short coffee

You were not Gotham’s lesson. You were its contradiction.

You walked into the lives of heroes with no cape, no crest, no ancestral oath or alien sun burning beneath your skin. You arrived with steady hands, tired eyes, and a reputation that made even gods go quiet.

You could heal anything. That was what everyone said.

The Justice League said it with reverence. The Titans said it with relief. The Outlaws said it with reckless gratitude. Young Justice said it like they had discovered a cheat code and decided not to read the terms of service.

Jon said you were “basically a miracle.”

Damian said miracles were unreliable.

You had smiled at him when he said it. Amused.

“Good thing I’m not a miracle, then,” you had replied.

He had disliked you immediately.

Not because you were wrong.

Because he wanted you to be.

The first time Damian let you heal him, he was twenty-one and old enough to know better.

It was not a serious injury. That was what he told himself. A fractured wrist after a fight with a metahuman trafficking cell near the docks. He had taken the hit redirecting a collapsing beam away from a child. The child survived. His wrist did not.

A favourable exchange.

You found him on a rooftop afterwards, attempting to secure a splint one-handed with the grim concentration of a man personally offended by gauze. You stood in front of him for five seconds before saying, “That wrap is a hate crime.”

Damian did not look up. “It is functional.”

“It is shaped like unresolved childhood trauma.”

His eyes lifted. You smiled mildly.

He stared. “You are bold for someone within throwing distance.”

“You’re injured.”

“You believe that protects you?”

“No. I believe your wrist is broken and your left-handed aim with medical tape is probably worse than you think.”

Damian’s jaw tightened. The worst part was that you were correct.

You stepped closer but did not reach for him.

That was unusual. Most people reached. Medics, especially. Even kind ones often forgot that kindness could still become an invasion if delivered without permission.

You held your hands at your sides.

“I can heal it,” you said.

“No.”

“Okay.”

He paused.

You did not argue. No persuasive speech. No moral lecture. No “you don’t have to be tough with me,” which was a phrase Damian loathed almost as much as “calm down.”

You simply accepted his answer and leaned against the roof access door.

Damian narrowed his eyes. “What are you doing?”

“Waiting.”

“For what?”

“To make sure you don’t pass out from pain while continuing your one-man war against compression bandages.”

“I will not pass out.”

“Great. Then this will be boring.”

The silence that followed should have annoyed him.

It did. But not only.

You watched the skyline instead of watching him. You gave him privacy without leaving him alone. It was a surprisingly difficult balance, and Damian hated that you managed it.

Eventually, his splint slipped. You did not comment.

His wrist throbbed hard enough that his vision flashed white at the edges. You still did not comment.

He exhaled sharply through his nose.

“Fine,” he said. You looked over. “I will permit your assistance.”

“Assistance with the splint or healing?”

He paused. You waited.

Damian looked at your hands. They were steady. Scarred in small places, though no injuries lingered long on you. He knew that much. Everyone knew that. You healed quickly. You healed others faster.

A miracle, Jon had called you. A risk, Damian thought.

“To heal,” he said finally.

You stepped toward him. Slowly. “May I touch your wrist?”

“Yes.”

Your fingers settled around the fracture. Warmth bloomed beneath your palm.

Damian prepared for pain. There was none.

The ache vanished. The bone slid back into place with a painless shift that should have been impossible. Swelling disappeared. Torn tissue knitted itself whole. His fingers, stiff seconds before, flexed freely.

He stared at his hand. There should have been consequences. There were always consequences.

You released him and took half a step back. Your own fingers curled briefly against your palm.

A twitch. Almost nothing.

Damian saw it. “What was that?”

You blinked. “What was what?”

“Your hand.”

“My hand exists. Very observant.”

He frowned.

You smiled. It was a practised smile.

He would understand that later.

At the time, he only knew that he disliked it.

Trust came slowly.

Damian preferred it that way. Trust that arrived too quickly was either foolishness or manipulation. Real trust was built like a fortress: stone by stone, inspected from every angle, reinforced after every storm.

You never rushed him. That was the first stone.

You respected every no. That was the second.

You remembered details he did not expect anyone to notice: that he preferred tea without sugar, that he hated being touched from behind, that Titus became restless during thunderstorms, that Damian’s right shoulder tightened before he admitted exhaustion.

You learned the names of his animals before you learned the gossip about his family. That was several stones at once.

“You brought treats,” Damian said the first time you visited the Manor, and Titus abandoned dignity to shove his massive head into your hands.

“For Titus.”

“I can see that.”

“You sound offended.”

“You have bribed my dog.”

“I have respected his interests.”

Titus wagged his tail with shameless enthusiasm.

Damian crossed his arms. “He has betrayed me.”

“You love him anyway.”

“Unfortunately.”

You smiled down at Titus. “Good boy.”

Damian watched the way your hands scratched behind the dog’s ears. Gentle, sure, absent of fear. Titus leaned against you like a creature who knew exactly where kindness lived.

Damian did not realise he was staring until you glanced up.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Your smile became suspicious. “Was that almost fondness?”

“No.”

“It looked like almost fondness.”

“You are mistaken.”

“I’m choosing to believe otherwise.”

“Your delusions are your own burden.”

You laughed. Damian looked away too late.

After that, you became a regular presence.

Not constant. Damian would not have tolerated constant.

Familiar.

You appeared in the Cave after League missions, carrying medical supplies and the quiet authority of someone who had seen heroes at their worst and remained unimpressed by theatrics. You patched Grayson while he told a story with too many hand gestures and not enough respect for his own cracked ribs. You argued with Todd about antibiotics until he took them out of spite. You confiscated Drake’s coffee once and survived.

Damian had been impressed. Not that he said so.

Jon noticed, because Jon noticed everything Damian wished he would not.

“You like them,” Jon said one evening on a rooftop patrol.

Damian did not stumble. Barely.

“I tolerate them.”

Jon floated beside him, cape moving in the wind. “You gave them one of your sketches.”

“It was a medical diagram.”

“It was a drawing of their hands.”

“Hands are medically relevant.”

“You wrote ‘rest’ under it.”

“They do not rest.”

Jon’s grin widened. “You are so down bad.” Damian turned slowly. Jon backed up in the air. “I say that with love.”

“I will remove you from the sky.”

“You can’t fly.”

“I will improvise.”

Jon laughed.

Damian resumed walking. His ears were warm.

Jon landed beside him, quieter now. “They look at you differently, too.”

Damian’s step faltered. “They do not.”

“They do.”

“Kryptonian hearing does not make you an expert on human emotion.”

“No, but hearing their heartbeat change when you walk in is pretty compelling evidence.” Damian stopped. Jon also stopped, expression immediately apologetic. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You listen to their heart?”

“Not intentionally! It’s just loud when they see you.”

Damian’s own heart became deeply undisciplined.

Jon smiled softly. “You should tell them.”

“No.”

“Okay.”

Damian glanced at him, suspicious. “You concede too easily.”

“No, I just know you’ll do it eventually and pretend it was your idea.”

Damian glared. Jon grinned.

Two nights later, you found another drawing tucked into your medical bag. This one was of Titus asleep with his head on your knee. Beneath it, in Damian’s precise handwriting, was one sentence: He trusts you. This reflects well on your character.

You found Damian in the garden.

It was raining, because Gotham apparently believed subtlety was for lesser cities. He stood beneath a stone archway, pretending not to wait.

You approached with the sketch held carefully against your chest.

“This is beautiful,” you said.

“It is accurate.”

“It’s kind.”

“That is debatable.”

“No.” You smiled. “It isn’t.”

Damian looked away.

You stepped under the arch beside him. Rain whispered over ivy. The Manor glowed behind you both, all old stone and golden windows.

“Thank you,” you said.

He nodded stiffly.

There was a silence.

Not uncomfortable. That had become dangerous.

You looked at him, and Damian could feel the moment opening like a door.

“You’re allowed to want things,” you said quietly.

His jaw tightened. It was not fair, how gently you said it. As if the words were not a blade sliding between armour plates. “I am aware.”

“You know it intellectually.”

He looked at you sharply. Your smile was sad.

“What do you want, Damian?”

Many answers came to him.

Peace. Purpose. His father’s approval, though he had outgrown needing it and somehow not outgrown wanting it. A world where children were not trained into weapons. A self that did not sometimes still hear his grandfather’s voice and mistake it for his own.

But those truths were too large for the rain. So he chose the smaller one. The braver one.

“You,” he said.

Your breath caught.

Damian did not look away. Your face changed in a way he did not have language for. Softened, yes, but not with pity. With wonder. With wanting so open, it made his chest hurt.

“You have me,” you whispered.

He should have asked if you were certain. He should have warned you that he did not love gently by instinct, that his devotion had teeth, that he was still learning how to hold without gripping too tightly.

Instead, he leaned in.

You met him halfway.

The first kiss was rain-cold and mouth-warm, hesitant for only the first breath. Then your hand rose to his cheek, and Damian let himself lean into it.

Let himself want. Let himself be wanted.

Later, Jon would claim he heard Damian’s heartbeat “attempt to achieve escape velocity.”

Damian would threaten him. Several times.

But in the rain, beneath ivy, you kissed him like there was nothing in him that needed to be earned back from violence.

And Damian, foolishly perhaps, believed you.

He should have known the past would come for him with a blade. 

The League of Assassins rarely wasted poetry.

When the case began, it looked like a string of metahuman disappearances. Three teenagers taken from Metropolis. Two from Gotham. One from Blüdhaven. All newly powered. All young enough to be frightened by what their bodies had become and old enough for someone cruel to turn that fear into compliance.

Oracle connected the disappearances to an abandoned hospital outside Gotham registered under six false companies, two shell organisations, and one name Damian had not heard spoken aloud in years.

A minor League sect. Old blood. New methods.

His father stood at the Cave computer, grim and silent. Grayson’s usual warmth had sharpened into focus. Drake’s fingers flew across keys. Todd checked and rechecked his weapons with quiet, murderous care. Jon stood beside Damian, tension radiating off him like sunlight behind storm clouds.

You stood near the medbay entrance. Damian saw you before anyone spoke.

“No,” he said.

Your eyes moved to him. “Excuse me?”

“You are not coming.”

Todd muttered, “Smooth, brat.”

Damian ignored him.

You stepped closer. “They’ll have injured kids inside.”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t want a healer there?”

“I do not want you there.”

The room went still.

Your face did not change, but Damian saw the hurt land. He regretted the phrasing instantly.

Not the meaning. The wound.

You folded your arms. “Because it’s dangerous?”

“Because it is League.”

Your expression softened, which was worse than anger. “Dami.”

“No.”

“You can’t keep me away from every shadow in your past.”

“I can keep you away from this one.”

“That isn’t your choice.”

“It is if I refuse to allow you through the Zeta-tube.”

Drake winced.

Grayson said, “Dami.”

You stared at him.

For a moment, he thought you would argue. Part of him wanted you to. Part of him wanted you angry enough that the fear in his chest had somewhere to go.

Instead, you nodded once. “Fine.”

Damian hated the word.

You looked at Bruce. “I’ll coordinate med support from here.”

Bruce’s gaze shifted between you and Damian.

Then he nodded. “Accepted.”

You did not look at Damian again.

Good, he told himself. He had protected you.

It felt like losing.

The facility beneath the hospital was exactly what Damian expected. That made it worse.

Stone corridors beneath sterile tile. Modern restraints bolted into old walls. Hidden sigils carved under steel plates. The League had always understood the value of layering cruelty beneath cleanliness.

The team split. Batman and Nightwing cleared the upper labs. Red Hood secured the escape route with a level of aggression that suggested several assassins would later require reconstructive dentistry. Red Robin disabled surveillance from the Cave with you beside him on medical coordination. Damian and Jon moved through the lower chambers.

They found the first two teenagers in a containment room.

Bruised. Dehydrated. Alive. One had burns from power-dampening cuffs. The other had a dislocated shoulder and a split lip. Damian’s jaw tightened as Jon broke the cuffs with careful rage.

Your voice came through comms. “Status?”

“Two recovered,” Damian replied. “Nonfatal injuries. Burns, dislocation, dehydration.”

A short pause. “Can they move?”

“Yes.”

“Get them to extraction. I’ll have medics ready.”

Damian heard it in your voice. The restraint.

You wanted to be there. You wanted to put your hands over the burns and make them vanish.

Instead, you gave orders.

He was proud. He was afraid. Both feelings sat together in him like badly behaved animals.

They moved deeper.

The final chamber was beneath the old surgical wing. It had once been an operating theatre. The League had turned it into something worse. Six teenagers were strapped to tilted metal tables arranged in a circle around a machine pulsing with stolen metahuman energy. Their powers fed into the device through cables bright with unstable light.

In the centre stood a man in black armour with a white sash marked in old League script.

Damian knew the title.

Not the man. That hardly mattered. The League was full of replaceable monsters wearing inherited arrogance.

“Blood heir,” the man said.

Jon’s eyes burned red. “I hate when they call you that.”

“As do I,” Damian said.

Then the fight began. Assassins dropped from the rafters. Red solar emitters ignited in the walls, flooding the room in pulses designed to weaken Jon without fully stripping him. Power-dampening fields snapped on around the captives. Blades flashed.

Damian moved.

He had been raised in rooms like this. He knew their rhythm. Strike before the second attacker lands. Never follow the obvious opening. The left wall hides a second blade. The floor sigil is not decorative. The man with the shorter sword is the true threat.

He fought like memory given teeth. Jon fought beside him, weakened but furious, each hit controlled enough to avoid collapsing the chamber on the children.

“Red Robin,” Damian snapped over comms. “Disable the solar emitters.”

“Working,” Tim replied. “They’re layered into the medical grid.”

Todd’s voice cut in, breathless and violent. “I can blow the grid.”

“Do not blow the grid,” Tim and Bruce said at once.

Todd scoffed. “No one appreciates vision.”

Your voice came through, tight. “Damian, behind you.”

He turned before the blade reached his spine.

An assassin fell.

Damian’s pulse sharpened. You were watching through hacked security feeds.

Good. Bad. You were seeing too much.

The lead assassin smiled.

“Still guided by softer hands,” he said.

Damian lunged.

Mistake.

Not fatal. Almost.

The floor beneath him flared with old script. Chains of black light erupted around his right arm and shoulder, locking him mid-strike. Jon shouted and tried to reach him, but two assassins drove him back beneath red solar pulses.

Damian twisted. The chains tightened.

The lead assassin drew a curved blade.

Not toward Damian’s heart. Toward his arm.

Damian understood at once. Maiming, not killing. A message. A punishment. A ritual humiliation. The blood heir made less whole.

He fought the chains with everything he had.

Not enough.

The blade came down. Pain went white.

For one suspended heartbeat, there was nothing.

Then sound returned.

Jon screaming his name. The teenagers crying out. The wet sound of blood hitting tile.

Damian looked down. His right arm was nearly severed below the elbow. Attached by ruined flesh, fractured bone, and a stubbornness his body had apparently inherited from him.

The sight was clinical in its horror.

He knew what losing the arm would mean.

