just vibing

“No, it’s not early. I have work in two hours. So could you please get off me? I need to get ready.”

“Don’t go, stay with me.” He finally pulls away and looks up at you with those hypnotizing green eyes.

They’re dim and half-lidded from sleep, and his hair is sticking up in all directions.

You smile at the sight. He always made it hard to get out of bed.

“I can’t, you know that.” You lean down to kiss his forehead.

He seems to take that as an invitation because he immediately props himself up with his arms and moves to loom over you, before peppering your face, jaw and neck with lazy, sloppy kisses.

“Jason—“ you click your tongue in annoyance.

“Yes?” He asks in between pecks.

“We’re not doing this again— get off me!”

He pulls back to stare down at you with a serious expression, as if this were life or death to him.

“Just gimme a minute,” he mutters before leaning down again, this time meeting your lips with his, effectively stealing the air right out of your lungs.

He breaks the kiss for just a second to stare at you, before diving back in.

You turn your head to the side, making him miss his target, but he instead just resorts to pressing a tender kiss to your cheek.

“I’m gonna be late!”

“Jus’ one more, please.” He mumbles, chasing your lips and splitting them apart with his tongue. He swallows the little gasp that escapes you.

You kiss him back, letting him have this one. When he's finally done, you speak again.

“Satisfied? Can I go now?”

He looks down at you, eyes foggy and face blank. “... fine." he releases you, and you take the opportunity to quickly get up before he can change his mind.

He slumps against the mattress again, face smooshed against the pillow.

You make your way to the bathroom to shower and get ready.

Once you come back out, you rummage through the dresser and find your clothes.

Finally done, you make your way back to his side of the bed. He's still half asleep.

"Jay," you whisper.

He lets out a small hum, his eyebrows lifting, as he opens one of his eyes to look at you.

"I'm gonna go now, okay? Leftovers are in the fridge." you brush his hair out of his forehead, and cup his jaw, before landing a soft kiss on his lips.

You try to pull away, but his arm has already snaked itself behind your neck, keeping you close to him. His other hand finds your hip, and he tugs you back down on the bed with him.

You gasp, and try to get out of his hold but it's no use. "Jason, I have to go!—" you mumble against his lips.

"I know, just give me a minute," he breathes out.

You giggle despite being mildly irritated, unable to help yourself.

Maybe you should make him sleep on the couch from now to avoid having to deal with this.

You moan softly into his neck, digging your nails into his back.

Shh, baby, Jason mumbles as he slowly drags his cock out of you to thrust back in. You’re doing so well for me.

You try to swallow your moans—you really do. But Jason’s slow thrusting and his soft praise and his weight pining down on the bed as he holds you close is just-

You feel his breath hitch against your neck as you bite down on his shoulder to muffle your sounds—the apology is on the tip of your tongue but the soft fuck and the way his hands tighten on your hips makes your heart skip and your tummy flutter funny.

Your fingers intertwine in his hair, gripping just hard enough to make him groan in your ear and lean down closer to you—you brought your lips to his throat, nibbling and sucking hickeys into your skin, sinking your teeth into him as you moved down his neck.

Jason’s pace picked up and a soft whimper slipped past your lips, making you bite down harder.

Fuck you feel so good-

You tense under him and before you know can fully process it, you’re both cumming, your teeth still sunk deep into Jason’s shoulder. Yes, it’ll definitely bruise tomorrow but he’ll wear that mark proudly no matter how much it flusters you? ♡

tada 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 sorry that ask has been sitting in my inbox for over a onth but all things considered it’s not as bad as some of my actual requests so!

It was about a week ago the first time both of you had an intimate session. It was rushed, filled with his hard kisses starting on the balcony, to him pulling you inside and immediately climbing on top of you. The moment was so quick to start yet so slow to finish, it what made it so good. But it was almost like an autopilot switch was flipped in Jason brain. You could see and feel his actions being far less thought about, his main focus just being you in the moment.

But now? Now he hadn’t even taken his shirt off. Was it something you did? Or was it something about that night that was different from his normal way of things?

“Jason? You ok?” You ask softly, lifting yourself up and off his bed, coming to sit by his side.

You’re met with no response, at least not immediately. It was probably only a minute of silence, but you swore that it was really 10. The straight silence from his mouth sent your anxiety overboard. You really hope it wasn’t something you did. Your mind was clouded with nervous splatter from anxiety and the swooshing noise the sheets made whenever Jason’s leg bounced. It was his small breath in the broke your train of thought.

“I’m scared.” He said straight. His mouth was open, then it was immediately shut. You thought you could hear his teeth clamp with how hard he shut his lips.

“Why are you so scared?” You ask, the softest whisper coming out.

“Last time.. I wasn’t prepared… I wasn’t- I wasn’t really paying attention.” He began, his eyes staring straight ahead at some spot on the floor. But your eyes stared straight at his face.

You could feel his leg pick up the pace, the grip he had on his sheets tightened.

“I didn’t take into mind at the time that you were seeing me- that you were seeing my body.” You could hear the breathy whisper in his voice.

It didn’t take a genius to catch on to what he was saying. In fact you immediately understood what he meant. The first time had an artificial feeling to it, now you understand that you were, in fact, right about him being out of focus on himself.

You let him sit for a moment, a thought coming to mind.

“What if, for tonight, we just get used to each other?” You start, satisfied when you see his eyes finally meet yours, a silent signal to continue on.

“Instead of forcing or rushing into things, we just spend the night getting used to seeing each other intimately.. feeling our skin in a comfortable environment.” You end. You were terrified to hear his response, hoping for something of a positive response. You didn’t want to make him do something he didn’t want to do.

Instead of a verbal response, you got an action. He immediately took his hands to the hem of his shirt, lifting it up, revealing his upper body.

