CHAPTER ONE / MASTERLIST / Subscribe on AO3
Pairing: Jason Todd/Non-binary!Reader
Summary: Something hunts Jason from the shadows and its wearing the face of that God forsaken clown.
Running from trouble, you just want a moment to catch your breath and lay low.
But life’s a tricky thing, isn’t it? The stars above Gotham align just so, throwing you into the path swathed with moody red and wicked sharp tongues.
And too be fair, you’ve never been good at staying on the straight and narrow.
Tags: Non-binary Reader, Dick and Reader are Roma, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Fluff and Angst, Body Horror, Post Arkham Knight, jason goes to therapy fr, do i project my disabilities onto everyone? yes i do, i make dc and marvel kiss a little, i just love writing about jason learning to give and accept love
Word Count: 8432
“So, do you want pizza as a thanks?” you offered. “Although we’re even now.”
Jason tapped his helmet.
You frowned. The look you gave almost made him laugh, too—it rivalled Alfred’s are you fucking stupid? face.
“I know,” you said, your brows still furrowed. It was shaken off as you reached up to the bedside table and pulled down a wad of tissues. Laying them out, you placed a few slices onto the ‘plate.’
“Take the box.” You held it out to him.
Unbeknownst to you, Jason’s expression pinched. “Don’t eat on the floor,” he muttered, crossing the small space to claim the leftover pizza. You rolled your eyes.
“Sorry, I’ll just go get my finest china out of my backpack.”
The two of you stared at each other in silence for a moment, scrutinising one another. A few seconds passed before you smirked and ducked your head, finding your own joke funny. He wouldn’t admit it if he did too.
A/N: I've been working on this baby since Dec 2020, so I'm glad to finally release it! I hope you're able to enjoy the journey as much as I have.
I'm just editing chapters now, so that means weekly updates for you all! I'm thinking Sundays so we all have something to get us through Mondays. But for this week, there's a bonus chapter to kick things off.
I want to mention that for the first part of this story, Reader is malnourished and it features in the text at times (not an ED). As the chapters go on and they are able to gain weight, it isn't discussed beyond self-image issues.
Catch you again soon!
Yet another echo of distant, growling voices slapped against the brick-laid walls. It spooked you and you clung to your bag a little tighter, as if it offered any safety. The rats that scuttled out of the corner of your eyes made your disgust well-up. You swallowed, seeing the dried blood splatters both on the ground and the empty high-rise buildings. That was a reoccurring, skin-crawling sight tonight.
So far, you’d wandered from worse to bearable to bad, or was it the other way around? You weren’t sure anymore. You'd hoped, at one point or another in your travels, that something would click. You needed a lightbulb moment to guide your way.
Continuing along the dark streets, you did your best to ignore the stench of trash and the cold that gnawed at your brittle bones. A measly woollen sweater hung over your shivering frame, shuffling to and fro with the wind.
Abruptly, your senses set alight, paranoia chasing goosebumps up your arms and neck. At once, you heard boots stomping against cement. It approached rapidly, one thump after another. You held onto your bag and whipped around.
A figure clothed in red flew past you as you both stumbled into an alleyway on impact. It was an ungraceful collision where your limbs hit wall painfully. A belting roar ricocheted into the narrow street within seconds. Whatever it was merely tossed you aside with its enormity and speed and went after the crumpled crusader.
For a moment, you remained folded against the brick, gulping down a lungsful of air. Unfortunately, adrenaline forced you to scramble upwards to watch the disaster happening before you.
The stranger barely had time to roll away before the giant was pummelling down. Its fists were misshapen; barely passable stumps that looked like they were made of mud and rot. Between them, boisterous heaves filtered into the suddenly-stuffy air. You realised that thing was probably about to win.
With a rattled breath, you raised your hand. Nothing happened. A sick feeling drowned the contents of stomach.
Again, you mustered your will and honed in on the dreadful beast. With a second shake of your wrist, the creature jerked sideways a touch. Almost like you’d bitch-slapped it.
The piece you carved from it sloughed off its body and melted into the ground, becoming just another dark stain. It still shocked you to see your ability in action. However, the dash of hope was snuffed out as the perturbed creature swivelled its head to you. Its nostrils flared.
“Shit.”
It lunged, bounding over the pavement in what you couldn’t describe as being on either two or four legs. You stumbled further backwards, palming for purchase along the disgustingly sticky brick. “Shit, shit, shit!”
You almost cried when it happened. With your arms raised defensively in front of you, the creature swept away with a jarring metal clang, hitting one of the buildings that lined the dead-end street. It let out a wail but didn't attempt to get up, though it writhed on the spot.
“Woah,” came the voice of yet another figure appearing by your side. Your eyes snapped to him, jittery from the ordeal. This one was clad in blue.
Tentatively, he passed you your bag that had fallen in the scuffle. When you didn’t immediately accept it, he tried again, voice placating. “That was cool.”
You snatched the bag but stayed mute. You eyed him, and then the red... man, you supposed. He was still splayed on the ground, helmet intact despite it all. Strangely, it almost seemed like he was speechless too, with the indents of his eyes peering up at you—calculating. They had matching bat symbols plastered across their chests, which prompted: “Are you brothers?”
“What? No!” the blue one sputtered. “Why would you say that?”
“Shut up,” Red grit.
“Right,” Nightwing said.
You realised the red man’s voice was... warbled. Like a robot trying to communicate. It set you on edge again.
After a pause, he spoke up, sounding frustrated. “I didn’t need your help.”