Not death. Worse, in some ways.

Relearning everything. Sword forms. Drawing. Writing. Touch. Balance. The language of his body rewritten by another person’s blade.

Pain struck next, vast and blinding.

Damian dropped to his knees. His left hand clamped above the wound. Blood surged between his fingers.

“Robin!” Bruce’s voice cracked over comms.

That, more than the injury, frightened him. His father sounded afraid.

Jon hit the lead assassin so hard that the man flew into the far wall.

The solar emitters died.

Tim’s voice, “Grid down.”

Todd, “I still think explosions would’ve been faster.”

Your voice came next. Not steady. Not anymore.

“Damian?”

He clenched his teeth. Could not answer.

Jon dropped beside him, face white. He pressed both hands over Damian’s arm, trying to stem the bleeding without making it worse.

“Oh God,” Jon breathed. “Dami, stay with me.”

“I am… here,” Damian forced out.

“You’re losing too much blood.”

“I noticed.”

“Stop being sarcastic while actively bleeding out!”

Your voice came again. “Jon. Status.”

Jon looked at the comm on Damian’s collar, horrified.

“It’s his arm,” Jon said. “It’s—it’s almost gone.”

Silence. The kind that took all air with it.

Then the sound Damian dreaded most. The Zeta-tube activating in the chamber beyond.

“No,” Damian rasped.

Jon looked at him. “Damian—”

“No.”

He tried to push himself upright. Failed.

The chamber doors opened. Batman entered first, cape like a storm, medkit in hand.

You came behind him.

Your eyes found Damian. Everything in your face stopped.

No. That was his first thought.

Not relief. Not love.

No.

Because he knew you. He knew what you were seeing. Not only the blood. Not only the limb hanging by torn flesh. Not only the future unravelling in one brutal line.

You were seeing something you could fix.

“Do not,” he said.

Your face crumpled. You crossed the room anyway.

Bruce knelt at Damian’s other side, taking over pressure from Jon with controlled, terrible efficiency.

“Tourniquet,” Bruce said.

Jon was already moving.

You knelt in front of Damian.

“Hi,” you whispered.

Absurd. He loved you so fiercely in that moment that it frightened him more than the blood loss.

“No,” he said again.

Your hands hovered over his arm. Shaking now. The tremor was visible. He hated that.

“I can save it,” you said.

His vision blurred. “No.”

“You could lose your hand.”

“I know.”

“Your arm.”

“I know.”

“Damian.”

He looked at you. Your eyes were full of tears, but beneath the fear was something harder.

Resolve. The same resolve he had seen in you a hundred times when someone was hurt. When pain became a problem and your body became the answer.

“No,” he whispered.

You touched his face with one blood-slick hand.

He should have turned away. He did not.

“I’m sorry,” you said.

His heart stopped. “No.”

“I can’t let them take this from you.”

“No.”

“You draw with this hand.” His throat closed. “You hold your sword with it,” you continued, voice breaking. “You hold Titus. You hold me.”

“Beloved—”

“I can help.”

“You will take the wound.”

“Not all of it.”

“You do not know that.”

“I know my body.” A desperate, broken smile flickered across your mouth. “It changes things. It softens the transfer sometimes. I probably won’t get it as bad.”

“Probably,” Damian spat.

You flinched. Good.

No. Not good. Nothing was good.

Bruce’s gaze snapped to you. “What does that mean?”

No one answered him. The entire chamber seemed to narrow around you and Damian.

Your hand was still on his face. His blood streaked your fingers.

“I can’t watch you lose part of yourself,” you whispered.

Rage and terror rose together in Damian’s chest. “You think my hand is myself?”

“No,” you said immediately. “No. That’s not what I mean.”

“That is what you said.”

“I mean they took enough from you. The League took enough. Your childhood, your choices, your body, your pain, your name before you even knew what names meant.” Your voice cracked. “I cannot sit here with the power to stop them from taking one more thing and choose not to.”

His breath hitched.

There it was. The blade under the kindness.

Not pity. Fury. You were angry for him. You were choosing him. You were choosing him over yourself.

He wanted to weep. He wanted to shout. He wanted to beg.

“Ask me,” he said.

Your face broke. “Damian—”

“Ask me.”

The words cost him more than blood.

You stared at him. “I can’t.”

Pain lanced through him.

Not from the arm. From you.

“You can,” he said. “You must.”

“If I ask, you’ll say no.”

“Yes.”

“And then I’ll have to let it happen.”

“You will have to honour my choice.”

Your tears spilled over. “I’m not strong enough for that.”

Damian’s heart shattered.

Bruce went very still beside him. Jon made a small, broken sound.

You leaned closer.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered again.

And then your hands closed around Damian’s ruined arm.

The transfer hit like lightning.

Damian screamed. So did you. For one second, pain filled everything. Not leaving him gently, not fading like mercy. It ripped out of him, dragging fire and nerve and blood with it.

Then his arm healed. Bone snapped into alignment. Flesh knitted. Tendons reconnected. Skin sealed beneath your palms. Feeling surged down to his fingertips in a brutal rush.

His hand flexed. Whole. His.

Then you collapsed.

Your right arm buckled beneath you.

Not severed. Not as bad. You had been right. Somehow, impossibly, terribly right.

But the damage still tore through you. A jagged wound split from your forearm toward your wrist, deep enough to expose blood and white flashes of bone beneath muscle. Your fingers curled uselessly. Blood poured down your hand, splattering onto the tile. Your shoulder hit the floor, and your breath broke on a sound Damian would hear forever.

For half a second, he stared at his healed hand. Then at yours.

No.

No.

No.

He lunged toward you. His body, newly healed but blood-weakened, nearly failed him. Jon caught his shoulder. Damian shoved him away and dragged himself to you with both hands, both whole hands, which made it worse.

“Beloved,” he choked.

You were curled around your injured arm, face white with agony.

Bruce moved quickly, already applying pressure to your wound. You cried out. Damian flinched as if the sound had opened him.

“Do not touch them,” he snapped at Bruce.

Bruce’s eyes flashed. “They’re bleeding.”

Damian knew he was being irrational. He did not care.

“Damian,” you gasped.

His attention snapped to you.

You were looking at him. Not your arm.

Him.

Relief trembled through your expression.

Relief.

Because his arm was whole. Because you had succeeded.

Damian felt something inside him go cold and wild.

“How dare you,” he whispered.

Your eyes filled. “I’m sorry.”

“How dare you.”

“I couldn’t—”

“You could,” he said, voice shaking. “You chose not to.”

Your face crumpled.

He wanted to take the words back. He wanted to sharpen them. He wanted to kiss you until your pain disappeared. He wanted your blood off the floor. He wanted his wound back.

“You chose me,” he said.

Your lips trembled. “Yes.”

“Over yourself.”

“Yes.”

The honesty was a killing blow.

Damian’s breath left him.

Bruce tightened the pressure bandage around your arm. You whimpered, trying to stay still. Jon knelt nearby, crying openly now. Damian barely saw him.

“You were right,” you whispered. His heart stopped. “It’s not as bad.”

Damian stared at you.

Then laughed once. A terrible sound.

“You think that matters?” Your eyes searched his, confused through pain and shock. “You think because the wound is smaller, the violation is smaller?”

You flinched.

Bruce’s expression tightened.

Jon whispered, “Dami…”

“No,” Damian snapped. “Do not.”

Your breathing hitched.

Damian’s hands shook. His right hand, whole and healed, shook.

That made him angrier. That made him love you more. That made him hate everything.

“You did not save my arm,” he said, voice breaking. “You made it yours.”

Your face went slack.

There. Good.

No. Not good.

Truth. Necessary and brutal.

You looked at your wounded arm as if seeing it for the first time. Blood soaked the bandage beneath Bruce’s hands.

Your mouth opened. No sound came out.

Then the pain took you. Your eyes rolled back.

Damian caught you before your head hit the floor. “Beloved?”

No response.

“Beloved.”

Bruce pressed two fingers to your throat. “Pulse is weak. We need extraction now.”

Damian held you against him, his healed hand cradling your head.

His arm worked perfectly. He had never hated his own body more.

The Watchtower medbay smelled like antiseptic and fear. Damian sat outside the surgical suite with blood on his clothes.

Yours. His. Both.

He had refused to change.

Todd had said nothing, which was how Damian knew the situation had reached an unnatural level of horror. Jon sat on the floor across from him, knees drawn up, cape wrapped around his shoulders. He had cried himself quiet twenty minutes earlier. Bruce stood near the observation window like a statue carved by grief. Grayson paced. Drake typed furiously on one tablet, then another, then stopped as if realising no amount of data would make time move faster.

Todd leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, helmet off, face pale and furious.

“This is bullshit,” Jason said finally. No one answered. “This whole damn thing is bullshit.”

“Jason,” Dick said softly.

“No. They should’ve told us.”

Damian’s eyes lifted.

Todd looked at him.

Not accusing. Not pitying.

Understanding.

It was unbearable.

“They should’ve told us what healing cost,” Jason said. “Before any of us let them touch us.”

Damian looked down at his right hand.

He flexed his fingers. Whole. Obedient. Yours now, some treacherous part of him thought.

No.

No.

He dug his nails into his palm. Pain answered.

His pain. At least that remained.

“They knew I would refuse,” Damian said.

His voice was calm. Too calm.

Everyone looked at him.

“They knew,” he repeated. “So they did not ask.”

Jon’s face crumpled again.

Bruce said, quietly, “They thought they were saving you.”

Damian’s gaze snapped to his father. “They were.”

Silence.

Damian stood. His body swayed.

Jon scrambled up, but Damian lifted a hand. Jon stopped.

Damian looked at Bruce. “That is the problem.”

Bruce’s face tightened.

“I know,” he said.

Of course he did. Bruce Wayne understood being saved against his will. Understood surviving at a cost someone else paid. Understood the rage that followed gratitude so closely they became nearly impossible to separate.

Damian hated that he understood.

The surgical doors opened. Dr Mid-Nite emerged, expression grave but not hopeless. Damian was in front of him immediately.

“They’re alive,” the doctor said.

Damian nearly collapsed.

He did not. But Jon did, a little, against the wall.

“The transferred injury was severe,” Dr Mid-Nite continued. “Less catastrophic than yours would have been, but still serious. The arm is salvageable. There’s nerve trauma, tendon damage, blood loss. Their accelerated healing is responding, but slowly.”

“Will they regain function?” Damian asked.

“Likely, with treatment and time.”

Likely. Damian hated likely. Likely was probably wearing a white coat.

He wanted certainty. He got none.

“Can I see them?”

The doctor hesitated. Damian’s eyes narrowed.

Bruce stepped closer. “He won’t interfere.”

Dr Mid-Nite looked at Damian. Damian lifted his chin.

“I will not interfere,” he said.

He did not know if it was true. But he meant to make it so.

The doctor nodded.

You looked too small in the bed. Damian hated that thought. You were not small. You were not fragile. You were not a wounded bird cupped in his hands.

You were the person who had looked at the League’s attempt to maim him and said, No more. You were the person who had made yourself the answer.

You were terrible. You were brave. You were unconscious beneath white sheets, right arm wrapped from shoulder to wrist and elevated in a brace.

Damian approached slowly. Machines hummed. Your face was pale with pain even in sleep.

He stopped beside the bed. For a long time, he did nothing.

Then he reached out with his right hand. The healed one.

His fingers hovered over your bandaged arm.

He did not touch. He could not.

It felt obscene.

“Why?” he whispered.

You did not answer. The monitors did.

Steady beep. Alive.

Damian sat. He folded his hands in his lap. His right hand looked unchanged. Same calluses. Same scars. Same fine ink stain near his thumb from sketching two days earlier. Same knuckles bruised from training. Same fingers that had held yours in the garden.

It should have been a relief.

It was. That was the cruelty.

He was relieved.

He loved his hand. He loved what it allowed him to do. Draw. Fight. touch. Feed Titus scraps when Alfred was not looking. Hold his sword. Hold you.

He had not wanted to lose it. He had been prepared to.

You had seen the part of him that feared the loss, the part he would have hidden beneath pride, and you had chosen that frightened part over your own safety.

Damian hated you for it. Damian loved you for it. Both truths wrapped around his throat until breathing became difficult.

“You should have asked,” he said. His voice shook. “You should have asked me and allowed me to refuse. You should have trusted me to survive less than wholeness.” His eyes burned. “You should not have loved me like the League.”

The words entered the room and stayed. He regretted them immediately.

No. He did not.

Yes. Both. Always both with you now.

You stirred. Damian sat forward sharply. Your eyelids fluttered.

“Beloved?”

Your eyes opened slowly. Unfocused.

Then they found him.

Relief. Again.

Damian closed his eyes. When he opened them, you were trying to smile.

“Arm?” you rasped.

His jaw tightened. “Yours or mine?”

Your smile vanished.

Good. No. He was tired of good. Tired of bad. Tired of feeling everything.

“Damian,” you whispered.

He took the cup from beside the bed and held the straw to your lips. His right hand did not tremble this time.

You drank. Only a little. He set the cup down.

“My arm is whole,” he said.

Your eyes closed. “Good.”

The word struck him like a slap. He stood so quickly the chair scraped back.

Your eyes opened, startled.

“No,” he said.

Your face twisted with pain and confusion. “No?”

“No. You do not get to say good.”

Your throat bobbed. “I saved it.”

“You took it.”

“I saved it.”

“At the cost of your own.”

“It isn’t as bad.”

He stared at you. You seemed to hear yourself then. Your face faltered.

“It isn’t,” you said, quieter. “I knew it wouldn’t be as bad.”

“You did not know.”

“I was pretty sure.”

“Pretty sure,” he repeated.

Your eyes filled.

His hands curled into fists. Both hands. “You gambled with your body.”

“I gambled to keep yours.”

“I did not ask you to.”

“I know.”

“You did not let me refuse.”

“I know.”

“You did not trust me.”

That hurt you. Your mouth trembled. “I did trust you.”

“No.” Damian shook his head once. “You trusted that I would survive. You did not trust that I had the right to choose what survival looked like.”

Tears slipped down your temples.

“I couldn’t bear it,” you whispered.

“What?”

“The thought of you losing it.” Your gaze flicked to his right hand. “Your hand. Your arm. Your art. Your sword. The way you touch everything like you’re still learning you’re allowed to be gentle.”

Damian went still.

Your voice broke. “I couldn’t bear knowing I could help and choosing not to. I couldn’t bear seeing another piece of you taken by them.”

He looked away. The room blurred.

Damn you. Damn you for knowing that. Damn you for seeing the child beneath the blade, the boy raised by people who called ownership love, the man still trying to make his body his own. Damn you for choosing him. Damn you for being right that part of him was glad.

“I would have learned,” he said. You sobbed once. “I would have adapted.”

“I know.”

“I am more than my sword hand.”

“I know,” you said, crying harder now. “I know, Damian. I swear I know. I didn’t do it because I thought you’d be less. I did it because I love all of you, and I couldn’t watch you be forced to lose something when I had a chance to stop it.”