You swear, every time you see skin, you have no other thoughts than thinking of a Greek statue. His skin look carved, so beautifully, almost delicate. Like each scar hadn’t healed and was sacred to touch. It was like he was meant to stand in front of people and be admired for his beauty, but at the same time be kept away deep and safe.

You stand in front of him, and he’s now in just his boxers. You look at him beforehand, and he gives you a little nod.

Your cold hands begin to slide over his bicep- a place he’s used to touch to start- and glide up and down ever so gently around his torso. You could feel the ridges and bumps in his skin, a canvas littered in scars. You knew that when he begin to feel you, he felt safe. Like a cat purring its head on the back of your hand.

His fingers start at your thigh, moving up to your hip, his eyes following his fingers.

This went on for an hour, because you wanted it to keep going for however long he felt he needed. Hands touching, feeling, grabbing, but it was all so innocent in the intimate moment. Because both of you knew it wasn’t about lust, it was about trust.

When both you lay in bed, you can notice that Jason’s now closer than he normally is. His hand kept to your skin like velcro the whole night, like he was fascinated by it. And in the moment of peace, where reality and dreams begin to blur, you knew that no matter what intimate or lustful moments you have in the future, none would beat tonight.

You’re sitting on the kitchen counter in the loft above Queen Consolidated, legs swinging, watching Jason pace like he’s got a personal vendetta against the hardwood floor.

“Say it again,” he snaps, glaring at you.

You roll your eyes. “They didn’t invite us.”

His jaw tightens. “They didn’t forget?”

“Nope.”

Across town, your older brothers are probably suited up, laughing it up with the Titans—Dick with that stupid bright grin, Roy acting like he owns the place.

You and Jason? Left behind.

Again.

You hop down from the counter. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” he bites back. “We’re not babies.”

You raise a brow. “You punched a mailbox last week because it looked at you wrong.”

“It was crooked,” he argues immediately.

You snort. He stops pacing and finally looks at you, really looks at you, and the anger shifts into something else. Something quieter. “You ever feel like we’re just…extras?”

You lean back against the counter, folding your arms. “All the time.”

The words hang there heavier than either of you expected. He scoffs like he didn’t just get vulnerable.

“Dick acts like I’m some sidekick to his sidekick.”

“Roy keeps calling me ‘junior junior,’” you mutter. “I hate it.”

Jason’s lip curls. “You’re better than him.”

You blink. “Roy?”

“Yeah. He’s loud and showy. You’re…” He hesitates, like the words are stuck in his throat. “You’re smarter.”

Heat creeps up your neck. “You don’t have to lie.”

“I’m not lying.” His green eyes are sharp and stubborn. “You notice things. You listen. They don’t.”

You stare at him for a second too long. He shifts, uncomfortable under your gaze. “Thanks,” you say, softer.

He shrugs like it’s nothing, but his shoulders relax. “Whatever.”

You nudge him with your elbow. “C’mon. If they don’t want us around, we’ll just have more fun without them.”

He huffs a laugh. “Yeah? Doing what?”

You grin slowly. “Training.”

His eyes light up immediately. “Race you to the roof.”

You’re already moving before he finishes the sentence.

The stairwell echoes with your footsteps, both of you shoving each other, swearing under your breath, laughing like you didn’t just feel like the smallest people in the world five minutes ago.

You burst onto the rooftop first, wind whipping your shirt around you. The city stretches out below—lights blinking, traffic humming quietly.

Jason slams through the door a second later. “Cheater.”

“You’re just slow.”

He tackles you before you can dodge. You both hit the gravel hard, rolling dangerously close to the edge until you shove him off, breathless and grinning. “You could’ve killed us,” you laugh.

“Worth it,” he shoots back.

You sit up, catching your breath. He flops down beside you, arms spread wide, staring up at the sky. For a minute, neither of you say anything. “You think they’ll ever see it?” he asks quietly.

“See what?”

“That we’re not just…backup.” You look at him, really look at him. At the tension he pretends not to carry. At the way his fists clench even when he’s lying still.

“They will,” you say firmly. “And if they don’t, we’ll make them.”

He turns his head toward you. “How?”

“We’ll be better.”

A slow grin spreads across his face. “Better than them?”

“Way better.”

He sits up suddenly, eyes blazing with something fierce and bright. “Then it’s us.”

You hold out your hand without thinking. “Us.”

He stares at it for a second like it’s something sacred, then grips it tight. His palm is warm. “No matter what?” he asks.

“No matter what.” His fingers squeeze once, hard, like he’s sealing something permanent into your bones. Below you, the city keeps moving. Somewhere out there, your brothers are being heroes. But up here?

It’s just you and Jason. Not sidekicks. Not extras.

Just two kids who refuse to be left behind.

                          ༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶

The first time you hear it, it’s not even supposed to be something you hear. You’re halfway down the hallway of Titans Tower, arguing with Roy over something stupid, when you catch it—

“…after what happened to Jason—”

You stop walking.

Roy keeps going for two steps before realizing you aren’t beside him anymore. “What?”

Your ears ring. “What did you just say?”

He frowns. “Nothing.”

“You said his name.”

He hesitates. And that’s when your stomach drops. “What happened to Jason?”

Roy glances down the hall like he’s checking for someone. Like he’s checking for Dick. That’s your second warning.

“Hey,” you press, stepping closer. “What happened..?”

Roy exhales slowly. “You didn’t know.”

It isn’t a question. Your heartbeat starts pounding so hard it feels like it’s in your throat. “Know what?”

There’s a long, horrible pause.

“He’s dead.”

It just…goes quiet.

You stare at him. “That’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking.”

You laugh once, sharp and breathless. “No. No, he’s in Gotham. I talked to him—” Your voice falters.

You try to remember the last time you actually did. A call cut short. A message left on read. “He’s fine.”

Roy’s expression softens in a way that makes you want to hit him. “It happened months ago,” he says quietly.