You weren’t quite sure if it was directed at you, although the words seemed to ignite something in Nightwing. He hurriedly moved to help Red Hood up from where the beastly thing had pounced on him originally. “Dude, why’d you run off? Look at this mess.”
“I was handling it.” Jason ignored the arm held out as he stood up. He shoved Dick’s hands away, then snapped, “Stop following me.”
You broke their argument with a soft whisper, watching the creature who was stirring. “What is that?”
They both turned to look at you.
“Who are you?” Red demanded.
You didn’t know what to say. They didn’t seem coordinated enough to do anything bad to you, but...
You slumped against the wall, curling in on yourself, unsure of this whole situation. You’d just revealed a dangerous thing about your person.
“My name’s Nightwing,” Dick offered gently. His careful eyes trailed over Jason, before saying, “I’m not going to hurt you.”
That little action had you reeling. “Is he?” you asked warily, following Nightwing’s diligent gaze to his brother. Red snorted, but it sounded odd through the helmet.
He was staring at you again. With what little determination you had left, you glared back. You didn’t trust the faceless man not to tackle you on a whim, especially when his fingers twitched on the guns holstered to his upper thighs. The air between them felt heavy with the unsaid.
“No,” Dick assured. He looked away from you. “Did you alert the GCPD?”
You noticed the tiny movements of Red’s posture and helmet, the tells that his attention had been redirected elsewhere. “Yes.”
Dick looked over from them to the odd being in question. “It’s contained?”
Jason didn’t reply. Instead, his fists clenched tighter.
“Okay,” Dick murmured, trying to walk back the doubt he’d cast on his brother. “Okay. That’s good. Good job.”
“Relax, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle,” you muttered to yourself. Nightwing stifled his laughter into his shoulder, but Red’s head snapped to you.
“What?” came the mechanical voice, and it felt like he tried to burn you with his deadly stare.
“You’re welcome, by the way,” you retorted. You were probably testing his patience, but he’d done nothing but try to intimidate you.
Nightwing stepped in then, blocking you from his sight. “Come back to the Manor later, please?”
“Take them home,” Jason said, tone slicing like dropped steel that barely missed your toes.
Dick raised his hand to place on his shoulder, but it floated unsurely. “Please, Ja—”
The words were cut off as Jason grabbed the collar of Dick’s suit, forcefully pushing him backwards and closer to you. Dick swallowed the rest of his desperate plea. The regret was obvious in his clenched jaw. He knew he shouldn’t have said Jason’s name but it had escaped before he could think about it.
You wanted to inch away, but they’d basically blocked you into the alley. You leaned away from the kafuffle, scarcely avoiding the heat of Nightwing’s body.
“Don’t,” Jason ground out, knuckles still stretched taut near Dick’s neck. “Take. Them. Home.”
With that, he let go. As he stepped back, he risked a glance at you over Dick’s shoulder.
Man, did his attitude need retuning, you thought.
Dick deflated. Then, he nodded.
Jason didn’t waste any longer in the alleyway, needing to put distance between the three of them. He was suffocating under his brother’s despair. He spun around and briskly disappeared into the darkness of the decaying street. You lost sight of him within a few steps, but you heard the rungs of a nearby ladder drop. It blended into police sirens.
You finally peeled away from the dirty wall, uncertain of what to do next. Running and screaming sounded fun.
Nightwing sighed loudly. It was quiet for a few more moments, the both of you absorbing what had just happened. You—your first encounter with something inhuman—and him, well, whatever the hell that had been between Jason and himself.
He wanted to be mad. He undeniably was, but—it was crushing to see the state of his brother. Dick wanted to be angry and resolve it the way normal families did. His mind flitted over Bruce and he couldn’t help but think this is your fault. He felt the volatile thoughts capsizing, white heat spreading to his limbs.
Stop, he told himself. Dick choked it down to stew about later.
“Spurned lover?” you said, tone obnoxious. You deserved a slap upside the head for that comment.
The corner of Nightwing’s mouth lifted.
“No. He’s just not a...” Dick settled on, “People person.” He sighed again, then tried to resume his cheerful character. “Let’s get you somewhere safe, yeah?”
You remained silent. Even if you allowed him lead you some place, where were you going to go? The nearest cardboard box in a sheltered side street?
Your blinking tipped him off. “You’re new to town?”
You bit your tongue and nodded.
“Okay. I can take you to a motel?” Nightwing proposed.
God, you’d already laid half your cards on the table. What was a little more? you thought bitterly. “I don’t have the money for that.”
“It’s alright. I’ll take care of it.” Nightwing started walking, urging you to join him with a wave of his hand. “I know you don’t trust me, but... consider it a ‘thank you’ for tonight.”
You snorted. At least someone was grateful for your shitty help. Though that meant the two men were definitely known to each other. Your mind wandered off on that tangent for a few minutes as you trailed after him, pace slow.
You were no longer cold after that excitement, but you kept your belongings tight against your body. You kicked a pebble as you walked. Occasionally, you’d hum an anxious note under your breath. You hoped you weren’t stupid enough to let yourself be lured to an early grave.
While it didn’t seem like you were going to get an explanation about that hellish monster, you were relieved that the stranger didn’t ask about your weirdness. You knew he had been looking you over, searching for an answer in the strained silence. You shied away when his eyes lingered on the scars that peeked out of your billowing sleeves.
Nightwing’s voice displaced the eerie hush then. “What brings you to Gotham?” he asked, turning his head again.
You mulled over your next words carefully. “Finding somewhere to live.”
Dick nodded. “Where are you from?”