His anger fractured. Love rushed in through the crack.

Unwelcome. Unstoppable.

He sat down again, slower this time. “You chose me over yourself.”

Your eyes held his. “Yes.”

The honesty hurt worse than any lie could have.

Damian lowered his head. For a moment, he was back in the chamber. Your hand on his face. Your eyes full of tears. Your voice saying sorry because you already knew you were about to betray him for love.

He hated that he understood. He hated that if it had been you on the floor with your arm nearly severed, he did not know if he would have done better.

That thought humbled him. Humiliation would have been easier. This was grief.

“I love you,” he said.

Your breath caught. He looked at you.

“I love you for choosing me,” he continued, voice rough. “For looking at the worst thing the League tried to make me and refusing to let them take more. I love you for your fury. For your tenderness. For wanting me whole even when I was prepared not to be.”

Your face crumpled.

“And I hate you for choosing me over yourself.”

You closed your eyes. “I know.”

“No,” he said. “Listen.”

Your eyes opened again.

“I hate that you decided my wholeness was worth your damage. I hate that I am relieved. I hate that part of me wants to thank you while another part wants to never let you touch me again.”

A tear slid down your cheek. Damian reached for it.

Stopped.

“May I?” he asked.

Your face broke all over again. “Yes.”

He wiped the tear away with his right thumb. His healed thumb.

You leaned into the touch. He nearly broke.

“I am angry,” he whispered.

“I know.”

“I will be angry for some time.”

“I know.”

“I may not forgive you quickly.”

Your lips trembled. “Okay.”

“But I am staying.”

A sob caught in your throat. Damian leaned closer.

“I am staying,” he repeated. “Because love is not leaving when one has been wounded. Even by the beloved.”

You cried then.

Not quietly. Not beautifully. You cried like something in you had finally stopped bracing for abandonment.

Damian rested his forehead against yours, careful of the tubes, the bandages, the injured arm held between you like a third presence.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know.”

“I love you.”

His eyes closed. “I know.”

A faint, watery laugh escaped you. “Arrogant.”

“Yes.”

“Say it back anyway?”

His mouth softened. “I love you.”

Your breath shuddered.

“I love you,” he said again, because the words seemed to hurt you in a healing way, and Damian was beginning to understand that not all pain was harm. “I love you, and you were wrong.”

You laughed and sobbed at the same time. “That is very you.”

“I am consistent.”

“You are.”

His hand remained on your face. Your uninjured hand lifted slowly and covered his.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The monitor kept counting proof of your survival. Damian listened like it was scripture.

Recovery was not gentle. Yours rarely was.

The wound had not taken your arm, but it had changed it. Nerves misfired beneath the skin. Your fingers trembled. Grip strength came and went like a moody ghost. Some days, your hand curled stiffly and refused to open without coaxing. Some nights, the pain climbed from wrist to shoulder and left you pale, sweating, biting back sounds Damian wished he could tear from the world.

He did not offer to have you heal yourself. He had learned enough by then. You could accelerate your recovery only in fragments, carefully, at the cost of exhaustion that frightened everyone.

So you healed slowly. Humanly.

Damian stayed. Angrily. Devotedly.

He brought tea and corrected your posture with surgical precision. He read aloud when the pain made focusing difficult. He chose poetry at first because he thought it might soothe you. Then he chose murder mysteries because you criticised everyone’s investigative technique so fiercely that even Drake listened from the doorway with reluctant approval.

He brushed your hair when your arm hurt too much.

The first time, you cried. He pretended not to notice until you said, “You can notice.”

So he did.

“You are crying,” Damian said.

You laughed wetly. “Thanks.”

“I am uncertain what response is appropriate.”

“Just keep going.”

He did. His fingers moved through your hair with grave concentration.

Todd walked in, saw the scene, and immediately walked back out muttering, “Nope, too intimate, I’m emotionally allergic.”

You laughed so hard that Damian threatened him through the door.

Some days, Damian’s anger sharpened unexpectedly.

A dropped cup. Your wince while trying to flex your fingers. The sight of you struggling to button a shirt. Each small reminder of what you had taken from him and made yours.

One afternoon, you caught him staring at your hand as you failed to hold a pen.

“Say it,” you said.

Damian looked up. “What?”

“Whatever you’re thinking.”

“I am thinking many things.”

“The angry one.”

His jaw tightened.

You waited. Always waiting, even now.

He exhaled. “I am thinking that I should be the one unable to hold a pen.”

Your face softened with pain.

“I am thinking that you stole a consequence from me.”

“Yes.”

“I am thinking that I am grateful.”

Your eyes filled.

His voice hardened. “And that gratitude disgusts me.”

You set the pen down. “Damian.”

“No. You asked.”

“I did.”

He stood, restless, anger moving through him like a blade seeking a target. “I look at my hand and I am relieved. I draw and I am relieved. I hold my sword and I am relieved. I touch you and I am relieved.”

Your mouth trembled.

He looked at you, furious and wrecked. “Then I look at your hand.”

You said nothing.

“I do not know where to put the relief,” he confessed.

Your expression crumpled.

Oh. There it was. The truth under the anger.

He did not know how to be grateful for something that had hurt you. He did not know how to love the saved part of himself without feeling like he was betraying the wounded part of you.

You rose carefully from the chair. He stiffened. You came close but did not touch.

“I don’t need you to be only grateful,” you said softly. His throat tightened. “I don’t even need you to be grateful at all.”

“I am.”

“I know.”

“I despise it.”

“I know.”

Your injured hand hung between you, bandaged, trembling slightly.

Damian looked at it. Then, slowly, he held out his right hand. His healed hand.

You stared.

“May I?” he asked.

Your eyes filled. “Yes.”

He took your injured hand with unbearable care. The bandages were soft beneath his fingers.

Your hand trembled in his. He lifted it and pressed his mouth to your knuckles. You inhaled sharply.

“I am angry,” he said against your skin. “I am grateful.”

“I know.”

“I love you.”

Your eyes closed. “I know,” you whispered.

He looked up.

“And I hate,” he said, voice rough, “that those truths do not cancel each other out.”

You opened your eyes. “They don’t have to.”

“No.” He held your hand between both of his. “No,” he repeated. “They do not.”

It was not forgiveness. Not yet.

But it was contact. It was honest. It was enough for that moment.

Jon came often. He was terrible at pretending he was not checking on both of you. He brought snacks, flowers, terrible jokes, and one stuffed cow wearing a tiny Robin cape.

Damian stared at it. You stared at it.

Jon held it out with both hands. “For emotional support.”

Damian said, “Leave.”

You laughed immediately.

Jon brightened. “See? It helped.”

“It offended me.”

“That’s your love language.”

“I will make you eat the cow.”

“It has a name.”

“No.”

“Moo-bin.”

Damian closed his eyes. You laughed so hard you had to clutch your injured arm, which made Damian glare at Jon with genuine threat.

Jon winced. “Sorry. Sorry. Medium laughter only.”

You wheezed, “Moo-bin.”

Damian looked at you.

Betrayal. Absolute betrayal.

Jon smiled, then sobered. “Can I talk to Damian for a sec?”

You looked between them.

Damian stiffened. “If this is another emotional intervention—”

“It is.”

“No.”

“Dami.”

You touched Damian’s wrist gently. “Go,” you said.

He frowned. “I’m fine.”

“That word is banned.”

“I am stable, medicated, and entertained by Moo-bin.”

Jon looked delighted. Damian looked betrayed again. Still, he followed Jon into the hallway.

For several seconds, Jon said nothing.

Damian crossed his arms. “Speak.”

Jon looked toward the medbay door. Then back at Damian. “You’re allowed to be glad.”

Damian went still.

Jon’s face was open and earnest and far too difficult to dismiss.

“That your arm is okay,” Jon said. “You’re allowed to be glad.”

Damian looked away. 

“They would want you to be.”

“That is part of the problem.”

“I know.”

“You do not.”

Jon’s jaw tightened.

“I watched them do it,” he said.

Damian looked back.

Jon’s eyes shone. “I watched you say no. I watched them do it anyway. I watched you heal and them drop. I’m angry too.”

Damian’s throat closed.

Jon stepped closer. “But I also heard your heartbeat when you saw your hand move again.”

Damian flinched.

“Sorry,” Jon said quickly. “I know. Accidental perceiving. Bad habit.”

Damian did not respond.

Jon continued anyway. “It sounded like hope.”

The words struck too deep. Damian turned away.

Jon’s voice softened. “I don’t think that makes you bad.”

Damian’s jaw clenched.

“The League made you think every gift is a debt,” Jon said. “But this isn’t that.”

“It feels like that.”

“I know.”

“They paid in blood.”

“Yeah.”

“For me.”

“Yes.”

“How is that not debt?”

Jon was quiet. Then he said, “Because they’re not asking you to repay it.” Damian shut his eyes. “They’re asking you to stay.”

Damian hated how simple Jon made things. How gentle. How impossible to refute.

“I do not know if staying is enough,” Damian said.

Jon stepped beside him. “Maybe not every day. But it’s a start.”

The hallway remained silent.

Then Damian said, “Moo-bin is a terrible name.”

Jon laughed, startled. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“You keeping him?”

Damian looked toward the medbay door.

Through the small window, he could see you holding the cow in your lap, smiling faintly at its ridiculous cape.

“Yes,” Damian said.

Jon wisely did not comment.

The first time you returned to the garden, your hand was still bandaged. The rain had stopped earlier, leaving the paths dark and shining beneath the evening lights. Titus wandered ahead, sniffing at wet leaves. The Manor windows glowed gold behind you.

Damian walked beside you. Close enough that your sleeves brushed.

You stopped beneath the same ivy arch where he had first told you he wanted you. The memory sat between you.

Soft. Cruel. Yours.

You looked at him. “I’m scared you’ll never look at me the same.”

Damian’s chest tightened.

He considered lying.

No. No more soft lies.

“I do not look at you the same.”

Your face fell.

He turned toward you fully. “I know more now.”

You swallowed. “That sounds ominous.”

“It is honest.”

Your mouth trembled.

He reached for your injured hand. Paused. You nodded.

He took it carefully. “I know you are capable of betraying my choice to preserve my body.”

You closed your eyes.

“I know you are reckless when afraid.”

A tear slipped down your cheek.

“I know you love me with a ferocity that does not always ask permission.”

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“I’ll keep saying it.”

“I know.”

“I don’t know how to make it right.”

Damian looked down at your joined hands.

His whole one. Your wounded one.

“There is no undoing it.”

Your breath caught.

He looked back at you.

“There is only what comes next.”

You opened your eyes. “What comes next?”

He brushed his thumb lightly over the edge of your bandage. “You tell me when you are in pain.” You nodded. “You do not minimise it because it is less than what I would have suffered.” Another tear fell. “You let me be angry without deciding I no longer love you.” Your face crumpled. “And I,” he continued, voice roughening, “will learn to feel relief without turning it into shame.”

You stared at him.

The rain began again, soft at first. Gotham had timing. Terrible, dramatic timing.

You laughed through tears.

“What?” he asked.

“You’re negotiating emotional terms in the rain.”

“It is a serious matter.”

“It’s very romantic.”

“It is practical.”

“It can be both.”

He considered this. Then nodded once. “Fine.”

Your smile was small. “Fine?”

“It can be both.”

You stepped closer. “Can I kiss you?”

Damian’s heart moved painfully.

Even after everything. Especially after everything. You asked.

“Yes,” he said.

You kissed him gently. Too gently. As if afraid he would break beneath the weight of what you had done.

Damian’s left hand rose to your face. His right rested against your waist, whole and steady and unbearable.

He deepened the kiss. You made a soft sound against his mouth. He held you there beneath the ivy while rain gathered in your hair.

When he pulled back, your eyes were closed.

“You are not forgiven yet,” he whispered.

Your eyes opened. “I know.”

“But you are loved.”

Your face broke open with relief so bright it nearly hurt to see. 

He continued before the words could fail him. “You are loved while I am angry. You are loved while I am grateful. You are loved while I do not understand how to carry either.”

Your injured hand rose slowly and touched his chest. Over his heart.

“I can live with that,” you whispered.

“You must.”

A faint smile. “Bossy.”

“Yes.”

“I love you.”

His throat tightened. “I know.”

You gave him a look.

He let the smallest smile touch his mouth. “I love you too.”

Titus barked from somewhere near the fountain, apparently offended that no one was paying attention to him.

You laughed.

Damian’s right hand flexed at your waist. He felt the motion. Felt every tendon obey. Felt relief. Felt guilt. Felt your warmth beneath his palm.

This time, he did not push any of it away. He held it. All of it. The anger. The gratitude. The love. The wound. The choice stolen and the life preserved. The hand he kept and the hand you injured to keep it for him.

Pain had gone somewhere. So had love.

Not cleanly. Not without consequence. But here, in the rain, with your hand over his heart and his over your bandages, Damian understood something he had never been taught in the League.

A gift paid in blood could still be wrong. A wrong thing could still come from love. Love could wound and remain love. And healing, real healing, was not the absence of scars. It was the choice to stay and learn the shape of them.

Damian pressed his forehead to yours.

“I will draw again,” he said quietly. Your breath caught. “And when I do, you will sit for me.”

You smiled through fresh tears. “What will you draw?”

He looked at your face. Your wet hair. Your tired eyes. Your stubborn, devastating tenderness. Then your bandaged hand. Then his own.

“Hands,” he said.

You laughed softly. “Again?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Damian lifted your injured hand and kissed the bandages. “Because they tell the truth.”

You looked at him like he had given you something fragile.

Maybe he had. Maybe he was learning. Maybe both of you were.

The rain fell harder, silvering the garden.

Inside the Manor, his family waited with tea, lectures, jokes, and the unbearable relief of people who had almost lost too much and were now determined to hover about it.

Out here, there was only you. Only him. Only the wound between you, no longer hidden.

Damian held your hand. You held his. Neither of you were whole in the way you had been before.

But you were here.

Loved. Angry. Alive.

the next day...

"What the fuck?"

He freezes, standing by the window. The sight before him is...terrifying, to say the least. He feels like he's in a nightmare. He spent the entire duration of patrol mulling over the things he said to you before he left. We both know you won't, except you did.

He stares at the kitchen of your shared apartment. All of your water bottles that you constantly left by the sink are gone. The vase of flowers you always left on the island is empty. Your collection of cheesy magnets is gone, the fridge stripped bare.

He looks to the living room. The stack of your books that always accompanied his own is missing. Your coffee mug no longer sits empty on the coffee table atop your favorite coaster. Your stupidly girly throw blanket is no longer draped over the couch.

"What...the fuck," he whispers to himself again. "No, no, no, no, no..."

He walks to the front door. Your shoes—usually tossed haphazardly by the door, thrown over his own boots—are nowhere to be found. Your keys are not in the ceramic bowl by the door. Your collection of puffer jackets and coats no longer clutters the coatrack.

Jason swallows, and only then does he register the growing lump in his throat and the pit of dread in his stomach. "Baby?" he calls out, as if this is all some sick prank. "C'mon, doll, don't do this to me, where are you?"