Months.

Months.

Your chest tightens so violently you actually step back. “Why are you lying?”

“I’m not.”

“Why didn’t anyone tell me?” Your voice cracks on the last word, and you hate it. You hate that it sounds small.

Roy runs a hand through his hair. “Bruce didn’t want it spread around.”

“I’m not ‘around,’” you snap. “I’m not some random contact. I’m—” You cut yourself off.

You’re what?

His friend.

His best friend.

The one who was always there when no one else was.

The one who promised.

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head. “No, you’re wrong. He would’ve told me.”

Roy’s silence is answer enough. Your hands start trembling. You shove them into your jacket so he won’t see. “How?” you force out.

“Explosion,” Roy says carefully. “Warehouse. Joker.”

The name feels like acid. You can’t breathe. A warehouse. You see it too clearly—Jason laughing on some rooftop, gravel in his hair, saying it’s us. His hand gripping yours like the world couldn’t touch him as long as you were both standing.

“No matter what,” he’d said.

Your throat burns. “You’re telling me,” you say slowly, dangerously, “that he died. Months ago. And no one thought I should know?”

Roy looks miserable. “Dick found out late too.”

That doesn’t help. That makes it worse.

You turn away before he can see your face break. The hallway suddenly feels too small. The walls too close. Everything pressing in.

Months! He was gone for months and you were just…living. Training. Laughing. Existing like the world hadn’t already taken him.

You think about all the times you almost called. All the times you told yourself he was just busy. All the times you felt that weird, twisting feeling in your chest and ignored it. You swallow hard. It hurts.

“He wouldn’t have left without telling me,” you say, but it sounds weaker now. Like you’re trying to convince yourself. Roy doesn’t answer. Because Jason didn’t leave. He was taken. And you weren’t there. Your hands curl into fists so tight your nails bite into your palms. You welcome the sting. It’s something solid. Something real.

“Where,” you ask.

Roy hesitates. “They buried him in Gotham.”

You nod once. It feels mechanical.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Roy says carefully.

You let out a hollow laugh. Too late. Because they didn’t tell you. They didn’t think you deserved to know. But you knew Jason.

You knew the way he hated being left behind. You knew the way he acted when he felt small. You knew the promise you made on that rooftop.

It’s us.

Your chest feels like it’s caving in.

“No matter what,” you murmur to yourself.

                          ༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶

You found out the same way you found out about his death. Not from family. Not from Bruce. Not from Dick.

From a rumor.

A sighting in Gotham.

A vigilante using guns; brutal, efficient. Red Hood.

You remember the way your hands went cold when you saw the blurry security image on a monitor in the Watchtower. The helmet. The stance. The way he held himself like the world owed him something.

You knew. Before anyone confirmed it. Before Dick swore under his breath. Before Bruce went stone-faced and disappeared without a word. You knew.

Jason.

Alive.

You didn’t go to Gotham. You didn’t call. You didn’t do anything. And neither did he.

It’s been months now.

You tell yourself it’s fine. You train harder. You stay longer at the range, even though you prefer the bow. The recoil bruises your palm, snaps through your wrists, leaves your ears ringing. You like it. It feels loud enough to drown things out. Roy notices.

“Since when do you like guns?” he asks one night. You don’t answer. Because you don’t like guns. You just can’t stop thinking about the fact that he does.

You wonder when that happened. When the kid who used to grin at you on rooftops decided bullets were easier than promises.

Sleep doesn’t come easy anymore either. When it does, it’s chaotic. Sometimes it’s the warehouse—though you were never there, your brain fills in the gaps anyway. Fire swallowing everything. Smoke choking the air. You screaming his name and getting nothing back.

Sometimes it’s worse. Sometimes he’s standing across from you in that stupid red helmet, and you’re the one he’s aiming at.

You wake up angry every time. Angry that he died. Angry that he came back. Angry that he didn’t come to you. You pace, your temper is sharper, closer to the surface.

Dinah watches you carefully now, like she’s waiting for you to explode. Oliver tries to hide his concern behind bad jokes. “You’re grinding your teeth again,” he says over breakfast. You hadn’t noticed. You start going to Gotham on patrol routes that “just happen” to overlap with reported Red Hood activity.

You’re careful. You’re smart.

You always arrive five minutes too late.

A warehouse cleared.

A gang tied up.

Shell casings still warm on the ground.

Once, you find a broken piece of red helmet in dust.

You stare at it like it’s something sacred.

Or cursed.

You don’t touch it.

You don’t know if you’d punch him or grab him if you ever stood face-to-face again.

You replay your last real memory of him over and over. The rooftop. His hand in yours. No matter what. The words feel stupid now. Because what does “no matter what” mean when he chose not to come see you?

Maybe he thinks you didn’t care enough when he died. Maybe he thinks you moved on. Maybe he thinks you’re still just the extra.

The thought makes your chest ache in a way that’s dangerously close to grief all over again.

You catch yourself checking rooftops automatically now. Corners, fire escapes, anything—looking for a flash of red. You tell yourself it’s tactical awareness.

It’s not. It’s hope and resentment. And something ugly in between.

Roy tries once. “You gonna talk to him?”

You tighten the strap on your glove. “No.”

“Why?”

Because if he looks at you like you’re nothing—

Because if you see him and he doesn’t—

Because if you see him and you realize he managed perfectly fine without you—

“I don’t need to,” you say instead. But that’s a lie. You need to. You just don’t know if you can do it.

So you exist like this instead.

Half-tense. Half-waiting. Carrying the knowledge that he’s breathing somewhere in the same city you are.

And still somehow he was just as unreachable as when he was buried six feet underground.

                          ༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶

It doesn’t happen all at once.

No big fight. No dramatic speech. Just distance.