“Europe.”
He accepted it easily. “Staying long?”
You frowned, uncomfortable with the twenty questions game. You turned it back on him after an awkward beat. “Are you friends?” you blurted out, “with the grump?”
A long pause, before, “We used to be.”
You didn’t push beyond that.
As you walked, Dick became aware of the presence following them from above. A red uniform that glided along the top of the buildings, attempting to stay out of sight.
He tried to stifle the hope that thrummed alive from beneath the murky depths.
With a quiet, “Thank you,” you closed the door as gently as you could as not to cause offence. However, you triple-checked the locks.
You took a few moments to breathe. Really breathe—deeply—and exhaled face down into the mattress. For the first time in perhaps weeks—you’d lost count—you felt a little bit safe. Enough to relax for a few hours. To sink into the barely-made covers of the bed, with four grimy walls to keep the weather and other atrocities at bay.
For a while you lay on your stomach, just trying to release the from pressure deep within your muscles. However, a grumbling stomach alerted you to the fact that you were still human.
With a sigh, you sat back up and spilt the contents of your sack onto the bed. The few dollars you had left tumbled out, along with an apple, a snack bar of sorts, an old phone, two t-shirts, and your water bottle. You settled for the bar.
Staring hopelessly at what little money you had, you knew you were going to have to steal sooner or later to survive. You didn’t even have regular scraps at this point.
You wished your phone would ring with a solution.
The morning brought a soft light speckling over the bed. You wanted to stay there a bit longer, in this simple luxury you hadn’t had in so long.
But no, you would have to keep looking for a sanctuary. Nightwing had given you a night’s reprieve and you were not going to test your luck with the bizarre vigilante when he had bestowed you with something nice. Besides, you didn’t have the money to pay him back or continue your retreat there.
Bag slung over your shoulder, you eyed the bed and the bathroom, savouring the memories of warmth one last time. Closing the door behind yourself was hard.
You trailed up to the shoddy front desk, gripping the key. Filled with dismay, you placed the card on the counter with a sullen, “Thank you.”
“No refunds for the remaining nights,” the woman monotoned, peering over her novel.
“What?”
“That... gentleman said you were staying the week,” she sighed, discontent with your obliviousness.
You managed to stammer out, “I... It’s paid for?”
She just raised her eyebrow.
Pondering the situation, you weren’t sure what it meant if you accepted that key back. What did Nightwing want?
Your shadow hardly proved a nuisance as the clerk went back to her book, ignoring your internal debate. Another night, much less a week, was beyond tempting.
You rubbed at your eyes, feeling like this would be trouble down the line. However, you snatched back the key. This time, a little more confidently, you parted with an, “Alright. Thanks.”
Walking briskly down the cold Gotham streets, you snatched a piece of fruit from a passing grocer’s stall.
Jason Todd decided he was going to have a Peaceful Fucking Morning. Not the texts pouring in from Dick, or the aching in his spine, knees, shoulder, etcetera, would deter him from his mission.
He sunk into the cushioned loveseat that was rammed into the far reading corner of Gotham City Public Library. Considering the infernal realm that this city was, the library was cosy despite all the evil forces it had going against it.
He opened up My Year of Rest and Relaxation, careful to avoid imparting more damage to the spine of the already heavily-used book. He sipped at his coffee and continued on from where he last left off.
Jason wasn’t going to think about how he ran away from his brother and the smartass victim, or the weird thing that had attacked him. The tenacity in which it had pursued him in—wanting a chunk of his deranged hide.
Well, get in line, he blew air out his nose.
Jason’s head jerked up when he spotted the same ratty bag that he’d seen last night. And attached to it, the same stranger that had gotten in the way. Fear swiftly pounded in his ears and he cast his face downwards.
The only reason you’d notice him was for his tattered face, Jason reminded himself acrimoniously. He’d been wearing his helmet, he reasoned, in an attempt to quell the anxiety. Nonetheless, he tugged at his hood until his cheek was hidden, shielding the scar from prying eyes.
With a harsh swallow, he peeked at you again. He noted how you’d sat down at a nearby table, back to him. You flipped through newspapers rather rapidly. Jason’s eyes narrowed at that. Why hadn’t you hightailed it out of Gotham already?
Jason decided to keep an eye on you. His gaze flicked from the words on the page, to your form and back, several times over.
It caught his interest when you stopped on one page for too long. He put down the book and slowly got up. His butt-fucked joints led him behind the desk. Peering over your shoulder, every muscle in Jason’s body stiffened.
He was looking back at a photo of himself and the bloodshed he’d caused.
Stepping into the library, you made a beeline for the newspaper stand. Taking today’s copy of the Gazette, and a few old ones, you hastily scooped them into your arms. Your eyes swept over the large room, looking for somewhere to sit. You decided on a table near the reading nook. It was secluded, save for the body looking comfortable on an overstuffed lounge.
You paid him little mind. Your focus was on the newspapers and the secrets they held. Who was Nightwing? And the red one?
You thumbed through the pages, glancing over headlines and photos. You read through a couple of stories. Clearly, the crime rate was high in this city. The list of vigilantes and mob bosses seemed endless.
An image of Nightwing came up first. He’d saved a group of civilians from a shoot-out.
Next, you found the one that interested you most: ‘Red Hood Intervenes in Arms Deal, Weapons Go Missing.’ Your jaw tensed. That didn’t sound good.
A sudden tickle ran up your spine. The sensation of a presence behind you caused you to whip around. Paranoia wasn’t something to be so easily ignored—especially now in a place like this, you realised. Relief overwhelmed you when it was just the other library-goer. He rushed past you, book a-tow.