He slams open the bedroom door. "Fuck," he breathes, shoulders dropping. Your cluttered mess of brushes and foundations and powders is gone, the dresser's surface wiped completely clean of excess from your makeup—it looks untouched, like you were never there.

The bed is stripped bare—that was your comforter and pillowcase set, after all. The clinical white color of the pillows and mattress seem to mock him and everything he lost.

He opens the closet. Only one half of the space is now occupied—his half. The rack that once held your shirts and hoodies, the organizer that once held all your "going out" heels, the overflowing laundry basket you never let him touch...all of it is empty.

"No," he mutters again, entering his final destination: the en suite bathroom.

He finally lets his unshed tears fall as he stares at the room. Your pink towel? Gone. Your fragrant shampoo and conditioner? Gone. Your decadent body wash that he loved to sniff off of you after your showers? Gone.

...Your toothbrush that once accompanied his by the sink?

Gone.

With shaky hands he pulls his phone out from his pocket, immediately going to check your location. "Location unavailable, what the hell does that mean?"

With his heart in his stomach, he clicks a few buttons and suddenly he's waiting for you to pick up the phone—you're his one and only emergency contact, of course.

After a few rings, it goes to voicemail. "Fuck!" he exclaims, calling again.

Voicemail, again.

10 times he calls. Each time, the line rings thrice before sending him to voicemail. On the last call, he finally leaves a message.

"Doll, where the hell are you, baby?" he asks into the phone, scrubbing a hand down his face. "I know I said you'd never leave but please, all– all your stuff's gone and I don't know what to do. Please, please pick up the phone, ma. I- fuck, I love you, come back."

He hangs up, not noticing—or maybe just not acknowledging—the tears streaming down his face. "My baby," he sighs, taking a seat on the couch. If he doesn't sit, he might collapse with how much he's shaking.

For good measure, he shoots you a bunch of a few texts asking where you are, why your location's off, and telling you that he loves you.

He tosses his phone to the side, clenching and unclenching his fists in an attempt to get this shaking to stop. The apartment feels cold and clinical without you or your belongings in it.

He doesn't like living alone—or at least feeling like he's living alone.

Jason doesn't go to the manor at all that day. He spends the entire day busying himself with random chores around the half-empty apartment and checking his phone every 5 seconds.

With every one swipe of peanut butter onto a slice of bread, he checks his phone for your location, a call, or even a text back. He never thought it'd take him 20 minutes to make himself a PBJ sandwich.

He's wiping down the bathroom counter when his phone buzzes in his pocket.

Y/N has started sharing location with you.

"Oh, thank fuck," he sighs deeply, feeling as though a weight has been lifted off his chest. He doesn't know if you meant to turn on your location again, but the details don't matter now—he needs to get his baby home safe and figure out what the hell happened.

The address in his phone led him to another apartment on the other side of Gotham. He almost second-guesses his GPS until he sees your car parallel parked outside the complex. He can see boxes in your trunk which likely house everything missing from your own apartment.

He gets out of the car. Apartment 117, he's looking for. "Please don't be with another man, please don't be with another man," he whispers in a chant to himself. It's not long before he's stopped right outside the apartment door, the little dots on his phone—one representing you, the other him—shown as being 10 feet apart.

A shaky fist raises to rap his knuckles against the door. He stands there for probably two minutes, and he begins to wonder whether he's made a mistake. Just as he's about to walk away, you swing the door open.

Wait, not you. His brows furrow—he recognizes the girl immediately as your friend Sydney from the unmistakable sleek ginger hair.

"She doesn't want to see you," the girl says.

Jason has to look down at her, but he subconsciously tries to make himself smaller. The last thing he needs to do is scare off the one person who can lead him to you.

"I...I really need to see her, Sydney," he murmurs softly. "We– we had a big fight last night and now all of her stuff is gone. I just need to talk to her."

"I know what happened," she says, ready to shut the door. "You're a dick, Todd."

"Wait– don't shut the door—"

"—Syd, it's okay. I'll talk to him."

His entire rhythm seems to slow, his body calming down once he finally hears your voice. It may not be directed at him, but that kind, gentle lilt could soothe him under any circumstances.

"Doll?" he mutters, trying to peek around Sydney to get a glimpse of you. "Oh, baby..."

You brush past your friend, offering her a grateful smile before shutting the door behind you. You and Jason stand alone in the stuffy hallway, the walls suddenly too close.

"Hi."

"Hi."

"What're you doing here, Jason?" you ask finally.

His breath hitches. It would go unnoticed to most, but not to you. "Don't call me that."

"Your name?"

He nods. "No...I'm supposed to be Jay or– or 'baby' or 'handsome,'" he replies. "Jason feels too...formal."

You sigh, eyes diverting from his and focusing on the decorative plant stood in the corner. "You never answered my question."

"What am I doing here?" he shifts to meet your gaze once more. "Ma, what are you doing here? You had me scared shitless when I got home! Your– your stuff was all gone, you wouldn't answer my calls or my texts. Baby, I–"

"You what?"

"I thought I lost you." That familiar lump is clawing up his throat again. He tries to swallow it down, tries to brush away the sudden burning in his nose and behind his eyes.

"Shouldn't you be thanking me?" you murmur. "You told me that you wanted me to leave; you dared me to. So I did."

He cups your cheeks and you can feel the tremor in his warm hands against your skin. "Babygirl, you have to know I didn't mean that," he whispers oh so softly. His blue-green eyes are so gentle and assuring as they stare into yours, albeit a little glossy as well. "Oh, fuck, you're my everything, darling, I could never do without you."

You swallow as his hands drop from your face, arms falling to his side as his head falls to your shoulder. "I'm sorry," he whispers. You feel a sudden wetness against your shoulder when his arms engulf you. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."

You take a deep breath. How could you not forgive him? Your sweet, broken Jay...

Fuck if Sydney calls you 'easy.'

You reciprocate his hug, tangling both your hands in his hair to cradle his head. "Oh, Jay..." you shush him gently, lips trailing a path of kisses across his hairline. "I know..."

"I don't deserve you," he admits.

"Is that why you're trying to push me away?" you ask him in your soothing voice.

He blinks, staring into space for a moment against your shoulder. "I...yeah. I think that's exactly why."

You smile softly, resting your temple against his. "Then we can fix it, okay? Together."

He nods, finally picking his head up to meet your gaze again. "Together."

You look into his eyes for a bit. "I'm sorry for my...extremities. Y'know, moving all my shit out of the apartment and ghosting you and—"

"—Ma," he cuts you off, eyes imploring you to slow down. "I understand. You had every right to be angry and act on it, okay? I'm sorry, not you. Never you, my baby."

You lean in, hands cupping the back of his neck. He goes gladly, soft lips meeting yours in a gentle, slow kiss. There's a tinge of salt on your tongue from his tears slipping down his face, but you don't mind. You pull away after a few moments, resting your forehead against his.

"I love you," you reassure him. "I'm not leaving. I'm yours. I love you."

He nods. "I love you, too, doll."

The kiss grew warmer. Hungrier. Your fingers traced the line of his jaw, then down his chest, feeling the way his heartbeat picked up under your palm. Wally whimpered softly into your mouth, hips shifting restlessly beneath you. You could feel how hard he already was, pressing against your thigh through his sweatpants.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, grinning. “Already?”

His cheeks flushed bright red, ears turning the same shade. He covered his face with both hands, groaning. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s embarrassing. You just kissed me and my brain went blank. I can’t help it. You’re too pretty and you smell nice and I—”

You laughed softly, tugging his hands away from his face. His eyes were wide and shy, cheeks still burning. “It’s cute. You’re cute when you get all flustered like

He made a small, mortified sound, hiding his face in your neck instead. “I’m not cute. I’m supposed to be cool. Fast. In control. Not… this.”

You kissed his temple, reaching down to palm him through his sweatpants. He gasped, hips jerking up into your touch, another soft whimper escaping him.

“See?” you whispered, stroking him slowly. “You’re so hard already. Just from kissing me. My sweet, desperate boyfriend.”

Wally whimpered again, burying his face deeper in your neck. “Please— don’t tease. It’s too much. I’ve been thinking about you all day and now you’re touching me and I don’t know if I can—”

You kissed him again, swallowing his words, hand stroking him firmly through the fabric. He moaned into your mouth, hips bucking desperately, hands fisting the sheets like he was trying not to lose control too quickly.

“You’re doing so well,” you praised, kissing his jaw, his neck. “Letting me take care of you. My pretty, needy boy. So hard for me already.”

He let out a broken little sob, trembling beneath you. “I can’t— I’m so close already— please, I—”

You slipped your hand into his sweatpants, wrapping your fingers around his bare cock. He was rock hard, thick and hot, leaking steadily. You stroked him slowly, thumb brushing over the sensitive head, spreading the wetness.

Wally moaned loudly, hips snapping up into your fist. “Fuck— your hand— it feels so good— I’m gonna—”

You kissed him again, stroking faster, twisting your wrist just the way he liked. “Cum for me, baby. Let me feel you. You’ve been so good holding it together for me.”

He came with a broken whimper, hips jerking as he spilled over your fingers and his stomach, thick ropes of cum painting his skin. His whole body shook, soft, desperate sounds falling from his lips as he rode out the orgasm, face hidden in your neck.

You kept stroking him gently through it, drawing out every last shudder until he was trembling and oversensitive. Then you cleaned him up with a warm cloth from the bathroom, crawling back into bed and pulling him into your arms.

He curled against your chest immediately, face hidden in your neck, arms wrapped around you like you were his anchor. His breathing was still shaky, cheeks warm against your skin.

“I love you,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “Even when you make me lose it like that. God. Especially then.”

You stroked his hair, kissing the top of his head. “I love you too. My sweet, flustered, beautiful boyfriend. You can have me anytime. Kisses. Hands. Whatever you need.”

He nuzzled closer, pressing a soft kiss to your collarbone. “Just you. That’s all I need.”

The city hummed far below. In your arms, Wally West — one of the fastest men alive — was soft, safe, and completely satisfied.

And you? Were with your favourite speedster.

dc heroes

First Dates to Forever by @lechelovestoyap featuring Clark Kent/Reader

This is a lovely commission that I asked Leche to write for me and she absolutely delivered; this fic has me smiling every time I go back to read it. I guess I’m just in love with Clark Kent again all over again :]

Starving by @kryptidfiles featuring Clark Kent/Reader (18+)

Jae has me out here folding for bro……..unbelievable……..this is an INCREDIBLE smut fic with apologetic, horny Clark and I’m on my way to re-read it right now lol

The Puddle Predicament by @iridescentlightshow featuring Jon Kent/Gn!Reader

I adored this dic with the touching affection that is captured in every line of this fic. Give it a read!

Class Is In Session by @bat1nsignia featuring Kara Zor-El/Reader

This one is so very heartfelt and loving and there’s such a darling, beautiful atmosphere to this fic—give Insignia’s fic a read!

Good Boy by @frostedpinkicing featuring Bruce Wayne/Reader (18+)

Absolutely delicious fic featuring Bruce with a mommy kink…….something I never realized how badly I needed…..WHEW

Conspiracies, Conspiracies by @batslvrr featuring Vampire!Bruce Wayne/F!Reader

This was so lovely and intricate to read, everyone please go give Nor’s turn a good look and give her all the flowers for this one!

He Swears His Life To You by @bloomcissa featuring Knight!Bruce Wayne/Reader

Now this is some real heat…….need me some him Cissa…….or at the very least a few thousand more blurbs of this………

Rooftop by @spectorgram featuring Dick Grayson/Villain!Reader

OOOOOOOO the dynamic and the detail in this one is top-tier……….I love the gradually building tension and banter……give Nove’s fic a read!

Dick Grayson Getting Cucked by Wally West by @nagumolvr featuring Dick Grayson/Reader/Wally West (18+)

Pretty much everything that it says in the title but oh my god…….sometimes seeing is believing my friend. 100/10

Risk by @lushberrys featuring Bodyguard!Jason Todd/Reader

This is an ongoing multi-chapter fic that Lizzy is cooking up that makes me want nothing more than to have that big beefy man protecting me with those strong arms of his…….is it getting hot in here? That just me???????

Color Me You by @luviery featuring Jason Todd/Reader

The way that I would best describe this delightful, wonderful story is a warm hug that envelops you with the growing radiance of the sun. You gotta read this multi-chapter fic by Luvie I beg of you.

Pawns by @skeeets featuring Jason Todd/Reader

Kim really wrote a masterpiece with this absolute banger of a fic that hews to the angsty side and is brought to life with the beauty of her words—go read it NOW!

Simple Things by @filmcamerasanddice featuring Jason Todd/Gn!Reader

There’s something really special about the way that Reg writes Jason and his protective nature, so you’re doing yourself a disservice if you don’t go and read this fic right now!

One Night Only by @infinictus featuring Jason Todd/Reader

You ever sit on the edge of your seat just absolutely immersed in tension? Well, I owe Anx money now because DAMN this one had wondering will they…..WILL THEY…………oh man I love me some Todd…….

Distraction by @kqinoraswrites featuring Jason Todd/Reader

There is something so genuine and touching about this fic and it really just invokes this warmth every time that I read it. :)

This Seal’s Got Attitude by @fanfictionwarrior-chills featuring Tim Drake/Selkie!Reader

This fic truly defies description—it is a masterclass in building emotions, romance, and it’s everything any Tim Drake fan could ask for; PLEASE go read it.

My “Husband" by @inkievoid featuring Tim Drake/Reader

Miscommunication leads to some goofy, endearing shenanigans between you and your man Tim Drake. This fic gave me a big ol’ smile on my face after I read it and it will for you too….PROMISE

Letting Her Cut Your Bangs by @kooriandr featuring Stephanie Brown/Reader

Len does some amazing fics and this fic recommendation is a plea on my hands and knees begging her for more Stephanie Brown fic because every time she does it you can feel the absolute love, the tenderness the EMOTION that is evoked………Len please one william dollar

Fade to Black by @pixelbfs featuring James Gordon/Gn!Reader

The way I’ve been looking high and low for a James Gordon and Neil scratched that particular itch so well……if you don’t give me that dilf……..WHEW

Gal Gardner Picks You Up At A Party by @kaydekarios featuring Gal Gardner/Reader

Ugh…….WOMEN……….GAL GARDNER……….I will be off in the corner rereading this fic an approximate 49734302143789021 times

Hiding Behind Your Hands by @luvmailing featuring Guy Gardner/Reader

Val captures Guy’s character so well and I’m always in love with him whenever I read one of their fics. Justice for Guy Nation is always served well here hehe

Weight Gain by @gothamcitypublicworks featuring Guy Gardner/F!Reader

Sheev holds up Guy Nation in a noble cause and this fic is such a delightful, sweet treat of a fic that I always grin at reading whenever I come back to it :)

500 Miles by @kitkatscabinet featuring Hal Jordan/Reader

You like pain? You like getting your heart ripped out? GO READ THIS, I’m busy lying on the ground staring at the ceiling for the next few hours……catch you later……

Construction Work by @weeniesausage featuring Hal Jordan/ConstructionWorker!FtM!Reader

This fic has such rich detail, such lingering emotion, such evocative emotions that it invokes of two people falling in love……oooh I love this one so much :)

Trial and Error by @froggibus featuring Wally West/Reader

I love me some delicious delicious angst mixed in with a heaping serving of yearning and love that makes you hurt so bad you’re in pain…..and boy does Froggi deliver with that one here. Two words: OOF OUGH. Three more: READ IT NOW

Secret Recipe by @gglouise23 featuring Wally West/Reader

You ever eat something that just floods you with that sweet rush of affection from head to toe? This is the visal, readable version of that. Please go check it out!!!!!!!