Teams reshuffle. Missions change. Priorities shift. The Titans aren’t what they used to be. The League rotates members like it’s seasonal staffing. People grow up, grow tired, grow different.

Roy is one of the first to go. Not in a tragic way. Not in a screaming match. He just…leaves. New city. New team. New life.

He hugged Dinah.

Clapped Oliver on the back.

Looked at you last.

There was something in his expression—hesitation, maybe. Guilt. “You’ll be fine,” he tells you before he goes, clapping your shoulder like that’s enough to fill the space he’s about to create. “You always land on your feet.”

You nod. You don’t tell him that you’re tired of landing alone.

After that, it’s easier to step back.

You just stop answering the group comm. Stop showing up to team briefings. Stop expecting anyone to notice.

At first, people reach out. A message from Dick. A check-in from Kori. Even a stiff, formal inquiry routed through League channels.

You ignore them all. It’s easier that way. Easier to move alone. Easier not to feel the empty space where a partner should be. You tell yourself you work better solo anyway. Less noise. Less compromise. It becomes true.

Four years pass. Maybe five.

Time blurs when you don’t measure it by anything except patrol routes and recovery days. You operate out of a small, forgettable city now. Not Star City. Not Gotham. Somewhere in between. Big enough for crime to stay busy. Small enough that no one questions a lone vigilante.

People still know your name. They just don’t know you.

You see updates sometimes. A new lineup photo of the Titans. A Justice League press appearance. Roy in the background of some charity event, older, broader, smiling like life didn’t fracture somewhere along the way.

Roy’s name pops up occasionally in articles or mission reports. Arsenal operating overseas. Arsenal assisting the League. Arsenal mentoring a new recruit.

You don’t reach out. He doesn’t either.

Birthdays pass without messages. Holidays turn into just another patrol night. At first, it stings. Then it doesn’t.

You also run into old teammates occasionally during cross-city operations. It’s polite, professional.

“Good to see you.”

“We should catch up sometime.”

You both know you won’t.

But sometimes you’ll catch your reflection in a dark window—older, harder, eyes tired in a way that has nothing to do with sleep—and you won’t recognize the kid who once swore on a rooftop that he wouldn’t be left behind.

Now you’re not behind anyone. You’re just alone.

                          ༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶

The message sits on your screen for a full hour before you open it.

Roy Harper.

You almost delete it. Four—no, five—years of near silence, and now your phone lights up with his name like nothing happened. You finally tap it open.

“Need backup. Outlaws job. It’s complicated. You’re the best person I know for this. Call me.”

You stare at the words until they blur. You toss the phone onto the table and walk away from it. Let it buzz once more. Then silence.

Outlaws.

You know who that means.

Him.

Your jaw tightens. You haven’t spoken to Jason in years. Not a single word. Not since he clawed his way back from the grave and decided distance was easier than explanation. You matched him in that. You told yourself it was mutual.

You pick the phone back up before you can talk yourself out of it. You call. He answers on the second ring. “…Hey.” His voice sounds older. Rougher, but careful.

You lean against the wall. “What do you need?”

There’s a pause on the other end. “We’ve got a metahuman trafficking ring operating out of Star City and Gotham,” Roy says. “They’re using sonic dampeners. Canary-level stuff. We need someone who can counter it without frying their own brain.”

You close your eyes briefly. “You have Dinah,” you say evenly.

“She’s off-world with the League.”

“And you thought of me.”

“I always think of you,” he replies, too fast.

You push past it. “Who’s ‘we’?”

Another pause. “The Outlaws.”

“Does he know you’re calling me?”

“Yes.”

That answer surprises you. “And?”

“And he didn’t say no.”

Not he wants you there. Not he asked for you.

Just didn’t say no.

Five years ago, you would’ve hung up. Four years ago, you would’ve made an excuse. Three years ago, you would’ve said you’re too busy. Now?

Now you’re just tired of running in opposite directions.

“You could’ve called sooner,” you say quietly.

“I know.”

“You didn’t.”

“I know.”

There’s no defense in his voice. No joke to soften it. Just honesty.

You rub a hand over your face. “This is a one-time thing.”

“Yeah,” Roy says. “Of course.”

You both know that’s a lie too.

You stare out your window at the city skyline. You’ve spent years convincing yourself you don’t need a team. Don’t need the noise. Don’t need the risk of caring. But the truth is—you miss being understood without having to explain yourself.

You miss someone knowing how you fight. How you inhale sharply before you cry. You miss not being alone in the aftermath.

“When?” you ask.

There’s an audible exhale of relief on the other end. “Tomorrow. Safehouse in Gotham.”

“Send me the coordinates,” you say.

“I will.”

A beat.

“…It’ll be good to see you,” Roy adds, quieter.

“Don’t make me regret it.”

A small huff of a laugh. Familiar. Almost like before. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You hang up and stand there for a long moment. Helping the Outlaws means stepping back into something you deliberately walked away from. It means seeing Roy after years of distance. It means seeing Jason.

You don’t know which part makes your chest tighter. You move toward your gear anyway. And for the first time in years, the silence in your apartment doesn’t feel permanent.

                          ༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶

The safehouse smells like gun oil and dust when you walk in.

Roy’s the first to spot you. For a second, he just looks at you. Then he grins, softer than it used to be. “You look the same.”

“You don’t,” you reply.

He laughs once under his breath. “Yeah. Fair.”

And then—

You feel it before you see him.

That shift in the room. That charged, almost magnetic awareness that used to follow you both around like a private current. You turn.

Jason is standing near the far wall, helmet off, arms crossed. He looks older.. so much older than when you last saw him. A faint scar tracing down from his temple that definitely wasn’t there before. But it’s still him, still those green eyes.

They meet yours and everything in the room falls away. Five years collapses into one heavy, suspended second. But you don’t smile. He doesn’t either.

“Hey,” he says.

Just that.

You swallow.

“Hey.”