You refocused on the newspapers, your thoughts going haywire.
Were these people like you?
You leaned back in the chair. Chewing your lip absently, you recalled what you’d read and your experience of the night before. Arms crossed, you sank into yourself, and in turn, the distant hope that pulled at your gut.
Were there more?
Damp. That’s how you’d describe the cell if anyone ever asked. The walls, the floor, even the bed sheets always felt sodden under your fingertips. Maybe it was from all the crying you had done or from those that came before you. Ghosts inevitably carving their mark into this hellhole.
Your eyes drifted to the stone walls, fleetingly curious about whether anyone had ever bothered to leave their name or initials hidden. As a reminder that they existed—that they were here once.
That could be a project for another day when you weren’t so troubled, you decided.
The men behind the see-through screen seemed to take note of your roving eyes. You felt them. Upon realising that, you retreated back into yourself before they came forward to observe further. You weren’t a freebie.
You scooted behind the bed, trying to hide from the leering stares of your so-called saviours. Day and night, someone would be watching you, guaranteed. You tugged the blanket closer, trying to build a soft, protective wall. It too felt waterlogged.
You rubbed at your pruned skin, wondering if you could get trench foot this way.
You assumed it was night time. They turned the lights off at night, resorting to pointing torches into the cells, finding it funny to beam them straight into your eyes. Toying with you when they could, especially when you weren’t entertaining enough.
A pained wailing came from further down the hall, signalling that there were at least a few others trapped like you. You weren’t sure if that made you feel any better.
With your eyes screwed shut, you bounced your head against the wall in frustration. A migraine was starting to seep into your brain from the screaming that hadn’t stopped in the last hour. What had happened to them? Were you next?
You tried to count the threads on your raggedy excuse for clothes, searching for a feasible distraction.
When that didn’t work, you resorted to digging your nails into your palms. The pulsing in your head was beginning to make you nauseous. You considered clawing at the barely healed wounds on your arms. Maybe it’d drown out the noise. But, being sick or wounded meant scrutiny and physical contact. Two things best avoided in this place.
Suddenly, an electrical shock in your brain meant your head accidentally smacked against the stony wall.
“Shit!” you yelped, slapping a hand to the spot that throbbed. Because of it, you almost missed the eerie voice that spoke beneath the pulsing sensation.
“You are suffering too, yes?” it asked.
Your chin whipped around, searching the cell. You even peeked around the blanket. No one out of the ordinary was there.
“Yes?” you spoke into the air timidly.
Abruptly, the shrieking ceased. You heard a soft whimper from behind you through the thick wall. Almost immediately, the migraine eased back to a bearable level.
Quietly, you asked, “Did you do that?”
It was a few moments before you received the disembodied, “Yes.”
You gulped nervously. You hadn’t had much of a chance to talk to anyone in your time here. However long that was. The guards were religious about the captives being kept separate from each other. No chance of escape then.
“Are you next to me?” you cautiously whispered.
“I am,” they said. The voice was deep but quite feminine. The accent was the same as yours. You felt a bit more confident knowing that. “Are you alright?”
“Better, now,” you said. You leaned your head back against the wall, grateful for it to be finally quiet, except for the weird tingles that vibrated throughout your brain.
“Are you telepathic?” you murmured. It was weird to have a conversation like a normal person. Usually, you were begging for them to stop and leave you alone.
“Something like that,” she explained. You nodded to yourself, accepting the answer.
There was silence for a long time before the voice said more. “Don’t hurt yourself, not for them.”
You wanted to speak but the sickly spotlight shone upon you in that moment. Your blood turned cold. A gruff yell came from outside the cell: “Wakey, wakey, sunshine—!”
*
That familiar shock startled you awake. A buzzing traversed your nerves, from your fingers to your toes. It was a strange kind of comfort; slightly warming in its path.
You pulled your phone off the table, longing for a soothing message or notification. Nothing.
You sighed, realising it must have just been your brain overreacting. It wasn’t quite a nightmare, you thought. More like a memory playing out.
You missed your friend’s face. Wishing it had appeared in the dream, you tried to conjure it up for your own sake. When was the last time you saw them smile?
Too long ago.
You realised then that you’d fallen asleep with the old, tiny TV on. It reminded you of the more war-torn parts of your home city where they were common. There was another pang of yearning for something that no longer existed—that would never be the same.
The static fizzed; random, muffled voices breaking through every so often. Much like those ghost detector machines you’d seen on YouTube. You continued to lay there on the cosy bed, listening to that sound. It was snug in the sheets, so unlike the clammy ones you had to endure back there. You scratched at your arms, finding them itchy now.
It was endless, the worry your safety could be breached at any moment. Anxiety chewed at you, gnawing its way into your weak soul.
But your friend’s words echoed in your mind:‘Don’t hurt yourself because of them.’
It was enough to suppress any urge for the rest of the night.
*
You hadn’t ventured far that day, only leaving your room to visit the vending machine for a lemon soda. Cracking it open in the tiny courtyard, you soaked in some of the gloomy sun. Still, it rippled past you and warmed your freezing skin. You felt a little more alive.
The journey back was short. You glanced at passersby, wondering what had lured them to Gotham. Not a weird calling like you, surely?
You stopped, eyes falling. A neat pile of something laid at the foot of your door.
Warily, you leaned down and poked it. It seemed to be all cloth. You looked around as if you were going to find the culprit waiting behind the nearest corner. It was obviously meant for you, right?
