. I was in labor for twenty-four hours. And when she finally did, she came out screaming.”

There’s a picture taped beside the entry. You in a hospital bed, eyes exhausted, hair a mess, cheeks blotchy from crying. Tiny Lizzie is tucked against your chest, her face scrunched and red. You were so young.

“I held her and I just… I felt a kind of love that I never really knew existed.”

You breathe out slowly, steadying yourself, then continue.

You flip to a page taped with your high school diploma. The ribbon from your graduation cap is taped beside it, along with a picture of you in your gown holding baby Lizzie. Jason looks confused, not saying anything but the furrow in his brow says enough.

“I graduated that June. Two years early.” Your voice softens as you touch the corner of the diploma. “I pushed through everything—doubled my classes, took summer classes, begged teachers to let me test out of anything I could. I didn’t want her growing up watching me struggle through school at the same time I was trying to be her mother.”

Jason sighs, guilt overtaking his features. “You shouldn’t have had to.”

“I know.” You reply simply, obviously not wanting to go into the unfairness of it all.

You thumb through the rest of the pages. Lizzie’s first smile. Her first laugh. Her first stubborn refusal to nap. Drawings she made when she was two—scribbles labeled in your handwriting.

You sit with him for hours, long enough for the soft afternoon light to fade into molten gold, then into the deeper blues of early evening. It happens slowly, quietly, like the world outside is holding its breath along with the two of you.

At some point, you call your mom, asking her to pick Lizzie up from school, that you would appreciate her keeping her for the night if she could. Jason sits perfectly still the whole time, pretending not to listen but visibly absorbing every syllable.

After that, you return to him—and to the little universe you two laid open between you.

You show him everything.

Every baby book, every messy page, every carefully taped sonogram and crinkled hospital bracelet. Every picture of Lizzie with her tiny fists curled, her squinty newborn glare, her first wobbly steps, her toothy grin at two years old. Every story you can remember spills out of you, things you have not said out loud in years, things that feel heavier now that someone else is holding the memory with you.

You talk about the nights she would only sleep if you laid her on your chest, and the mornings she woke up babbling nonsense at her stuffed animals. You talk about the first time she said mama. The first time she asked if she could wear your sweater because it smelled like you. The times she refused to nap unless you read to her.

Jason listens like he’s memorizing each missed second and tattooing it into his heart. There’s grief in his eyes, raw and quiet. But there’s also awe. And something like gratitude. And hope.

The light grows dimmer. You turn on a lamp, and the room becomes smaller, softer, wrapped in warm light.

When you close the last book, hours have passed. The quiet that follows is heavy but not suffocating. It feels like standing on the edge of something large and unfinished, something that could still become something good if you’re careful.

You fold your hands in your lap, gathering your breath.

“I’ll talk to her,” you say. Your voice is soft but sure. “About you. About meeting you. If she wants to. I’m sure she will, but I’m asking anyway. I didn’t really explain the whole… dead thing yet so that won’t be an issue, I guess.”

Jason’s breath shudders in his chest. His eyes drop, then rise again, bright with something fragile and breaking open.

“Thank you,” he says. The words shake. “I… thank you.”

You stand, because you need to move or you’ll fall apart with how he’s looking at you. He rises too, slower, like he’s afraid the moment will vanish if he shifts too fast.

For a moment you both just stand there, suspended in a silence that feels too full, too fragile. He looks like he is standing on the edge of something he never expected to face, and you feel like your heart is a trembling thing trying to leap out of your chest.

Then he takes one small step toward you. His hands lift just slightly, not quite touching you, not quite confident enough to ask. It is the most hesitant you have ever seen him.

You close the distance.

The moment your arms slide around him, something in him breaks—not a violent break, but a quiet, devastating one. He exhales sharply into your shoulder, a sound that is half relief and half grief, and his arms come around you in a slow, careful sweep, like he is gathering something he thought he lost forever.

He pulls you in close. Closer than you expect. His forehead drops to your temple, and his hands flatten between your shoulder blades, holding you like he is afraid you will disappear if he loosens his grip even slightly.

His breathing is uneven. Shaky. He tries to mask it, but you feel every tremor through the press of his chest.

You curl your fingers into the back of his jacket, anchoring yourself against him as if your own knees are beginning to give out. His heartbeat is a frantic, disbelieving rhythm against your cheek. It’s the most grounding thing you’ve felt in your life.

He smells like leather and rain and something faintly smoky. Familiar, but older. Heavier.

His cheek brushes the top of your head as he shifts, tightening the hug just a little more, like he’s memorizing the feel of you. Like he’s trying to apologize without speaking. Like he’s trying to say he missed you without saying the words out loud.

You don’t know how long you stay like that. Seconds, minutes, something in between. Enough for the world outside the apartment to fade. Enough for the ache in both your chests to settle into something warm and painful and necessary.

Finally, his voice slips out, quiet and raw.

“I didn’t think I’d ever get to do this again.”

You don’t reply with words, your arms just tighten around him.

When you pull back, his hands linger on your arms, grounding you both, before they fall away.

“I should go,” he murmurs, the words hurting to speak. “Give you time. Give her time.”

You nod, blinking through tears threatening to fall and the weight in your chest. “I’ll call you. After I talk to her. I promise.”

He swallows hard, nods once, and turns toward the door.

But at the last second he looks back, eyes sweeping over the warm light of your apartment, the books on the table, the remnants of a life he never knew he had helped create.

There’s pain in his expression. But there’s hope, too. Small, trembling, stubborn.

He leaves quietly, descending the stairs with a slow, heavy tread. You hear the front door open, then close.

And when the silence settles again, your apartment feels different. Like the air has shifted. Like the world has cracked open in a way that might finally let something good grow.

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