Bleached Beard by @gr0und-zer00 featuring Oliver Queen/Wife!Reader (18+)

ZERO BRINGS THE PEOPLE WHAT THEY NEED: MORE OLIVER QUEEN!!!!!!!! absolutely delicious smut that I have had the privilege of reading wih my own two eyes and I will read again and again :)

The Muse of Venus by @bonesofapoet featuring John Constantine/Artist!Reader (18+)

How do you condense poetry into prose in such few words, featuring our snarky resident magic user? You read this incredible fic by Kas and you come back and let me know how much you adored it just like I did. :)

Genie in a Bottle by @wonderrheartt featuring Roy Harper/Reader/Wally West (18+)

GODDAMN this was some absolutely delicious food. I love gingers I love men I love this incredible fic!!!!!!!

dc villains

Tear You Apart by @colonelfish featuring Eobard Thawne/Reader (18+)

Now this one is a special, wicked, nasty dirty fic featuring that rotten scoundrel Eobard Thawne…..and I LOVED every word of it HEHEHEHE

Manila Envelope by @batwngs featuring Talia Al Ghul/Reader

Z is a real wordsmith and every time you read her stories you just can’t help but be immersed in the absolute delight it is to watch her way with words; this fic is no exception!

marvel heroes

I Dare You To Try by @batsycline69 featuring Steve Rogers/Reader

Mags really knocks this fic out of the park; there’s something so inherently soft and lovely about this fic and I just adored reading it, give it a looksee!

Fell in Love With A Stripper by @c-nstantine featuring Steve Rogers/Black!Stripper!Reader

Athena is doing the lord’s work with this fic of having Steve Rogers fall deeply, insatiably in love and I cannot emphasize how much I adore this fic!!!!

Touch Starved by @biglychee featuring Bucky Barnes/F!Reader

The biggest Lychee always delivers when it comes to a Bucky fic and you are doing yourself a favor by reading this delicious fic about a subby Bucky and dom!reader…….DAMN

Triple Beds, Triple Disorders by @devisedplan featuring Bucky Barnes/Reader

The same bed trope never ever ever ever gets old and I can’t help but love Devised’s excellent take on this one with a certain surly soldier……..HMMMMMMMM :)))))

Nightcrawler Headcanons by @sagebrush-and-sadness featuring Kurt Wagner/Reader (18+)

I cannot emphasize how Veta has such illustrative way with words and undivided devotion to our fuzzy Blue Elf Kurt—this is a masterpiece of a headcanon fic.

The Very Injured Caterpillar by @vigilantekisser featuing Matt Murdock/Kindergarten Teacher!Reader

As a teacher this story hit very close to home and also felt very realistic and grounded while also maintaining a healthy amount of humor and romance; Joey does an excellent juggling job of putting them all together and having me walk away well satisfied from this excellent fic!

Matt Finds You All Tied Up by @cerenawoe featuring Matt Murdock/Reader (18+)

This is so deliciously dark I can’t help but come back and reread it for the same rush of endorphins I had the first time I read it. >:)

Carried Away by @lilacst4rs featuring Johnny Storm/Reader (18+)

This is such an excellent take on a softer side of Johnny that isn’t just for show, and I truly enjoyed reading about him in this exemplary fic. Give it a read!

Safe and Starry-Eyed by @wordbunch featuring Ben Grimm/F!Reader

Ben Grimm is a man who deserves a soft love, a happy ending—and Ana provides it all AND MORE!!!!!!

X-Men Headcanons by @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger featuring X-Men Angel, Rogue, Cyclops and Wolverine

This is so indulgent and lovely to hear Dreamer’s take on such beloved characters and did I have a big ol’ smile on my face reading this? YEP and you will too if you read it hehe :)

Sharing a Bed With Fem!X-Men Members by @stanbullseye featuring Rogue, Jean Grey, Emma Frost, Madely Pryor, Sue Storm

We don’t get enough for the gals and this one certainly filled the thirst I needed to slake for the wonderful Marvel women………give it a gander my friends

marvel villains

Shhh! by @halfofmysoulsblog featuring Venom/Black!Reader (18+)

Oh this fic is so fucking hot it steams; all I have to say is that were it me……welll………….I would be certainly blessed indeed…….

Benjamin Poindexter Headcanons by @hypnospatron featuring Benjamin Poindexter/Reader (18+)

Dex is a nasty, shameless man and this fic by Hypnos is just such a beautiful demonstration of the wicked man that I would let tear me apart. 100000/10

When You’re Lost In the Dark by @futuremrscameron featuring Bob Reynolds/Reader

Seeping with broody atmosphere, with delicious detail that makes you feel as though you’re actually walking down darkened city streets, with such poignant emotion, Courtney really kills it with this and I need her to write more PLEASEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!

Worst Time To Start Your Period by @haljordansnumberonefan featuring Bullseye/Reader (18+)

Aehtlama is a pro at writing for this devious man and this fic certainly demonstrates her incredible writing skill………give it a look my friends…….

resident evil

Househusband by @slowerghost featuring Leon Kennedy/Reader

Now this fic is an absolute ray of sunshine that shows how wonderful it would be living with Mr. Kennedy. Big fan of this fic and you should be too!

Cracking An Egg With Chris by @starberrymatcha featuring Chris Redfield/Reader

This is a cute adorable warm blanket of a fic featuring some objectification of Chris Redfield…….not that I’m complaining……..SHEESH

Nemesis by @gilverrwrites featuring Nemesis/Reader (18+)

Val wrote a fic that I’ve been silently dreaming of for forever……please enjoy this while I go beg her for more……

Secret Service by @theebladestar featuring Ashley Graham/F!Reader (18+)

Goddamn BladeStar always cooks with whatever fic that they cook up and this smut is so fucking perfect.......need me some Ashley Graham bad..........

supernatural

Sam Winchester With The Tongue by @pittsick featuring Sam Winchester/Reader (18+)

I love me a flustered Sam Winchester and this fic delivered everything I could have wanted. Absolutely delicious serving of a fic and I humbly request more.

His Lips by @cherryvvave featuring Dean Winchester/Reader

It’s been a long, long time since I’ve looked at Dean Winchester like this but Cherry really has re-opened my eyes…….and brother they ain’t closing after I read this one……….MAN

the pitt

Touchstarved by @stargirlfics featuring Michael Robinaitch/Reader

Amalia has me folding for another white man because this fic had every detail sizzling off the page. MAN

Too Sweet by @novatheory featuring Brendon Park/Reader

Nova wrote such a lovely and heartfelt fic with just a vulnerable tenderness lingering in between the lines; I absolutely loved this. :)

I Can’t Believe You by @ficdelusioncore featuring Jack Abbot/Reader

There is something so healing, so romantic, so cathartic, and so beautiful about this fic about someone who refuses to see love right before their very eyes.

invincible

Like A P%rn Star by @sobbingscripter featuring Omni-Man/Reader (18+)

I come back to this fic every so often just to imagine……..just to indulge in this fantasty……….Nolan just one chance PLEASE

When Did You Get Hot? by @queen-of-gotham featuring Mark Grayson/Reader (18+)

Am I really going to watch this show in record time just for all of these attractive men? YES and now everyone can say thank you Gotham and go read this fic immediately!!!!!!!

Remnants of Privacy by @splodencible featuring Rex Splode/Stripper!Reader (18+)

Good lord……..good lord Maddie………….all the blood in my body………another nail straight into the coffin for me to devote a few days to watching this show……….MAN

outlast trials

Pusher by @doqt33th featuring Pusher/Reader (18+)

This is the very fic that made me fold for Pusher single-handedly and I need you all to join me in love forthis freak. good LORD

Operant Conditioning #2 by @acapelladitty featuring Dr. Easterman/Reader (18+)

Ditty had an integral hand in helping me fall head-over-heels for this manipulative bastard with a receding hairline……soooooo fucking good my friends…….SO GOOD

transformers

Singularity by @doqt33th featuring Mirage/Reader (18+)

Holllllly fuck this fic is an absolute banger. No words can possibly edscribe this you just gotta read it yourself my friend

You Knew I Loved You, Right? by @t-a-a-1 featuring Optimus Prime/Reader

Now this one absolutely hangs heavy with angst and unrequited love……oh man is this one a masterpiece…..

Everything Is Alright—Scenario: Pretty by @revelboo featuring Shockwave/Reader

A very cute blurb of married life……or uh something humorously close to it. Love this one!!!!

star wars

Lovesick by @petalonthepavement featuring Din Djarin/Reader

God this fic had me with my hand clapped over my mouth with a smile on my face, waiting to see what would happen next………..please please read it for some delightfully poignant fluff!!!!

When the Rain Falls by @starburstbarnes featuring Luke Skywalker/Gn!Reader

I think when you’re lucky enough to find excellent, detailed and such romantic fluff like this fic displays, you never let it go. Please check this out!!!!!

team fortress 2

7 Minutes In Heaven featuring the TF2 Squad by @finniestoncrane featuring the TF2!Squad/Reader (18+)

Finnie paints such a delicious steamy picture and man do I need me some THEM ALL AT ONCE DIABOLICALLY DELICIOUSLY AND DEDICATEDLY

Dating Headcanons with Engineer and Pyro by @eatfeet69 featuring Engineer/Reader, Pyro/Reader

Nate always serves some of the best TF2 content on this app and this lovely fic is no exception—especially when it features two of my favorite mercs HEHEHE :]

YKMET & the price of flesh

What a Ride by @rotrabbitrot featuring Strade/Reader

This fic Neo wrote had me on the edge of my seat in the best way possible and wanting more…….you gotta see this deliciously evil fic as soon as you possibly can I BEG of you!!!!

Step on Me by @danishpastri featuring Derek Goffard/Male!Reader (18+)

Holy……..words defy how delicious this multi-chapter fic is. You gotta read it and………let me know what y’all think because it’s a TREASURE hehehehehe

dc heroes

First Dates to Forever by @lechelovestoyap featuring Clark Kent/Reader

This is a lovely commission that I asked Leche to write for me and she absolutely delivered; this fic has me smiling every time I go back to read it. I guess I’m just in love with Clark Kent again all over again :]

Starving by @kryptidfiles featuring Clark Kent/Reader (18+)

Jae has me out here folding for bro……..unbelievable……..this is an INCREDIBLE smut fic with apologetic, horny Clark and I’m on my way to re-read it right now lol

The Puddle Predicament by @iridescentlightshow featuring Jon Kent/Gn!Reader

I adored this dic with the touching affection that is captured in every line of this fic. Give it a read!

Class Is In Session by @bat1nsignia featuring Kara Zor-El/Reader

This one is so very heartfelt and loving and there’s such a darling, beautiful atmosphere to this fic—give Insignia’s fic a read!

Good Boy by @frostedpinkicing featuring Bruce Wayne/Reader (18+)

Absolutely delicious fic featuring Bruce with a mommy kink…….something I never realized how badly I needed…..WHEW

Conspiracies, Conspiracies by @batslvrr featuring Vampire!Bruce Wayne/F!Reader

This was so lovely and intricate to read, everyone please go give Nor’s turn a good look and give her all the flowers for this one!

He Swears His Life To You by @bloomcissa featuring Knight!Bruce Wayne/Reader

Now this is some real heat…….need me some him Cissa…….or at the very least a few thousand more blurbs of this………

Rooftop by @spectorgram featuring Dick Grayson/Villain!Reader

OOOOOOOO the dynamic and the detail in this one is top-tier……….I love the gradually building tension and banter……give Nove’s fic a read!

Dick Grayson Getting Cucked by Wally West by @nagumolvr featuring Dick Grayson/Reader/Wally West (18+)

Pretty much everything that it says in the title but oh my god…….sometimes seeing is believing my friend. 100/10

Risk by @lushberrys featuring Bodyguard!Jason Todd/Reader

This is an ongoing multi-chapter fic that Lizzy is cooking up that makes me want nothing more than to have that big beefy man protecting me with those strong arms of his…….is it getting hot in here? That just me???????

Color Me You by @luviery featuring Jason Todd/Reader

The way that I would best describe this delightful, wonderful story is a warm hug that envelops you with the growing radiance of the sun. You gotta read this multi-chapter fic by Luvie I beg of you.

Pawns by @skeeets featuring Jason Todd/Reader

Kim really wrote a masterpiece with this absolute banger of a fic that hews to the angsty side and is brought to life with the beauty of her words—go read it NOW!

Simple Things by @filmcamerasanddice featuring Jason Todd/Gn!Reader

There’s something really special about the way that Reg writes Jason and his protective nature, so you’re doing yourself a disservice if you don’t go and read this fic right now!

One Night Only by @infinictus featuring Jason Todd/Reader

You ever sit on the edge of your seat just absolutely immersed in tension? Well, I owe Anx money now because DAMN this one had wondering will they…..WILL THEY…………oh man I love me some Todd…….

Distraction by @kqinoraswrites featuring Jason Todd/Reader

There is something so genuine and touching about this fic and it really just invokes this warmth every time that I read it. :)

This Seal’s Got Attitude by @fanfictionwarrior-chills featuring Tim Drake/Selkie!Reader

This fic truly defies description—it is a masterclass in building emotions, romance, and it’s everything any Tim Drake fan could ask for; PLEASE go read it.