With a sigh, you scooped it up. Since Nightwing was the one who dropped you off, you supposed it had to be a gift from him. Another one? you thought incredulously.
A couple pairs of socks, a t-shirt, and a box of assorted snacks. Hm.
“Call me poor to my face next time,” you muttered, stuffing the bundle into your arms. Contrarily, you were grateful on the inside. You unlocked the door and snuck back into the room.
You noticed a slip of paper wedged between the goodies. A handwritten phone number was on the top side. And when you flipped it over, it read, ‘For when he gets in trouble next.’
At least Nightwing was funny, you mused.
Squinting, you brought it closer to see, ‘Or if you need help!’ had been messily scribbled out.
*
The absolute divine cloud of cheese and herbs that wafted from the pizza box practically carried you back to the motel. You were absolutely starving, having eaten very little in the past few days. You’d anxiously splurged on a whole pizza and justified it by knowing you could save the rest in the mini-fridge. Which was a shocking luxury for the scrap-heap room you were headed to.
Chin propped, you did your best attempt at a leave-me-alone stride along the Gotham streets. The chilly air prickled at your skin but you tried to channel the burning heat from the box into the rest of your body. The cracked cement tripped you up every so often. Why the hell were you still here?
You huffed with relief when you passed the last building on the dingy street, spotting the glowing VACANT sign in the motel’s car lot. There were a few vehicles scattered at their owners’ pleasure. Walking by the front office, you noticed the clerk was asleep. It wasn’t the same old bat; this time it was a teenager.
Unsteadily, you shuffled the pizza box to balance on your left palm, while the other rummaged through your pants pocket for the room key.
A voice standing entirely too close, and entirely too breathy, made you freeze as it hit your neck.
“Hiya, darl.”
You kept your fingers clutched around the key, unsure of your next move. Slowly, you peered over your shoulder. An older man leered at you, cigarette hanging over his lips. It spat ash into the breeze. He smiled when he had your attention.
It felt disgusting. His patchy beard was sprinkled with sweat. Alarm bells in your head screamed. You didn’t want to let him into your room, but staying outside didn’t seem any wiser.
You weren’t losing this fucking pizza.
“You lookin’ for company to share that feast with tonight?”
Still keeping your eyes on him, you inched closer to the door. “No.”
He let out a guttural laugh. “Come on, darl. Don’t be like that.”
A glint from the waist of his jeans made your heart drop into your ass. That sure looked like a weapon. You swallowed thickly, voice stuck.
The purr of an engine ripped the breath from your lungs. Your eyes darted upwards, watching the nondescript van roll into the far side of the car park. Tears stung your eyes.
No, it couldn’t be them—no!—how did they find you?
You couldn’t believe what was happening. One more word out of his mouth and you were going to start hyperventilating. The heat of the pizza that seared your hand was no longer grounding enough. The man seemed to sense your distress and his grin widened.
“Feeling shy?” he crooned, reaching for you with crinkly palms. You immediately slapped him away. The man let out a tsk. For a moment, he turned to the van with his arms raised; the opening act for his audience.
You pressed the pizza to your chest and took the opportunity.
You launched your fist at him as hard as you could, hoping some of your ability would propel it. Without staying to watch his face snap six ways to Sunday, you bolted across the threshold, praising whatever higher power that had installed the electronic lock and key. You tossed the box onto the ground.
However, a foot wedged in the doorway stopped you from slamming it entirely shut.
“Oh darl, now you’re just being nasty,” he snarled, attempting to force you back. You threw your weight against the door frantically. You barely kept it in place as he pounded on it.
Homeless and starving: two points, and you: zero.
Suddenly, a deep thump sounded against the door, followed by a cacophony of swearing. You were shoved back with the brute force of it.
And then, the man flew through the gap, having received a boot to the chest. You let out a strangled noise, falling to the ground, almost squashing your pizza. Your eyes roved upwards, trailing after the figure that marched into the room.
Red Hood. Like he owned the damn place.
He picked up the man by the scruff and dragged him up. The man’s knees dangled dumbly as he clawed at the vigilante.
“Read the fuckin’ room next time, buddy,” Red warbled, stubbing out the cigarette on the goon’s face. At that, he cried and thrashed angrily, only for Red to drop him face first.
Your would-be attacker tried to roll over. He didn’t get far as swiftly, he received a pistol whipping with his own gun. There was a distinct crack on the second blow. He fell back with a pained moan but lapsed into silence.
Red hauled the unconscious man by his jean leg straight through the doorframe. He didn’t spare you a glance until he was done zip-tying the man to a post outside.
The screech of tires had both your heads jerking up. The van was escaping.
“Shit,” Red groaned. Finally, he inclined his head towards you in acknowledgement. “I’ll come back.” When that made you stiffen, he amended, “For him.”
“Oh,” you whispered, pretending to understand. Brain completely fried, you uttered the only thing you could manage: “Do you want some pizza?”
Red snorted. “Lock the door,” he said as he pulled it shut.
*
Seated on the floor by your pizza, you had your knees hugged to your chest. At some point in the past forty-five minutes, you’d stopped shaking, but you couldn’t get over how you were almost snatched. Back to them. Your fists clenched until your knuckles were white and pins and needles took over.
A knock against wood interrupted your self-pity session. Heart lurching, you shuffled backwards in a pathetic attempt of self-defence.
You remembered then that Red Hood said he would come back. You still did nothing but hide behind the loose sheets. You watched the door handle jiggle, feeling panic rising in your gut. Wasn’t this supposed to be your safe space for the week?