Roy clears his throat loudly. “Okay, cool. Reunion over. We’ve got work.”

…

The mission goes sideways almost immediately.

The traffickers are better armed than expected. The sonic dampeners pulse through the warehouse like pressure waves, designed to disorient, destabilize. The first hit makes one of them drop to a knee. You don’t.

You step forward and inhale, letting your voice rip through the sound barrier. Your screech slices through their frequency, shatters the dampeners, sends glass exploding outward. The air vibrates with it.

When the ringing fades, Jason is staring at you like he forgot how.

You don’t give him time to process, you just move.

The old rhythm slips into place without permission. He covers your blind spot without being told. You pivot left—he’s already forcing someone into your range. You duck—he fires over your shoulder with perfect timing. No explanation. Your bodies just remember.

At one point, you’re back-to-back in the center of the chaos. You can feel the heat of him through the armor. Feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing. “Still loud,” he mutters.

“Still reckless,” you shoot back.

There’s the faintest huff of a laugh behind you.

A man charges from your right—

Jason moves first, but you’re faster. You grab the attacker, slam him down, and for a split second you’re chest-to-chest with Jason when it’s over. Too close. You freeze.

His hand is still hovering near your waist from where he’d reached to steady you.

You both notice. Neither of you pull away immediately. The world narrows to the space between you.

“You’re not rusty,” he says quietly.

“You’re not dead,” you reply before you can stop yourself.

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t look away.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m not.”

Another wave of enemies crashes in, breaking the moment. You separate like it never happened but something has shifted.

By the time the last of the traffickers are tied up, your pulse is still racing—and not entirely from the fight.

Roy is talking to someone on comms. The others are securing the perimeter. You step outside for air. A minute later, the door creaks behind you. You don’t turn.

“You didn’t have to come,” Jason says.

“I know.”

Silence stretches between you.

Not hostile. Just…uncertain.

“You’ve gotten stronger,” he adds.

“So have you.”

“I didn’t think you’d agree,” he admits.

“To help?” you ask.

“To see me.”

“I almost didn’t.” You finally look at him.

He’s closer now. Not touching, just within reach. There’s something in his expression that wasn’t there when you were kids. Not just anger. Not just defiance. Regret.

“You avoided me,” you say evenly.

“You avoided me too.” You study him for a long moment.

“You left first,” you say quietly.

His eyes flicker. “I died first,” he answers, just as quiet.

Neither of you know what to do with that. The city hums in the distance. For five years, you built walls so high you forgot what it felt like to stand this close to him without armor made of silence.

Tonight, in the middle of gunfire and shattered glass, something old and stubborn woke up. Not the naive rooftop promise. Not the reckless loyalty. Quieter.

“You still cover my right side,” you say.

A faint smirk touches his mouth. “You still tilt your head before you go for the throat.”

You hadn’t realized he noticed.

“I always noticed,” he says, like he read your mind.

Your chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with combat. This isn’t fixed. This isn’t healed. There are five years of silence between you that don’t disappear because one mission went well. But there’s something there.

Not buried.

Not entirely dead.

Just waiting for the right time.

Jason steps back first. Not retreating. Just giving space.

“We’ve got a lot to figure out,” he says.

“Yeah.”

“…You free after debrief?”

It’s careful. Almost awkward.

You hesitate. Then—

“Yeah,” you say.

And for the first time in years, it doesn’t feel like you’re the only one standing on the edge of it.

Rain hits like needles—soaking through everything until it feels like it’s inside him, under his skin, threading through muscle that doesn’t quite feel like his own. Jason stands there anyway, unmoving in the alley’s mouth, chest rising too fast, too uneven, like he forgot how breathing is supposed to work and his body’s just guessing.

He’s bigger.

That’s the first thing that won’t leave him alone. It presses in on him, constant and suffocating. His shoulders feel too wide, his hands too large when he flexes them, fingers twitching like they belong to someone else.

It’s wrong.

Everything is wrong.

His head throbs—no, pulses, like there’s something alive inside it, something clawing at the walls of his skull. Memories shatter in broken pieces, sharp and jagged.

His own laughter—younger. Your voice. Then pain. It cuts off there every time. Like something slams a door shut before he can see the rest.

Jason sucks in a breath, and it stutters halfway through.

His throat burns.

He doesn’t remember when he started shaking, but it’s bad now—violent, almost. Not from the cold.

He drags a hand through his hair, and even that feels off. His nails scrape his scalp a little too hard, grounding him just enough to keep from slipping again.

“Get it together—” he mutters, voice rough, lower than he remembers.

It startles him.

He freezes for a second, like someone else spoke. Silence answers back. Just rain hammering pavement, dripping off fire escapes, pooling at his boots.

Boots.

He looks down like he’s expecting them to vanish. They don’t. Mud-splashed and planted firm against the ground like he belongs here. But he doesn’t.

He shouldn’t be here.

He shouldn’t be anywhere.

Jason exhales sharply, dragging both hands down his face. His skin is cold. Everything is cold except for the heat crawling under it, restless and wrong.

Dead.

The word flickers through his head, quiet but undeniable. His stomach twists. He doubles over just a little, breath punching out of him as something in his chest locks up. Not a full memory. Just that crushing certainty, that hollow drop in his gut like missing a step in the dark.

He was dead. So why—

Jason straightens too fast, dizziness hitting him hard enough that he stumbles a step back, shoulder knocking against damp brick. The impact helps. Pain is simple, it makes sense. Alive doesn’t.

He presses the back of his head against the wall, staring out into the rain-blurred street. Lights smear and stretch, everything warped and distant, like he’s looking at the world through someone else’s eyes. Jason clenches his jaw, hard enough it aches.

“No,” he says under his breath, more force than certainty. “No, no, that’s—”

The sentence falls apart before it can finish. Because he doesn’t know what that is. He doesn’t know what he is.