My “Husband" by @inkievoid featuring Tim Drake/Reader

Miscommunication leads to some goofy, endearing shenanigans between you and your man Tim Drake. This fic gave me a big ol’ smile on my face after I read it and it will for you too….PROMISE

Letting Her Cut Your Bangs by @kooriandr featuring Stephanie Brown/Reader

Len does some amazing fics and this fic recommendation is a plea on my hands and knees begging her for more Stephanie Brown fic because every time she does it you can feel the absolute love, the tenderness the EMOTION that is evoked………Len please one william dollar

Fade to Black by @pixelbfs featuring James Gordon/Gn!Reader

The way I’ve been looking high and low for a James Gordon and Neil scratched that particular itch so well……if you don’t give me that dilf……..WHEW

Gal Gardner Picks You Up At A Party by @kaydekarios featuring Gal Gardner/Reader

Ugh…….WOMEN……….GAL GARDNER……….I will be off in the corner rereading this fic an approximate 49734302143789021 times

Hiding Behind Your Hands by @luvmailing featuring Guy Gardner/Reader

Val captures Guy’s character so well and I’m always in love with him whenever I read one of their fics. Justice for Guy Nation is always served well here hehe

Weight Gain by @gothamcitypublicworks featuring Guy Gardner/F!Reader

Sheev holds up Guy Nation in a noble cause and this fic is such a delightful, sweet treat of a fic that I always grin at reading whenever I come back to it :)

500 Miles by @kitkatscabinet featuring Hal Jordan/Reader

You like pain? You like getting your heart ripped out? GO READ THIS, I’m busy lying on the ground staring at the ceiling for the next few hours……catch you later……

Construction Work by @weeniesausage featuring Hal Jordan/ConstructionWorker!FtM!Reader

This fic has such rich detail, such lingering emotion, such evocative emotions that it invokes of two people falling in love……oooh I love this one so much :)

Trial and Error by @froggibus featuring Wally West/Reader

I love me some delicious delicious angst mixed in with a heaping serving of yearning and love that makes you hurt so bad you’re in pain…..and boy does Froggi deliver with that one here. Two words: OOF OUGH. Three more: READ IT NOW

Secret Recipe by @gglouise23 featuring Wally West/Reader

You ever eat something that just floods you with that sweet rush of affection from head to toe? This is the visal, readable version of that. Please go check it out!!!!!!!

Bleached Beard by @gr0und-zer00 featuring Oliver Queen/Wife!Reader (18+)

ZERO BRINGS THE PEOPLE WHAT THEY NEED: MORE OLIVER QUEEN!!!!!!!! absolutely delicious smut that I have had the privilege of reading wih my own two eyes and I will read again and again :)

The Muse of Venus by @bonesofapoet featuring John Constantine/Artist!Reader (18+)

How do you condense poetry into prose in such few words, featuring our snarky resident magic user? You read this incredible fic by Kas and you come back and let me know how much you adored it just like I did. :)

Genie in a Bottle by @wonderrheartt featuring Roy Harper/Reader/Wally West (18+)

GODDAMN this was some absolutely delicious food. I love gingers I love men I love this incredible fic!!!!!!!

dc villains

Tear You Apart by @colonelfish featuring Eobard Thawne/Reader (18+)

Now this one is a special, wicked, nasty dirty fic featuring that rotten scoundrel Eobard Thawne…..and I LOVED every word of it HEHEHEHE

Manila Envelope by @batwngs featuring Talia Al Ghul/Reader

Z is a real wordsmith and every time you read her stories you just can’t help but be immersed in the absolute delight it is to watch her way with words; this fic is no exception!

marvel heroes

I Dare You To Try by @batsycline69 featuring Steve Rogers/Reader

Mags really knocks this fic out of the park; there’s something so inherently soft and lovely about this fic and I just adored reading it, give it a looksee!

Fell in Love With A Stripper by @c-nstantine featuring Steve Rogers/Black!Stripper!Reader

Athena is doing the lord’s work with this fic of having Steve Rogers fall deeply, insatiably in love and I cannot emphasize how much I adore this fic!!!!

Touch Starved by @biglychee featuring Bucky Barnes/F!Reader

The biggest Lychee always delivers when it comes to a Bucky fic and you are doing yourself a favor by reading this delicious fic about a subby Bucky and dom!reader…….DAMN

Triple Beds, Triple Disorders by @devisedplan featuring Bucky Barnes/Reader

The same bed trope never ever ever ever gets old and I can’t help but love Devised’s excellent take on this one with a certain surly soldier……..HMMMMMMMM :)))))

Nightcrawler Headcanons by @sagebrush-and-sadness featuring Kurt Wagner/Reader (18+)

I cannot emphasize how Veta has such illustrative way with words and undivided devotion to our fuzzy Blue Elf Kurt—this is a masterpiece of a headcanon fic.

The Very Injured Caterpillar by @vigilantekisser featuing Matt Murdock/Kindergarten Teacher!Reader

As a teacher this story hit very close to home and also felt very realistic and grounded while also maintaining a healthy amount of humor and romance; Joey does an excellent juggling job of putting them all together and having me walk away well satisfied from this excellent fic!

Matt Finds You All Tied Up by @cerenawoe featuring Matt Murdock/Reader (18+)

This is so deliciously dark I can’t help but come back and reread it for the same rush of endorphins I had the first time I read it. >:)

Carried Away by @lilacst4rs featuring Johnny Storm/Reader (18+)

This is such an excellent take on a softer side of Johnny that isn’t just for show, and I truly enjoyed reading about him in this exemplary fic. Give it a read!

Safe and Starry-Eyed by @wordbunch featuring Ben Grimm/F!Reader

Ben Grimm is a man who deserves a soft love, a happy ending—and Ana provides it all AND MORE!!!!!!

X-Men Headcanons by @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger featuring X-Men Angel, Rogue, Cyclops and Wolverine

This is so indulgent and lovely to hear Dreamer’s take on such beloved characters and did I have a big ol’ smile on my face reading this? YEP and you will too if you read it hehe :)

Sharing a Bed With Fem!X-Men Members by @stanbullseye featuring Rogue, Jean Grey, Emma Frost, Madely Pryor, Sue Storm

We don’t get enough for the gals and this one certainly filled the thirst I needed to slake for the wonderful Marvel women………give it a gander my friends

marvel villains

Shhh! by @halfofmysoulsblog featuring Venom/Black!Reader (18+)

Oh this fic is so fucking hot it steams; all I have to say is that were it me……welll………….I would be certainly blessed indeed…….

Benjamin Poindexter Headcanons by @hypnospatron featuring Benjamin Poindexter/Reader (18+)

Dex is a nasty, shameless man and this fic by Hypnos is just such a beautiful demonstration of the wicked man that I would let tear me apart. 100000/10

When You’re Lost In the Dark by @futuremrscameron featuring Bob Reynolds/Reader

Seeping with broody atmosphere, with delicious detail that makes you feel as though you’re actually walking down darkened city streets, with such poignant emotion, Courtney really kills it with this and I need her to write more PLEASEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!

Worst Time To Start Your Period by @haljordansnumberonefan featuring Bullseye/Reader (18+)

Aehtlama is a pro at writing for this devious man and this fic certainly demonstrates her incredible writing skill………give it a look my friends…….

resident evil

Househusband by @slowerghost featuring Leon Kennedy/Reader

Now this fic is an absolute ray of sunshine that shows how wonderful it would be living with Mr. Kennedy. Big fan of this fic and you should be too!

Cracking An Egg With Chris by @starberrymatcha featuring Chris Redfield/Reader

This is a cute adorable warm blanket of a fic featuring some objectification of Chris Redfield…….not that I’m complaining……..SHEESH

Nemesis by @gilverrwrites featuring Nemesis/Reader (18+)

Val wrote a fic that I’ve been silently dreaming of for forever……please enjoy this while I go beg her for more……

Secret Service by @theebladestar featuring Ashley Graham/F!Reader (18+)

Goddamn BladeStar always cooks with whatever fic that they cook up and this smut is so fucking perfect.......need me some Ashley Graham bad..........

supernatural

Sam Winchester With The Tongue by @pittsick featuring Sam Winchester/Reader (18+)

I love me a flustered Sam Winchester and this fic delivered everything I could have wanted. Absolutely delicious serving of a fic and I humbly request more.

His Lips by @cherryvvave featuring Dean Winchester/Reader

It’s been a long, long time since I’ve looked at Dean Winchester like this but Cherry really has re-opened my eyes…….and brother they ain’t closing after I read this one……….MAN

the pitt

Touchstarved by @stargirlfics featuring Michael Robinaitch/Reader

Amalia has me folding for another white man because this fic had every detail sizzling off the page. MAN

Too Sweet by @novatheory featuring Brendon Park/Reader

Nova wrote such a lovely and heartfelt fic with just a vulnerable tenderness lingering in between the lines; I absolutely loved this. :)

I Can’t Believe You by @ficdelusioncore featuring Jack Abbot/Reader

There is something so healing, so romantic, so cathartic, and so beautiful about this fic about someone who refuses to see love right before their very eyes.

invincible

Like A P%rn Star by @sobbingscripter featuring Omni-Man/Reader (18+)

I come back to this fic every so often just to imagine……..just to indulge in this fantasty……….Nolan just one chance PLEASE

When Did You Get Hot? by @queen-of-gotham featuring Mark Grayson/Reader (18+)

Am I really going to watch this show in record time just for all of these attractive men? YES and now everyone can say thank you Gotham and go read this fic immediately!!!!!!!

Remnants of Privacy by @splodencible featuring Rex Splode/Stripper!Reader (18+)

Good lord……..good lord Maddie………….all the blood in my body………another nail straight into the coffin for me to devote a few days to watching this show……….MAN

outlast trials

Pusher by @doqt33th featuring Pusher/Reader (18+)

This is the very fic that made me fold for Pusher single-handedly and I need you all to join me in love forthis freak. good LORD

Operant Conditioning #2 by @acapelladitty featuring Dr. Easterman/Reader (18+)

Ditty had an integral hand in helping me fall head-over-heels for this manipulative bastard with a receding hairline……soooooo fucking good my friends…….SO GOOD

transformers

Singularity by @doqt33th featuring Mirage/Reader (18+)

Holllllly fuck this fic is an absolute banger. No words can possibly edscribe this you just gotta read it yourself my friend

You Knew I Loved You, Right? by @t-a-a-1 featuring Optimus Prime/Reader

Now this one absolutely hangs heavy with angst and unrequited love……oh man is this one a masterpiece…..

Everything Is Alright—Scenario: Pretty by @revelboo featuring Shockwave/Reader

A very cute blurb of married life……or uh something humorously close to it. Love this one!!!!

star wars

Lovesick by @petalonthepavement featuring Din Djarin/Reader

God this fic had me with my hand clapped over my mouth with a smile on my face, waiting to see what would happen next………..please please read it for some delightfully poignant fluff!!!!

When the Rain Falls by @starburstbarnes featuring Luke Skywalker/Gn!Reader

I think when you’re lucky enough to find excellent, detailed and such romantic fluff like this fic displays, you never let it go. Please check this out!!!!!

team fortress 2

7 Minutes In Heaven featuring the TF2 Squad by @finniestoncrane featuring the TF2!Squad/Reader (18+)

Finnie paints such a delicious steamy picture and man do I need me some THEM ALL AT ONCE DIABOLICALLY DELICIOUSLY AND DEDICATEDLY

Dating Headcanons with Engineer and Pyro by @eatfeet69 featuring Engineer/Reader, Pyro/Reader

Nate always serves some of the best TF2 content on this app and this lovely fic is no exception—especially when it features two of my favorite mercs HEHEHE :]

YKMET & the price of flesh

What a Ride by @rotrabbitrot featuring Strade/Reader

This fic Neo wrote had me on the edge of my seat in the best way possible and wanting more…….you gotta see this deliciously evil fic as soon as you possibly can I BEG of you!!!!

Step on Me by @danishpastri featuring Derek Goffard/Male!Reader (18+)

Holy……..words defy how delicious this multi-chapter fic is. You gotta read it and………let me know what y’all think because it’s a TREASURE hehehehehe

You blinked while fixing your eyes on Jason, tilting your head a little “What you mean?”

“That thing with your eyes!” He pointed at you face, his eyes widened and his brows furrowed.

“Jason, I don't know what the hell are you talking about.” You shook your head, narrowing your eyes without moving your gaze to another point. “You mean this?”

He sighed, almost desperate. He spent two and a half weeks observing you very closely, why? ‘Cause your gaze kept changing with the days, and it wasn't some bullshit like your eyes darkened while being mad —although he had actually realized that they did— No, it was that your eyes changed completely and he didn't understand how.

“Your eyes! Sometimes they look really big, you become a threat to anyone in the cave, you look at them and they want to give you everything they have. Then you appear and your eyes look sharp? I don't know! But they look like Selina's," he began to explain, moving his hands enthusiastically. It was stressing him out too much. "How the hell do you do that? When you have them like that, you leave people paralyzed."

You kept your brow furrowed slightly for a few seconds, trying to understand what he meant.

Just staring at him as if he'd lost his mind.

“You're not going to say anything?” He asked, sinking into one of the armchairs in the cave, letting out a heavy sigh. Something told him the answer was far more foolish than he'd imagined, but he needed to know what was going on. How could he go from wanting to give you all his real estate when you fluttered your eyelashes last week to freezing in place the moment you laid eyes on him a few days later?

“Jay… It's because of my lashes.”

Your answer left him even more confused; what did your eyelashes have to do with this?

“I don't get it.” he murmured, making you let out a little giggle.

"Do you remember a few days ago when I went out with Tim and Cass to buy some things? I bought some cluster eyelashes."

“Yeah, so?”

"Well, I know how to put them on at home, and these past two weeks I've been trying out different styles with the different types I bought," you explained with a smile, laughing as you watched him tilt his head. Jason was very intelligent; that's why it amused you when he didn't understand something simple—he always tried to complicate things.

"Last week I tried to do a Doe Eyes type design, and this week I wanted to do something Foxy, you know? The lashes change the look a lot depending on the lengths and positions you use.”

He stared at you for a few more seconds, letting out a sigh as he ran a hand over his face a moment later. "How silly..."

"You've always been silly, it's nothing new." You laughed as you settled back into your seat to continue reviewing some data from the lab.

"Ha, ha. How funny." He muttered, rolling his eyes. "And here I was thinking it was some weird thing you learned to do to manipulate people."

"Jason, they're just false eyelashes, they can't even manipulate a golden retriever."

"What do you mean no? You had Dick buying you everything you asked for last week!" You just sighed when you heard it and denied it.

"It's Dick, he always buys everything for everyone." You waved your hand dismissively.

"Girl, I was this close to leaving you the keys to my bike. If that's not tampering, then I don't know what is." He spoke by bringing his index finger and thumb together, leaving only a small space between them.

"Thank you for letting me know. I'll use that design next time I want to get something from you."

The boy just sighed, letting out a fake groan. You were going to be his downfall if you kept trying those damn eyelash designs.

he's probably getting a cold or something, the sunny weather brings it out of him in Gotham. sure it should be the opposite, but things haven't been in the norm in Jason's life, like ever. you stop walking which Jason notices only until you pull his hand a bit. he stops and stands directly in front of you, he's trying see if you feel uncomfortable or tired.

"are you listening to anything i'm saying Jason?" you look surprised, squeezing his hand to let him know you're not mad at him.

"kinda no, but i can't really look at you right now, or listen" now you're frowning and look worried.

"baby, what's wrong ? are you feeling sick?" he has been looking a bit dazed the whole day, and he's been a bit clumsy which never happens since he's always so aware of his size, and surroundings. that didn't stop him from breaking a candle earlier when you called out for him. he practically came running and asked what you needed, when all you were going to ask him was a simple question. he tripped over his feet every time he was going to open a door for you. you touch his chest, and you feel his heartbeat beating faster than a rabbits.

a man approaches you and nudges Jason, "hey man, can i take a picture of you guys?" the guy holds a camera up ready to walk away if he says no, Jason looks over at you blankly.