You wanted to vomit as the heavy, black combat boots of the vigilante entered the room. You looked past his feet and out the door, hoping to not find the man who’d tried to attack you. Thankfully, he was gone. Only a small smattering of blood was left behind on the pavement. A shallow breath escaped you.
You felt Red’s piercing eyes on you as he shut the door behind him.
“I told you to lock it,” he said, helmet whirring. He stopped a few paces into the room, but it felt like his presence loomed above you.
The invisible clock ticked in tandem with your pulse. Slowly, you met his waiting gaze. You didn’t know what to say. He was still kind of an untrustworthy asshole, right?
*
Jason watched you attempt to process the events of the last hour. Your energy was lacking, mismatched to the first time he’d met you. He stayed plastered to the farthest wall, trying to keep some space between you.
Shit, why did he say he’d come back? It was Dick’s thing to check on civilians. He was pretty sure whatever came out of his mouth next would make the trauma worse.
“What did you do with them?” came your quiet question.
Jason hadn’t meant to look down, but as soon as he did, your eyes landed on his gloves. The ones spotted with blood. It flaked off each time he clenched his knuckles.
“Took care of it,” he said. He crossed his arms, feeling the scars on his hands burn under your assessment.
Whatever answer you found in between the lines had your form relaxing slightly. Some of his discomfort diminished with yours, although he remained stock-still.
Jason watched you awkwardly pick at the invisible lint on your sleeves. In the back of his mind, the actions felt familiar. He took a moment to observe his surroundings. It was a normal motel room, aside from the person huddled in the same position as before he left. Guilt gnawed at the frayed edges of his mind about how bad a job he was doing to soothe you.
Not that anyone would expect better. He wrenched away from the thought.
You rested your chin on your knees before hesitantly asking, “Do you know who they were?”
That caught him off guard. It was both a hope and a horror to acknowledge that crime like this wasn’t as widespread elsewhere. “Sex traffickers,” he said charily.
“What?”
A wince overcame your face, like you were confused by his explanation. Interested, Jason’s head tipped and he leaned a little closer. The movement made your skittish eyes snap back to him. He paused but continued to regard you quizzically.
“Oh... right,” you said, attempting to keep him in place. You weren’t good at hiding whatever bothered you.
Carefully, he tried again, aiming for an even tone. “Did you... know him?”
“No!” you said, all too quickly. “I don’t think so...” you muttered to yourself, chin dipping as you got tangled in your own mind.
Jason was definitely put off by this answer. Disgust churned in his stomach, considering the worst. Were you a victim before this? It would make sense, he thought, looking over your sunken cheeks and frail body. Maybe that’s why you’d been getting into trouble? But how’d you get into it—in Gotham—in the first place?
Feeling his rising apprehension, you promptly changed the topic. “So, do you want pizza as a thanks?” you offered. “Although we’re even now.”
Jason tapped his helmet.
You frowned. The look you gave almost made him laugh, too—it rivalled Alfred’s are you fucking stupid? face.
“I know,” you said, your brows still furrowed. It was shaken off as you reached up to the bedside table and pulled down a wad of tissues. Laying them out, you placed a few slices onto the ‘plate.’
“Take the box.” You held it out to him.
Unbeknownst to you, Jason’s expression pinched. “Don’t eat on the floor,” he muttered, crossing the small space to claim the leftover pizza. You rolled your eyes.
“Sorry, I’ll just go get my finest china out of my backpack.”
The two of you stared at each other in silence for a moment, scrutinising one another. A few seconds passed before you smirked and ducked your head, finding your own joke funny. He wouldn’t admit it if he did too.
Jason retreated to the wall again. He was starting to feel the familiar ache in his body that said it was time to call it a night. “Are you staying long?” he wondered aloud.
“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” you retorted. He met you with another stare until you said more. “I don’t know. It seems like a good place for an adrenaline rush.”
“S’not a good place,” Jason warned. “You won’t be safe here.”
Shrugging off his concern, you munched on a pizza slice. Inwardly, you contemplated his grave words.
He watched, finding you strange. Not even ten minutes ago you’d been afraid of him, but now you were eating in his presence, eyes barely moving his way. You wilfully ignored his advice, as well. And while he hadn’t forgotten your very first encounter, you didn’t scream willing superhero.
For the first time since he’d arrived, Jason noticed the time flickering on the inside of his helmet, along with a barrage of emergency notifications. Two AM, and he was still here, arguing with you. He heaved a sigh.
“I’m leaving now,” he said abruptly. But it sounded too much like a question to his own ears. He bit his tongue, wanting to correct himself—to sound more in control. Your eyebrow raised.
He breathed deeply, in and out, and then expanded, “I’m needed elsewhere.”
Your jaw moved to agree.
Awkwardly, his eyes dropped to the pizza box in his grip. He tilted it in his hands. “You sure about this?” He wasn’t usually in the habit of accepting gifts.
“Take it.”
Swallowing clunkily, he admitted that it did smell good, even after an hour. With a curt nod, he peeled off the wall. He headed for the door, taking a moment to inspect it for damage as an ode to being dutiful.
Jason only made it out a couple of steps before he realised you’d stumbled after him.
You called out a, “Hey.”
He stopped, inclining his helmet in your direction.
“Um...” you started. When you said no more, he turned around, worry etched into his features. He didn’t voice his concern but his gaze didn’t waver either. He watched you tuck your hands under your armpits uncomfortably.