You flicker in his mind again.

Familiar in a way nothing else is. Safe in a way nothing else feels anymore. “I know you,” he murmurs, voice quieter now, almost disbelieving. Like saying it too loud might make it disappear.

He doesn’t move. Because now there’s something else in his mind. An address. Etched deep, deeper than the confusion, deeper than the panic. He knows where you are.

His fingers uncurl from the brick. He pushes off the wall, standing fully upright, shoulders squaring like his body finally has a direction to follow.

Everything still feels wrong. His head still throbs. His body still doesn’t feel like his. But that doesn’t matter. Because through all of it—through the noise and the static and the broken pieces of himself, one thing stays clear.

You.

Jason swallows hard, rain running down his face, mixing with something warmer he doesn’t acknowledge.

“…yeah,” he mutters, voice low. “Yeah, I—” He cuts himself off. No more half-thoughts.

He steps out into the rain. And he doesn’t hesitate.

                         ༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶

The rain soaks through everything—his clothing clinging tight to his skin, water dripping off his hair in steady streams that blur his vision every few seconds.

His boots splash through puddles he doesn’t bother avoiding, each step unsteady at first, then faster—like if he slows down, even a little, he might lose it. Lose the address. Lose you.

Jason doesn’t think. He can’t afford to. His head is already too loud—too crowded with half-memories and sharp edges that scrape every time he moves wrong. But that one thing—that one steady pull in his chest—it keeps him going. Like a string tied somewhere deep inside him, tugging him forward no matter how disoriented he feels.

Left.

Right.

Down the block.

By the time he reaches your place, he’s absolutely drenched down to the bone. Water drips from his sleeves, his fingertips, the edge of his jaw. His hair is plastered to his forehead, darkened, sticking in uneven strands that shadow his eyes.

He stands there at the edge of the walkway for a second too long. Just staring. The place is the same. Same porch. Same light glowing warm through the window. Same stupid little detail on the railing that you used to complain about but never fixed.

It’s all exactly how he remembers it—and for a second, it makes something in his chest ache so bad he almost doubles over again. Because he’s not the same. Not even close.

Jason flexes his fingers, staring at his hand like he doesn’t trust it. Larger. Rougher. Like it belongs to someone older, someone who’s lived more years than he remembers having.

“…shit,” he breathes, voice barely audible under the rain.

What if you don’t recognize him?

What if you look at him and just.. see a stranger?

His chest tightens painfully, something sharp lodging itself right behind his ribs. His pulse picks up again, loud and uneven, drowning out everything else for a second.

He almost turns around.

His foot even shifts back half an inch, hesitation creeping in, thick and suffocating. And then another memory. You, weeks before it—

Standing too close. Laughing at something he said. Your shoulder against his like it was the most natural thing in the world. Your voice softer after, quieter, like there was something you wanted to say but didn’t. And him not saying it either. Not saying anything.

Jason squeezes his eyes shut, his breath hitching hard. His voice cracks, low and strained. “I didn’t get to—“

The words die in his throat, but the feeling doesn’t. It swells instead, heavy and desperate. Because he remembers that now too. How he felt about you. Loved you.

Not some silly crush. Not something simple or easy to ignore. It was everything. And he never said it.

“Idiot,” he mutters to himself.

And somehow, that’s enough to push him forward.

Jason takes a step closer to the door. Then another. His boots thud heavy against the wood of the porch. His hand lifts and hesitates midair, fingers curling slightly like he’s forgotten what he’s supposed to do with them.

Knock.

Right.

Jason stares at the door like it might open on its own if he waits long enough. Like maybe he can delay this just a few more seconds, keep everything exactly how it is right now—where you’re still just inside, still safe, still his in the only way that matters. Because once that door opens everything changes.

You’ll see him. You’ll see what he is now. And he doesn’t know if that ends with you pulling him in or shutting him out.

Before he can stop himself, before he can overthink it again—he knocks. His hand drops back to his side immediately after, fingers curling into his palm as he waits.

And God, the waiting is worse than anything.

Every second stretches too long.

His chest feels too tight, like there’s not enough room for his lungs to work properly. His eyes flicker to the window, catching a glimpse of movement inside and then the door opens.

Jason forgets how to breathe.

You’re right there.

Closer than any memory got it. And different.

Not in a bad way.

Not even close.

His brain struggles to keep up, words failing him completely as he takes you in. You look older, yeah—but not just that. There’s something like you grew into yourself in a way he never got the chance to see. And you’re gorgeous. The thought is immediate.

“Holy sh—” he breathes, barely a whisper, eyes wide like he’s trying to memorize every detail at once and knows he’s already failing. And the words he never said. They sit right there, heavy on his tongue, pressing up against his teeth, desperate to get out. His throat works around them.

His eyes—God, his eyes—soften in a way that doesn’t match the rest of him at all. Wide, glossy, miserable in a way that’s almost painfully obvious, like he doesn’t even know how to hide it anymore. Like a bruised puppy that somehow found its way home.

“I—” he starts, voice rough, catching immediately. He swallows, tries again, a little more desperate this time. “I didn’t get to say it before—”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away from you for even a second.

“I should’ve said it then, I just.. I thought I had time, I—” His words tangle over each other, messy and unpolished, nothing like the Jason you remember. But the feeling behind them? It’s painfully clear.

“You got—” he shakes his head slightly, a breathless, almost broken sound leaving him. “You’re—” He stops himself, like he can’t find a word that does your appearance any justice.

Then he just exhales, shoulders dropping a fraction. “…I missed you,” he admits instead, quieter now.

A pause.

You’re still just.. staring at him.

“You’re the first thing I remembered,” he continues, low and sure, like it’s the only truth he has left to hold onto. Then, softer, “…and I’ve been in love with you.”