"say yes Jason" you say patting his chest. his head turns to the man so quickly.

"Yes" he says gruffly, he turns over to you, getting closer. his eyes look into yours, "what did i just say yes to?" you giggle a little, as you hear the camera click. before he can turn to the guy and probably smash the guys camera you peck Jason's lips. your hand comes up to his neck, and he almost closes the small distance between you again, you scrunch his hair a little and look over to the guy. you hold Jason's elbow so that his arm is out and the man hands him two polaroids.

Jason just looks at the polaroids in his palm, and you tell the man thank you. you get closer to Jason to look at the pictures with him. he has captured a soft look in Jason's eye. sure his eyebrows are up a little in confusion, but that trust and love is caught. the picture of you kissing Jason is a soft vignette, a cute moment captured for you to cherish. he silently tucks the pictures safely into his jacket. he starts walking silently to your shared apartment taking the lead. you can't help but smile at how he seems so flustered.

~~~

the door shuts quietly and he locks it after him, you set your things down and Jason walks in front of you crowding you a bit.

"okay i think we need to have a long conversation about safety." you laugh at how Jason has started this conversation. "no don't laugh sweetheart, you're commanding me around and i'm doing it. no hesitation!" his voice has never sounded so animated and incredulous.

you bring him closer to you holding his hands. "oh my god . you are, like a good puppy. should i say jump?" you coo a little and his face goes red. you laugh a little more and bring your hand up to his warm cheek. "seriously though, Jay are you feeling okay? you always listen to me ramble, and when we're walking you're always alert, but you seem like, not really, here". you hope that worry is the only emotion that Jason is picking up on in your tone, and not disappointment(which you don't feel). you don't feel that totally unsafe with him anyways, you know you're always safe with Jason. living in Gotham for a long time you kind of pick up an instinct of when things don't feel right. he's just not as present as he always is.

"i don't know what it is.. i feel like i can't focus unless you're looking at me or telling me what to do, and i feel weird." you look into his emerald eyes deeply, tracing a scar under his eye.

"where do you feel weird baby?" he just sighs and puts one hand over yours, he makes your palm touch his stomach flatly, you feel the outline of his abs. your hands roam around the area. "your abs? are you feeling sore?" he sighs again, and you smile.

"no pretty, i just . i feel like jitters here when i see you.  i think i have to go the manor and get checked out" you rub at his stomach a bit more, and bring your arms around his waist pulling him closer. he lets you and you look up at him looking at his face intently.

"you like me huh Jason?" your eyes sparkle in admiration, and you see the blush on his face spread to his neck and ears. "say yes Jason" you whisper to him and he gets closer to you almost picking you up so that he can kiss you.

"god yes i like you" he says with little restraint, before his lips smush into yours. he kisses you all over your face, he angles your body in a weird way so that he can keep kissing you wherever he wants. you giggle at how overly affectionate he is being. he pulls away and holds your head to really look at you. "you like me too right?"

Then you had stepped out of the shadows with blood on your sleeve and a voice like warm rain.

“Can I help them?” you had asked.

Batman had turned on you like a weapon. He had not known you then. He had only known you were there, unaccounted for, unafraid, standing in the wreckage of a Talon cell with trembling hands and eyes too old for your face. You should have looked like a survivor. You should have looked like another person who needed carrying out.

Instead, you had looked at the people in the cages and cried for them without making your grief the loudest thing in the room.

“What can you do?” Batman had asked.

“Comfort,” you said.

It had sounded too small for what happened next.

You had knelt outside the first cage and asked the man inside if he wanted you to come closer. He had spat at you. You had nodded like that was answer enough and stayed where you were, hand open on the stone floor, palm up, no demand in it. The air around you had changed by degrees. Batman remembered that most of all: not light, exactly, not a visible glow, not magic in the theatrical way Gotham sometimes spat up from its cursed old foundations. Just warmth. Shelter. The impossible sensation of standing in a room where fear had been the only language spoken for weeks and hearing, suddenly, a second language answer it.

The man had stopped shaking. Then a woman in the next cage began to sob. Then a child crawled toward the bars and reached for your hand.

Batman had watched you give something away. He had watched the tremor start in your fingers and climb up your arms. He had watched the colour drain slowly from your mouth. He had watched every person in that room breathe easier while you became colder and quieter, while the hurt lifted from them and settled somewhere inside you where no one else could see.

Afterwards, you had refused medical transport with a politeness so brittle it nearly cut.

Batman had followed you into the alley behind the church. Rain had been falling in thin, mean sheets. Your breath had fogged in the cold. You had leaned one shoulder against the brick and pressed both hands to your sternum like you were trying to put yourself back inside your own body.

“You’re a metahuman,” he said.

You laughed once, exhausted and humourless. “Usually people say thank you first.”

“Thank you.”

That had surprised you enough to make you look at him.

Batman stood in the rain with his cape dripping black onto the pavement, unreadable and enormous and too still. You could feel the grief in him even then, though you had not known its shape. It was old. Armored. The kind of pain that had built a city inside itself and populated it with rules.

“You helped them,” he said.

“They let me.”

“You asked.”

“I always ask.”

His silence had shifted. You had not known him well enough then to translate it, but later you would understand. Batman trusted rules more than people, and you had just offered him one.

“I don’t control anyone,” you said. “I don’t erase pain. I don’t force forgiveness, or happiness, or obedience. I can make the fear loosen. I can make someone feel safe enough to choose what they do next. That’s all.”

“That’s not all.”

“No,” you admitted. “But it’s the part that matters.”

He had studied you through the rain. “What does it cost?”

You had smiled at him then, which was unfair, because the smile made you look gentler than the answer deserved. “More than people like to hear.”

Batman had not pressed.

That was why, years later, when Bruce Wayne called and asked for your help, you picked up.

Not because you trusted Batman completely. You had worked with him enough times to know trust with Bruce Wayne was less a door and more a series of reinforced checkpoints. But he had never tried to put you in a lab. He had never asked you to use your power on someone who refused. He had never called you an asset to your face, which, for a man with contingency plans for his contingency plans, probably counted as emotional growth.

So when he said there was a case involving Lazarus contamination, you came to Gotham.

You should have known better.

The cave had not changed. It was still cold stone and colder light, a cathedral built for secrecy, humming with machines that looked expensive enough to develop opinions. Bruce stood near the main computer in a black sweater instead of the suit, which should have made him seem less like Batman and somehow did not. His face was tired in a way money could not soften. Alfred gave you tea with the solemn expression of a man who knew the whole truth and had been quietly disappointed in everyone for years.

“There have been three incidents,” Bruce said, pulling up footage on the screen. “Low-level criminals exposed to a modified compound derived from Lazarus Pit residue. Heightened aggression, regenerative instability, temporary dissociation, violent emotional amplification.”

You watched a man in a convenience store rip a steel shelf from the wall with his bare hands while screaming for someone who was not there. The footage changed. A woman in restraints wept green-tinged tears and begged the doctors not to let her sleep because something was waiting under the dark. Another clip showed a warehouse fight, shaky security footage catching a flash of red helmet and gunmetal before the camera cut out.

Your eyes moved back to Bruce.

“There’s more,” you said.

Bruce did not answer quickly enough. Alfred’s expression, somehow, became even more disappointed.

You set your tea down untouched. “Bruce.”

His jaw tightened. “Jason has been affected by Lazarus exposure before.”

The name landed carefully, like something fragile placed on a table.

Jason. You knew of him, of course. Everyone in Gotham who knew Batman’s world knew of Jason Todd in pieces: the dead Robin, the resurrected son, the Red Hood, the boy who came back wrong because Gotham had never met a tragedy it could not make worse with time, magic, or parental failure. You had never met him properly. You had seen him once from a rooftop across a street, red helmet shining under rain, moving through Crime Alley like a warning with a heartbeat.

Bruce continued, “The recent incidents have aggravated his episodes.”

Your stomach sank. “Episodes.”

Bruce’s eyes flicked away. Only for a second. “Lazarus episodes. Rage spikes. Dissociation. Sensory distortion. He becomes more reactive after exposure to certain compounds, especially when the residue has been altered.”

“And you want me on the case because I can stabilise victims.”

“Yes.”

The answer was too clean.

You waited. Bruce closed his eyes for the length of one breath. When he opened them, Batman looked out through Bruce Wayne’s face. Not the cowl. Worse. The will. The fear pretending to be strategy.

“I also want you near Jason,” he said.

There it was. The real mission. The ugly little bone under the offered hand.

“Near him,” you repeated.

“Your presence alone has had measurable effects in past cases. Victims calm faster when you’re in proximity, even without direct contact.”

“I know how my power works.”

“I believe you could reduce the severity of his episodes.”

“Does Jason know you’re asking me this?”

Bruce said nothing.

You laughed softly, but there was no humour in it. “No, then.”

“He won’t accept help if he knows.”

“Then that’s his choice.”

“He’s suffering.”

“So are most people in Gotham. I don’t sneak into their nervous systems because someone with a cape thinks they’d be more convenient if they stopped hurting so loudly.”

Bruce flinched. Good. Some anger in you wanted him to. Another part of you hated that you knew exactly why he was doing this.

Because Bruce loved like a man trying to defuse a bomb with his bare hands. Because Jason was both his son and his failure, and Bruce could not look at one without feeling the other cut through him. Because he would rather turn the whole city upside down than ask Jason for permission to care and risk being told no.

“I’m not asking you to alter him,” Bruce said.

“You are.”

“I’m asking you to help him.”

“You’re asking me to make him easier to survive.”

The words went cold between you.

Alfred looked down. Bruce’s face tightened, and for a moment, he looked less like Batman and more like a father too exhausted by fear to dress it properly. “I can’t keep watching him destroy himself.”

“And you think I can fix him.”

“No.”

The denial came fast. Too fast. You stared at him until he looked away.

“I don’t agree with that word,” you said. “People aren’t broken appliances. His rage might be hurting him, but it also belongs to him. His pain belongs to him. You don’t get to decide he’d be better without it.”

Bruce’s voice dropped. “If he kills someone during an episode—”

“Then that still doesn’t make his consent optional.”

Silence spread through the cave, wide and echoing.

You should have walked out. You almost did.

But then the footage on the screen flickered back to Red Hood in the warehouse, his body jerking mid-fight as if something inside him had pulled hard on a chain. You watched him slam one hand against a wall, watched him shake his head like he was trying to dislodge a voice, watched him turn away from an unconscious man with visible effort. You saw the restraint. Not ease. Not goodness handed down like a verdict from someone safer. Choice. Brutal, shaking, deliberate choice.

And you hated Bruce a little for knowing you would see it.

“I won’t use my power on him without permission,” you said.

Bruce looked at you.

“I mean it. Not targeted. Not deliberately. Not because you ask, not because you worry, not because you think his emotions are inconvenient.”

“I understand.”

“No,” you said. “You don’t. But you’re going to pretend you do because that’s what men like you do when you want something badly enough to call it necessary.”

Alfred made a small sound that might, under different circumstances, have been approval. Bruce absorbed it without defending himself.

You hated that too.

“I’ll help with the case,” you said. “I’ll help contaminated victims. If Jason wants to know what I can do, I’ll tell him. If he asks for help, I’ll help. That’s all.”

Bruce nodded once.

You wanted to believe that was an agreement. Looking back, you would understand it was only a strategy changing shape.

You met Jason Todd in a safehouse kitchen at three in the morning with a knife in his hand and blood on his shirt. The blood was not all his. That seemed to be a theme with him.

You had been told the safehouse was empty. That was the first lie. The second was that Bruce had asked you to drop off containment samples there because the cave systems were compromised, which sounded plausible only because Batman had a lifelong commitment to making logistical nightmares seem professional. You let yourself in through the back with the access code Bruce had given you, carrying a sealed case of Lazarus residue samples and a paper bag from a twenty-four-hour diner because Alfred had muttered something about you forgetting to eat.

Jason was standing in the kitchen when you entered, shirt half-unbuttoned, helmet on the counter, dark curls wet from rain or sweat or both. He had a combat knife in one hand, and a look in his eyes that made the whole room feel suddenly smaller.

You froze. He froze.

Then he looked you up and down, slow and unimpressed. “You the delivery guy?”

You lifted the sealed case. “Do I look like the delivery guy?”

“You look like someone who should know better than to walk into my safehouse.”

“I was told it was empty.”

Jason’s mouth twisted. “Yeah, well. People lie.”

You thought of Bruce and nearly laughed. Instead, you set the case down carefully on the table. “I’m working the Lazarus contamination case.”

His expression changed by half a degree. With Jason, you would learn, half a degree was basically a monologue. “With B?”

“With Batman,” you said, because you had not earned the right to make that wound casual.

Jason saw the distinction. Of course he did. His eyes sharpened. “And you are?”

You gave him your name.

He waited.

“That’s usually where people say theirs,” you added.

“You broke into my kitchen.”

“Technically, I used a code.”

“That makes it worse.”

“Fair.”

He stared at you for another long second, knife still loose in his hand. Then his gaze dropped to the diner bag. “That food?”

“Yes.”

“For me?”

“Alfred said someone here would be unpleasant if unfed.”

Jason blinked. Then, to your surprise, he laughed. It was a rough little thing, dragged out of him against his will. “That old man’s a menace.”

“I’m getting that.”

He set the knife down.

Not far. Not out of reach.

But down.

It should not have felt like something.

It did.

The first thing you noticed about Jason was that his pain did not ask politely to be seen.

Jason’s pain was a house fire. It filled the room even when he smiled. It lived in the set of his shoulders, in the way his eyes tracked exits, in the fury that rose too quickly when fear touched it, in the green-black pulse beneath his skin that was not emotion exactly but something older and uglier wearing emotion as armour. The Lazarus Pit in him felt like standing near a storm drain during a flood: a pull under the surface, a pressure that wanted to drag everything down.

Your power reacted before you gave it permission.

That frightened you. Not because Jason seemed monstrous. He did not. That was the problem. He felt violently, painfully human beneath the contamination, and the part of you that had first manifested your gift for an injured alley cat wanted to reach for him with both hands.

You did not. You sat across from him at the kitchen table while he ate fries with the intensity of someone pretending not to be starving. He watched you watching him.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You got a face.”

“Most people do.”

“Yours is doing a thing.”

You looked down at your untouched coffee. “I was trying to decide whether asking about the blood would get me stabbed.”

Jason glanced at his shirt. “Not mine.”

“Congratulations.”

“Some mine.”

“Less congratulations.”

His mouth twitched.

You should not have liked him so quickly. Jason Todd was all sharp edges and guarded spaces, sarcasm like barbed wire, eyes that dared people to come close just so he could prove they would regret it. But he was also the kind of man who ate diner fries from a paper bag in a safehouse kitchen at three in the morning and quietly slid the second burger toward you when he noticed you were not drinking your coffee.

“Eat,” he said.

“I’m fine.”

“Didn’t ask.”

“That’s rude.”

“That’s dinner.”

You stared at the burger, then at him. He looked away first, pretending to study the rain streaking down the dark window.

You ate.