He was starting to choke on the silence. Usually this was his game. He finally bit out, “What—?”
“Thanks,” you interrupted. I think.
Red looked down at the pizza box. “We’re even, right?” he said lightly.
You laughed. Actually, really, laughed at that.
The adrenaline wearing off, probably, he thought. But his head cocked, absorbing the genuine sound and the curve of your smile that matched it. It’d been a long time since he’d heard someone laugh innocently. It was usually tears and screams and begging.
Jason stifled the nostalgia that began to envelope him. He didn’t—didn’t deserve that. He wasn’t allowed to miss things that were long ruined. Especially when he’d contributed to its downfall.
“Yeah,” you said, returning to your shell. “Yeah.” Even in the ghastly dim lights he saw you scratch nervously, but a small smile remained. “See you never, I guess.”
He nodded in understanding.
*
This time, as soon as the door closed behind Red, you checked the locks. A third incident for the week might cause you to have an actual meltdown.
You kneeled onto the floor to pack up the rest of your food and stuff it into the minifridge. You wiped your greasy hands on the leftover tissues.
You flopped onto the bed like an exhausted snow angel. Frazzled thoughts bombarded you as you stared at the pimpled ceiling tiles. God, you had basically told the Red Hood you were staying in Gotham, right?
Were you? Had your heart made a decision before your brain? Why? It had been nothing but trouble so far.
And more importantly, why had you given away your food?!
It might be easier if one of the tiles plonked you in the head while you slept.
Something occurred to you then. He hadn’t looked even a little bit hurt. The blood hadn’t been his. Was he superhuman?
You pushed away the onslaught of potential rumination.
Throwing off your shoes and jumper, you were tempted to slip beneath the covers without brushing your teeth. You sighed. That wouldn’t be the responsible choice.
Looking over at that pile of donated goods, you eyed the number that sat atop. Deliberating a nonsensical idea, you swooped your phone off the floor. You typed out a message.
Then deleted it.
And re-typed it.
Backspace. Backspace. Backspace.
This was stupid.
You sighed and knuckled at your tired eyes. You settled on a message and hit send. Tossing the phone aside, you got up to fulfil some kind of a bedtime routine.
YOU: He saved me tonight
YOU: Poor bedside manners tbh))
You didn’t like how vulnerable that message was, but... it was the truth, wasn’t it?
The second part was just for your sanity.
*
NW: What happened?
NW: R U OK?
NW: Is he?
That was just a few of the many texts you’d woken to. Your phone had buzzed next to your pillow for who-knows-how-long as you ignored it in favour of keeping your eyes screwed shut.
A tired yawn escaped as you curled onto your side. Rubbing the sleep out of your eyes, you mulled over replying. Nightwing’s impatience had nearly killed your phone battery, so you fished for the cord and plugged it in.
YOU: Yes
YOU: Sex trafficker at the motel. Idk anything else
Just as speedily, you received a response.
NW: Glad ur OK. Sorry about that
YOU: Not yr fault)
God, were you really chatting up a vigilante right now?
It was too early for this.
You put the phone aside even though you itched to talk more. You hadn’t had a good conversation in so long. Your mind lingered on the friends you hadn’t seen in ages.
You snapped back to reality. Second on the agenda was a shower.
*
You emerged fresh from the steam to find you had another text from the masked stranger.
NW: I looked that ) up! I thought it was a mistake
NW: R U Russian?
NW: ))
You snorted at his attempt to figure you out.
YOU: No
He sent you a string of emojis that didn’t make sense but nonetheless put a smile on your face. Was your first friend in Gotham really someone you couldn’t even hang out with? Figures.
Right. Well. Time to figure out something to do with your day.
*
The tumbling of the driers beckoned you towards the peacefulness of sleep. You considered it, slumping into the chair that poked the shit out of you. You sighed, shaking it off. Sleeping was a good way to get what little clothes you had stolen.
You stretched as you stood up. Your bag dragged along the floor as you wandered up to the notice board. Peering at the assortment of things pinned to it, you read over a lost cat and a panty snatcher… You snickered at that. Gross.
Furniture sales, rooms for rent. That one made you stop and think. You needed a room.
With what money? You frowned. You had to figure something out before your luck ran dry—or rather, Nightwing’s generosity.
A headline caught your eye. A crumpled newspaper clipping read ‘Copplepot Hung Out to Dry, Loses Millions Thanks to the Red Hood.’ Underneath was a description of a drug trade turned bloodbath. Interesting. His penchant for violence was becoming obvious and it unsettled you.
You continued scanning. ‘HELP NEEDED’ drew you in next.‘Page required for GC Public Library. Apply within.’
You had no idea what a library page was, other than in the literal sense. You tittered to yourself about the stupid thought. But a library was quiet—safe, right? You could keep your head down and hopefully out of the way of vigilantes with an affinity for catastrophe.
You hoped the ad wasn’t old before you tore it free and stuffed the paper into your bag. Looking over the clothes you wore, you decided that a change into something without holes was necessary before venturing off.
So, you sat back down, knees pulled up, anxiously pawing at your pants. There was still another fifteen minutes on the timer before the load dried. With your wistful gaze staring out the foggy window, you tracked the people that shuffled by.
*
Surprisingly, the library had a line-up. You eavesdropped, praying it wasn’t about the job. Karma was on your side as it seemed people were just disgruntled over their overdue book loans.
A few more queries passed before it was your turn. You tried to plaster a friendly smile across your face and stepped forward.
“Hello,” you said as the librarian helper looked up. They raised an eyebrow, caught off guard by the not-Gotham accent. It wasn’t even in the realm of American.