Jason just stands there after, shaking, heart practically in his hands, watching you like whatever happens next is going to decide everything.

“Jason..” You finally mutter.

Almost small, in a way that doesn’t match his size at all, he nods, “Yeah, it’s—” He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing as he forces the word out. “…it’s me.”

Jason sees it. The way your eyes move over him, taking in every difference—lingering on his height, his shoulders, the way he fills the doorway now in a way he never used to. He knows what you’re seeing. He sees it every time he looks down. He’s not the same.

His shoulders tense, just slightly, like he’s trying to make himself smaller out of habit—out of something old and ingrained—but it doesn’t work.

There’s too much of him now. Too much space taken up by a body he still doesn’t know how to exist in.

“I know,” he says quickly, a little too quickly, like he can’t stand the silence stretching between you. “I know I look—”

He doesn’t say it. But it’s obviously there.

His hand lifts halfway, like he’s going to gesture to himself, then hesitates and drops again, fingers curling into his palm. His movements are awkward in a way they never used to be—like he’s second-guessing everything, unsure of where he fits even in his own skin.

“I didn’t mean to just show up like this..” His voice cracks again. God, he hates that.

Jason drags a hand through his soaked hair, pushing it back, but it falls right back into place, dripping. He looks wrecked. Completely wrecked.

He needs an answer. Because he needs something—anything—to tell him he didn’t make a mistake coming here. That you don’t regret opening that door.

“I— Jason is that really..? But.. y- you’re supposed to be..”

He takes a small step forward without thinking. Then stops himself just as quickly. Like he crossed a line he’s not sure he’s allowed to cross anymore.

“I know. I just.. needed to see you. Just once,” he adds, quieter. “To make sure you were okay.” His gaze drops for a second, just a second, to the space between you—then lifts again, hesitant now. “You’re not…scared of me, are you?”

“No… no, no—” You shake your head so fast it almost looks frantic, like you’re trying to physically push the idea away before it can even exist. “You’re not— I’m not scared of you. I just don’t know what.. this is.”

“Yeah, join the club.”

“Are you.. come get inside before you freeze or something.”

Jason blinks. Like the invitation didn’t fully register at first. You move aside, holding the door open, and he steps in carefully.

It’s warm. Warm, dry air wrapping around him instantly, chasing away the biting cold that’s been clinging to him since he woke up—since everything.

The difference is so sudden it almost makes him dizzy.

Water drips from him onto the floor in a small puddle, his boots leaving faint marks behind. He looks… out of place. Too big for the space in a way he never used to be. Like he’s taking up more room than he’s allowed to.

You close the door behind him, the sound soft but final. For a second, neither of you speak. Then—

“Okay,” you say under your breath, dragging a hand over your face like you’re trying to wake yourself up. “Okay, um—”

You look at him again. Right at him.

“Start talking. Please.”

Jason exhales slowly, shoulders dropping a fraction. “…I don’t know where to start.”

“Try,” you reply, stepping a little closer.

“I woke up. That’s— that’s it. I woke up and everything was wrong.”

“Wrong how?”

“Everything,” he says quickly, gesturing to himself. “My mind, my body— this isn’t—” He stops, jaw tightening. “It’s mine, but it’s not the one I remember.”

You glance over him again, slower this time. Taking in the details without the initial shock clouding it. “…you’re taller,” you admit quietly.

Jason huffs. “Yeah. Noticed.”

“And—” you hesitate, then push through it, “bigger.”

“…yeah.”

A beat passes.

“Stronger?”

Jason pauses, then nods once. “Feels like it.”

Silence settles again.

You shift your weight slightly. “Do you remember… anything?”

His expression tightens. “Pieces,” he says after a second. “Not all of it. Just—bits.”

“Like what?”

Jason’s gaze flickers to you, then away, like he’s not sure how much to say. “…you,” he answers finally.

“Me?”

He nods, slower this time. “Yeah. Not— not everything. But enough. You were…always there.”

You swallow, eyes dropping for just a second. “…you died, Jason.”

“…I know,” he says, voice low.

You take a small step closer. This time, you don’t stop halfway. “I went to your funeral,” you say quietly.

“I know.”

Your brows knit together slightly. “You know?”

He nods once, swallowing hard. “It’s one of the things I remember. Not clearly, but—” he exhales, shaky, “I remember you being there.”

Your lips part slightly, but no words come out right away. Instead, your gaze softens. Really softens. “…you idiot,” you murmur, but there’s no bite to it. Just something fragile underneath.

Jason lets out a weak, almost breathless laugh. “Yeah,” he says. “That sounds right.”

“Uh, you look really different,” you bring up his appearance again, more carefully this time.

Jason tenses, just slightly.

“Not bad,” you add quickly. “Just, um— different.”

“Different how?”

You huff a small breath, like you’re embarrassed by your own words already. “You’re really hot.”

Jason short-circuits. “What?”

Your face warms a little, but you don’t take it back. “I mean it,” you say, quieter now. “You just.. look older. It’s gonna take a second to get used to, that’s all.”

“Well, you look—” he starts, then stops, exhaling a quiet laugh. “I already said it.”

“You did.” You roll your eyes faintly, but there’s no real annoyance there.

Silence settles once again.

Jason shifts his weight slightly, like he’s not sure what to do next. His hands twitch at his sides again. Then, “Can I..” he starts. He stops himself like he’s about to back out. But he doesn’t. “Can I kiss you?”

The room goes very, very quiet.

You don’t answer right away. Jason’s chest tightens again, that familiar fear creeping back in. Then you step forward, closing the distance completely.

Your hand comes up, hesitant at first, then steadier as it rests against his chest—right over where his heart is pounding way too fast.

“Yeah..,” you whisper.

That’s all it takes.

His fingers brush your cheek, barely there, warm despite everything. Then he leans in. The kiss is soft. Tentative at first—like neither of you are sure how to do this version of each other yet. Like you’re both adjusting in real time, trying to fit into something that almost existed before but never got the chance to.

It’s warm. A little shaky.

Jason exhales against you, something in him finally loosening, finally settling just a little as he leans into it—into you. Like this is the first thing that’s felt right since he came back.

When he pulls back, it’s slow and reluctant.

His forehead rests against yours for a second, breath uneven but softer now. “I missed you,” he murmurs again, quieter this time.

And even now—even after everything— It still feels like not enough. But it’s a start.

The line crackles in your ear before his voice comes through, rough and familiar.

“Baby.”

You smile into your pillow. “You sound out of breath.”

“I’m running across rooftops in six layers of body armor. What gave it away?”

Somewhere in the background, you hear wind rushing past the receiver and the distant wail of sirens. “You could just say you missed me.”

“I do miss you,” Jason says immediately, easy and honest in the way he only is with you. Then, after a beat: “Hold on.”

A muffled thud. Someone yells. Jason curses sharply. “Jase?”

“I’m good,” he says, breathing harder now. “Some idiot thought he could pull a knife on me.”

“You know, most boyfriends send goodnight texts or calls when they’re in bed.”

“Most boyfriends aren’t actively fighting crime in Crime Alley.”

You laugh quietly, rolling onto your back. “True.”

He hums and you can practically picture the grin under the helmet. “You still awake because you were waiting for me to call?”

“Maybe.”

“That’s cute.”

“Don’t start.”

“No, no,” he says. “I’m being serious. It’s adorable. Makes me feel loved.”

“You are loved.”

Silence. Not empty silence. The kind that settles warm between two people who know each other by heart. Then softer, almost lost beneath the sound of his footsteps:

“Yeah. I know.”

“Jason.”

“What?”

“Why does it sound like you’re in a tunnel?”

“I am in a tunnel.”

You sit upright immediately. “Why are you in a tunnel?”

“Tracking a weapons shipment.”

“Alone?”

He pauses.

“…Maybe.”

“Jason Peter Todd.”

“Oh, wow. Full government name. I’m terrified.”

“You should be.” 

You hear him laugh under his breath, and then the metallic clatter of something being climbed. “You know,” he says, “normal couples talk about their days.”

“We are talking about your day.”

“My day usually includes armed robbery.”

“Your life choices are exhausting.”

“And yet,” he says warmly, “you stay.”

Before you can answer, voices echo faintly through the phone. Jason’s tone changes instantly. Sharper. Colder.

“Hang on.”

You hear movement. Fast footsteps. A crash. Some muffled arguing. Another crash. The line goes fuzzy for three seconds and your stomach drops.

“Jason?”

Nothing.

“Jason!”

A hiss of static. Then, breathless laughter.

“You should hear the way you say my name.”

You nearly choke. “Are you insane?”

“Clinically? Probably.”

“You disappeared!”

“I dropped the phone.”

“You dropped me into cardiac arrest.”

“Aw,” he says. “You worried about me?”

“You literally got murdered once.”

“Fair point.”

It’s almost three in the morning when your phone buzzes with a phone call from Jason.

You answer sleepily. “Hi.”

“Did I wake you?”

“You called me. Guess.”

“Yeah, but you sound all soft.” He pauses. “Cute soft.”

“You’re obsessed with calling me cute.”

“You’re obsessed with being cute tonight.”

You hear his motorcycle engine rumbling low beneath his voice.

“Headed back to the manor?” you ask.

“Eventually.”

“That means no.”

“That means I’m thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

The engine revs louder for a moment before easing again.

Then you hear a quiet “You ever think about leaving?”

Your chest tightens. “Leaving Gotham?”

“Leaving me.” He exhales slowly.

There it is. The fear he buries under sarcasm and bullets and bruised knuckles. You sit up fully now, voice gentler.

“No.”

“You answered that way too fast.”

“Because I didn’t need to think about it.”

Silence again. You imagine him stopped at a red light somewhere in the city, helmet tipped down, eyes closed.

“I’m serious,” he says eventually. “You deserve normal.”

“Jason, I fell in love with you, not normal.”

Jason was never louder than when he was pretending he wasn’t injured. It always surprised you when he was, because for a man his size he was usually strangely quiet. You stand up from the couch and shut the window behind him as he all but falls into your shared apartment, helmet already off.

“Jacket off,” you tell him as you try to look at where he was injured.

“Hello to you too,” he fights his way through a wince.

“Jason,” you warn, glancing up at his face where his lip was split, he had a cut on his eyebrow and a bruise was forming on his cheekbone.

Your warning must have done something because he tried to slip his leather jacket off, failed, and then with a muttered curse, let you help. He also took his chest gear off, showing you the spot of his torso he’d been gripping, revealing…nothing.

“Your rib is bruised, I can’t really help you with that,” you say softly

“I know. I look worse than it actually is. I’m fine” he flops down on the couch and then lets out a pained noise.

You watch him for a second. The rain dripping off his hair, the scent of Gotham's streets that seemed to follow him, his scars. You then silently grab the first aid kit from the bathroom.

“I was gonna tell you to sit, but you already are. Someone's learning,” I give him a small smile

"Someone's bossy, I had to,” he teases.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The apartment filled instead with soft sounds such as the clink of antiseptic against the counter, distant sirens outside, your breathing far too close to his. You stepped between his knees to reach the cut near his eyebrow.

“This is gonna sting.”

“I’ve survived worse.”

“Thats not a flex, Jase,” you said quietly, pressing the cloth to his skin. 

That shut him up and his eyes lifted to yours. Then you saw it, a softness that only you got to see. Carefully, you cleaned the blood from his face while he stayed impossibly still beneath your hands. As though he thought if he moved too suddenly, he would break the moment.

a/n — first fic ever posted on here so this feels slightly terrifying <3