“What can I do for you?” they asked after a brief pause.
You introduced yourself, then pulled out the flyer. “I’m interested in this position, if it’s available?”
They looked down at it and hummed. “Oh, yes. It’s still open.” They looked back up at you. “Have you ever worked in a library before?”
You had completely forgotten the part where you might need a résumé. You grew nervous but held your arms at your side without fidgeting. “Not recently, but I used to work in the library during university,” you answered. A slight lie. You’d never actually gone to any classes before… everything. But you had helped at least once in a previous lifetime.
The desk person tapped their nails thoughtfully, looking you over. You felt them inspect your face, probably wondering if you were even old enough to trust. “And you know how to sort?”
“Yes,” you said, absolutely full of shit. But that’s what Google was for anyway.
They nodded, seemingly content with that. “Alright. It’s only part time and eight dollars an hour,” they warned. “But paid weekly.”
You smiled again gratefully. It was definitely lower than you expected but you needed it. “That works for me,” you reassured.
“Good,” they nodded again. “My name is Dorothy. Please come in tomorrow at ten.”
“Okay,” you agreed, “thank you very much! See you then.”
With parted goodbyes, you decided to grab a celebratory snack.
*
“Now if that isn’t the saddest sack of shit meal I’ve ever seen!” came a voice suddenly bellowing into your ear. You squeaked, almost falling off the wobbly stool. You turned your head to see a giant redhead man at your side, baseball cap worn backwards.
“What the hell is this, Francine?” he continued to shout at the waitstaff.
First of all, you were confused, and a little offended. It’s not like you’d gotten a signing bonus to spend.
Francine—you assumed—rolled her eyes at him. “Customer’s always right, Roy.”
He scoffed. “Get them a proper thickshake.” He winked at you then. “My treat.”
You were taken aback. What kind of dream sequence was this? Were you still sedated? You pinched yourself.
“Ain’t no dream, baby! Just the Roy Harper experience,” he winked again, making your mouth press into a line. However, his face crumpled into shock as he received a backhand from behind. “Hey!” he cried, turning around to face the woman who hit him.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, Roy?” she started. The woman had a tall, menacing stature about her, accompanied by an all-black outfit. “Again, seriously?”
He pouted. “I’m being the change Gotham needs.”
“I ought to commit you to Arkham one of these days,” she muttered. “Stop harassing strangers.” She gave him another look before heading back to their table. It was a few metres away from where you sat.
You watched, amused, until your attention was brought forward again. A large glass filled to the brim with whipped cream, sprinkles, and a pretty red cherry was slipped in front of you. Roy handed a cash note over the counter and smiled at you, a little less crazed.
“Shit, I shoulda asked if you’re lactose intolerant,” he mused.
“It’s fine,” you said, still caught off guard. “Um, thanks?”
He beamed. “Not a problem!” When you didn’t say anything else, he said, “Come sit with us if you’re ever feeling lonely.” He shrugged a shoulder in the direction of the table where the woman sat.
You weren’t sure what you were feeling exactly, but any annoyance dissipated when you realised he wasn’t hitting on you. He just had natural anarchic energy. Worse had been said about you, you surmised.
“Cool,” you replied, unsure. “Maybe later?”
“Like I said, any time.” He knocked the table with his knuckles assuredly and then spun around to meet his companion once more.
You re-focused on eating your toast and soup. It was pretty damn delicious, in spite of Roy’s insults. You listened to the fuzzy jukebox music and quiet chatter. The strobing, yellow overhead lights pulled your wandering eyes this way and that. How Gotham had shown you the absolute best and worst of itself in a week was beyond you.
When the toast was done, you stared at the shake. Maybe you could take it over. The offer was real, surely. You peeked over at their table. Roy immediately waved, looking ready to haul ass back over to you at the first pique of interest.
God, that was a little embarrassing. You pulled your sleeves tightly over your hands and stood up. You committed to an air of confidence as you marched on over with your glass.
“Hi,” you said when you reached them.
“Hello, again,” Roy greeted hastily. “C'mon, sit,” he pleaded, scooting over.
You eyed his friend, not wanting to invite yourself in poor taste. She nodded.
“You’re welcome to sit.” She added, “Excuse that golden retriever of a man.”
Roy seemed to take that as high esteem and beamed. You sat down.
“I’m Donna,” his friend introduced herself.
“It’s nice to meet you,” you said, looking between them. You let them know your name and finally took a sip of your drink. That seemed to make Roy even happier. “Is everyone always this generous in Gotham?” you reflected aloud.
Donna looked between you two, brows furrowed. “No, definitely not. I would usually warn against trusting friendly strangers.”
Roy glared at her, then turned to you, eyes inquisitive. “What do you mean ‘always’?”
“I’ve had good luck with the people since I got here,” you said with a one-shouldered shrug.
“That's unusual,” Roy murmured, scratching his jaw. “Guess my movement’s catching on!”
Donna scoffed, hiding the smile that fought to show. The small spat made you smile too. “So, what brings you here?” she asked. You knew they meant to Gotham, but you redirected it.
“Celebrating.”
“Oh, yeah?” Roy piped up. “What are we celebrating?”
“I got a job,” you answered, somewhat modestly. It wasn’t anything special.
“Hell yeah! Money!” Roy boomed, holding his glass up for a cheers. With a roll of your eyes, you copied him, enjoying the enthusiasm that didn’t feel loaded. Donna joined in a little less excitedly, but congratulated you nonetheless.