He did not smile, but he looked less irritated by existence afterwards.

That was how it began: not with comfort, not exactly, but with a burger offered like a challenge and a knife left close enough to matter but not close enough to threaten.

Bruce kept assigning you to the same routes after that. Not openly. He was subtler than that, which somehow made it worse. A contaminated weapons cache in Crime Alley. A possible victim near Jason’s territory. A safehouse debrief Red Hood “might attend.” You were not stupid. Neither was Jason, though his suspicion aimed itself mostly at Bruce and therefore missed, for a while, the exact nature of the trap.

“You and B joined at the hip now?” Jason asked one night from the roof of a closed pawn shop, where the two of you were watching a suspected Lazarus courier enter a bar across the street.

You were crouched beside an air-conditioning unit, cold wind cutting through your jacket. “No.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“I work cases involving emotional destabilisation and meta-chemical contamination. This case has both.”

“Fancy way of saying you’re here because people are losing their minds.”

You looked at him. “People don’t lose their minds. They get overwhelmed. There’s a difference.”

Jason’s helmet turned toward you. You could not see his face, but you felt his attention settle heavier than before. “That your professional opinion?”

“Yes.”

“What’s your unprofessional opinion?”

“That Gotham has a bad habit of calling people crazy when it means inconvenient.”

The silence that followed had teeth.

Then Jason said, “Careful. Talk like that and the Bats might start liking you.”

“Too late. Alfred gave me biscuits.”

“Shit. You’re family now.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself.

Jason looked away quickly, but not before you caught the slight tilt of his helmet, the surprise of it. Like he had not meant to make you laugh. Like he had not expected to want to do it again.

You did not use your power on him. You did not reach into him, did not quiet the Pit, did not smooth the rage when it rose. When his breath hitched after exposure to residue, you kept your hands to yourself. When his fingers tightened around his gun until the leather of his gloves creaked, you stood near but did not touch. When he paced a safehouse like a caged thing after a bad fight, you sat on the counter and talked about books until he either told you to shut up or threw one at you.

But your power had always been more than touch. It lived in your voice when you softened it. In your proximity when you let yourself care too loudly. In the air around you when someone’s pain called to yours and your body answered before your ethics could catch up. You did not direct it at Jason, but sometimes the room got warmer. Sometimes his shoulders loosened after twenty minutes beside you. Sometimes the green edge in his presence receded by a fraction, and he would blink like he had just remembered the world did not have to be fought every second.

You told yourself that was not the same thing.

You were lying. Maybe not the way Bruce had lied. Not with plans and omissions and a chessboard where his son’s pain had become a problem to solve. Your lie was softer. Worse, maybe, because it came wrapped in tenderness. You wanted Jason to sleep. You wanted the tremor to leave his hands. You wanted his laugh to come easier. You wanted the Pit to stop using his body like an old crime scene.

You wanted to help. Gotham was built on horrible things done by people who wanted to help.

Jason got close to you like a stray animal deciding the porch light was not a trap. Slowly. Suspiciously. With a lot of biting.

He started appearing when Bruce had not assigned either of you anywhere, leaning in the doorway of your temporary apartment with takeout and a scowl.

“You eat today?”

You looked up from the case files spread across your floor. “Hello to you too.”

“That a no?”

“That is none of your business.”

“So no.”

He stepped inside without waiting for permission because he was rude, then paused halfway through the motion and glanced back at you, jaw tight. Waiting.

It took you a second to understand.

The big, terrifying Red Hood, crime lord of Crime Alley, had remembered to ask with his body even when his mouth forgot.

You softened. “You can come in, Jason.”

He grunted, like permission was annoying because it mattered, and entered.

He learned your tells, too. That was the danger of him. People underestimated Jason’s perception because he wore anger like a warning sign large enough to distract from everything else. But he noticed. He noticed when your fingers went numb after helping contaminated victims. Noticed when you smiled too quickly after a debrief. Noticed when Bruce’s voice got careful and your shoulders rose half an inch. Noticed when you did not eat unless someone put food directly in front of you.

So he put food in front of you. Aggressively.

One night, after you spent two hours calming a girl who had been dosed with Lazarus residue and kept screaming that her dead brother was calling from the walls, Jason drove you back to your apartment in silence. You were cold all the way through, coat wrapped tight around your body, hands tucked under your arms. You had used your power with permission. The girl had begged for help. You had given it.

Jason had watched from the doorway.

He had not said anything until you were inside. Then he took one look at you trying to unlock your door with shaking fingers, gently pushed your hand aside, and unlocked it himself.

“I had it,” you muttered.

“You were about to fight the keyhole and lose.”

“Rude.”

“Accurate.”

Inside, he made tea with the grim competence of a man who had survived on worse things than caffeine and spite. He placed the mug in front of you, then draped his leather jacket over your shoulders without asking. You should have objected. You did not. It smelled like smoke, rain, gun oil, and something faintly warm underneath that was only Jason.

He leaned against the counter, arms folded. “That what happens every time?”

“What?”

“You go all corpse-cold after doing your Care Bear routine?”

You huffed a laugh into the mug. “Care Bear routine?”

“Don’t dodge.”

You looked down at the tea. Your reflection trembled faintly on the surface. “Not every time.”

“Lie.”

“Sometimes.”

“Better.”

You were too tired to be careful. “It depends how much pain there is.”

Jason’s face shifted.

You realised the mistake too late.

“How much pain,” he repeated.

“It’s not— I don’t take it exactly.”

“But you feel it.”

You stared into the tea. Jason swore quietly.

“It’s not as bad as you’re thinking,” you said.

“Considering you don’t know what I’m thinking, that’s a dumbass thing to say.”

“You think loudly.”

“Yeah? What am I thinking now?”

That Bruce was right and wrong at the same time, you thought. That Jason was angry because anger was easier than fear. That he wanted to ask whether you had ever used it on him but did not yet know there was a question to ask. That some part of him, the part that had been treated like a weapon by enemies and family alike, knew something in this whole arrangement was rotten even if he could not see where.

You said none of that.

“You’re thinking I should eat something,” you said.

Jason narrowed his eyes.

Then he opened your fridge. It was, tragically, mostly condiments and one heroic apple.

He stared inside for a long moment. “This is a hate crime.”

“It’s minimalism.”

“It’s a cry for help.”

“You’re very dramatic.”

He closed the fridge. “I’m ordering food.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Didn’t ask.”

The warmth in your chest then was not your power.

That was the problem. Somewhere between stakeouts and diner bags, between his sarcasm and your tired smiles, between the way he never called you soft like it was an insult and the way you never looked at him like rage made him less worthy of tenderness, Jason became more than Bruce’s son, more than Red Hood, more than the case’s unspoken centre of gravity.

He became Jason. He became the man who read battered paperbacks while sitting on your fire escape because he claimed your apartment was too quiet. He became the person who fixed your loose window lock without mentioning it. He became the voice saying “You good?” in your comm after every mission, rough and casual and not casual at all. He became the one who called you Sunshine like an insult until one night it slipped out soft and both of you pretended not to notice.

He became dangerous to want. Because wanting made you selfish. Because sometimes, when the Pit scraped under his skin and his eyes went distant, you let the room warm by a degree.

Just a degree. Just enough.

The field mission that ruined everything took place beneath the old Monarch Theatre. The building had been abandoned since No Man’s Land, left to rot in a neighbourhood that had learned not to look too closely at places with locked doors and fresh tyre tracks. The Lazarus compound had been moving through the city in coded shipments, and every trail led back to the theatre’s flooded basement, where some offshoot of the League had apparently decided Gotham needed one more basement full of bad decisions.

Bruce wanted Batman and Robin on the perimeter. Jason told him to go to hell.

Bruce told him he was compromised. Jason told him to go to hell twice, with better punctuation.

You ended up in the passenger seat of Jason’s car, watching rain streak across the windshield while he drove with one hand and checked his gun with the other like a man actively trying to shorten Bruce’s lifespan through stress.

“You know,” you said, “when Batman says someone is compromised, usually there’s at least a little data behind it.”

Jason snorted. “B says compromised when he means disobedient and emotionally inconvenient.”

“Those are different things.”

“Tell him that.”

You looked at him. The greenish glow of passing traffic lights moved over his face, catching the white streak in his hair, the hard line of his jaw, the bruise half-hidden near his temple. “Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Compromised.”

His hand tightened on the wheel. For a second, you felt it. The Pit, restless under his skin, reacting to the name without being named. A dark tide under a locked door.

“No,” he said.

The lie sat between you, breathing.

You did not challenge it. That was your mistake.

The theatre basement smelled like mould, rust, old velvet, and chemical rot. Water pooled ankle-deep across the cracked floor, reflecting the sickly green glow of containment tanks set up beneath the stage. League symbols marked the walls in black paint. Men in tactical gear moved between crates, their veins lit faintly green beneath their skin. Not League proper, you realised quickly. Deserters, maybe. Fanatics. People scavenging from sacred horrors and pretending that made them priests.

Jason was quiet in the way he got before violence. Not calm. Never calm. Focused. The difference mattered.

You moved through the shadows behind him, one hand near your belt, the other gloved and flexing at your side. Your job was to stabilise victims if any were present. That was what Bruce had said. That was what you told yourself.

Then Jason saw the tank. It was smaller than the others, built upright like a coffin, full of green liquid and suspended wires. Inside floated a body. Not alive. Not fully dead either, maybe. A failed resurrection. A test subject. A boy, no older than fifteen, with dark hair drifting around his pale face.

Jason stopped moving.

The whole basement changed. You felt the Pit in him wake. It turned inside him like something with teeth, recognising itself in the glow, in the rot, in the impossible wrongness of a body kept between states. Jason’s breath hitched once. His gun lowered by an inch. Then his shoulders went rigid, and the air around him seemed to snap tight.

“Jay,” you whispered.

He did not answer.

One of the deserters spotted you. Shouted.

The basement erupted. Gunfire cracked against concrete. Jason moved like a storm given bones, violent and efficient and too fast, dropping the first three men before you had fully taken cover. You pulled two exposed civilians—lab techs, unwilling or not, you could not tell—behind a stack of crates and pressed warmth into the air with your voice, keeping them from panicking as bullets tore through the dark.

“It’s okay,” you said, though nothing was. “Stay low. Breathe. Hands over your head. Don’t move unless I tell you.”

Across the room, Jason slammed a man into the side of a tank hard enough to spiderweb the glass.

The man laughed.

“You’re proof it works,” he choked. “The dead can come back angry enough to be useful.”

Jason froze.

Then he hit him again. Harder.

“Jason!” you shouted.

He did not hear you. Or he did, and the Pit heard first.

The man’s head cracked against the glass. Once. Twice. The tank alarm began to shriek. Green light strobed across Jason’s face, and when he turned, his eyes were not glowing, not exactly, but the rage in them had gone bright and terrible, edged in something that was not fully his.

A deserter lunged at you from the side. You ducked too late. Pain burst across your shoulder as you hit the floor. Water soaked through your clothes. Your power flared instinctively, warming the terror of the civilians behind you, calming the attacker for half a second—long enough for you to kick his knee out and scramble back.

Jason saw you fall.

The Pit surged.

It was like being near a furnace door thrown open. He crossed the basement in three strides and put the attacker through a rotted wooden partition. The man went down hard, groaning, weapon skittering away. Jason grabbed him by the collar and lifted him again.

“Don’t,” you said.

Jason’s helmet had been knocked away in the fight. His face was bare. Wet hair clung to his forehead. Blood marked his mouth. His expression was not blank. That would have been easier. It was full of too much. Rage, fear, memory, death, the boy in the tank, you on the ground, Bruce’s voice in his comm telling him to stand down, all of it collapsing inward until there was only the hand around the man’s throat and the terrible need to make something stop.

“Jason,” you said again.

His fingers tightened. The man clawed at his wrist.

You knew, with absolute clarity, that Jason would hate you for what happened next. You also knew he would hate himself more if you let him kill that man while the Pit had its hands inside him. So you reached.

Not gently. There was no time for gentle.

Your power slammed into him across the flooded basement like a door blown open by light. Jason staggered as if struck. The man dropped from his grip, gasping, and crawled away. You pushed warmth into the green-black storm inside Jason, not to erase it, not to fix it, not to make him docile, but to quiet the thing that had wrapped itself around his choice and was squeezing.

Jason turned toward you.

The look on his face gutted you. He knew. The rage was still there. You could feel it trying to rise, huge and wounded and rightful. He wanted to be furious. He wanted to snarl, to curse, to demand what you had done, to shove your power back out of his skin with both hands.

But your comfort was already moving through him.

His breath steadied against his will. His shoulders lowered. The green edge in his eyes dulled. His anger hit the warmth you had poured into him and softened before it could become sound.

Horror entered his face. Not fear of the Pit.

Fear of you.

“What,” he said, voice too calm, too even, trembling underneath because the emotion had nowhere to go, “the fuck did you do?”

Your hand was still extended. You could feel him inside the reach of your power, feel the rage trying to form and being soothed, soothed, soothed before he could choose whether he wanted it eased. The wrongness of it hit you so hard you almost pulled back.

Then Jason’s gaze flicked to the fallen man. To the boy in the tank. To his own bloody hands.

His jaw clenched.

“Stop,” he said.

You tried. The second you loosened your grip on the power, the Pit roared back through him. Jason doubled over with a strangled sound, one hand going to his head, the other reaching blindly for the gun at his hip. Not aimed at anyone. Not yet. But the violence in the room answered him like an echo.

You pushed the warmth back in, sobbing once from the effort.

Jason went still again. Too still.

His eyes lifted to yours.

“You’re keeping me calm,” he said.

It was not a question.

You could barely breathe. “I’m keeping you here.”

“Don’t dress it up.”

“I’m sorry.”

His mouth twisted. You felt the apology hit him and fail to land. How could it? You were apologising while still doing the thing.

Somewhere behind you, Batman’s voice cracked through the comm. “Status.”

Jason’s eyes did not leave yours.

You said nothing.

Jason answered, voice level in a way that made the skin on your arms prickle. “Ask your specialist.”

Bruce went silent.

Jason laughed once. It sounded almost gentle, because your power would not let it sharpen properly.

That was worse. That was so much worse.

The rest of the fight ended around you in fragments. Batman and Robin breached from above. The deserters surrendered or fell. The tank systems were shut down. The boy inside was gone in the way bodies were gone when people had tried too hard to drag them back. You held the warmth around Jason until the Lazarus residue was contained, until the active compound stopped pulsing through the room, until the Pit inside him retreated from a roar to a low, hateful growl.

Only then did you let go.

Jason stumbled back like a cut string. For one suspended second, he simply stood there, breathing hard, staring at you with his own anger finally returning to him.

Then his face changed. The rage arrived.

Fully. His.

He looked almost relieved to feel it.

“You,” he said.

You took one step toward him. “Jason—”

“Don’t.”

The word cracked across the basement.

You stopped.

He looked past you at Batman, who had gone utterly still near the edge of the flooded stage. Damian stood behind him, sword lowered, eyes flicking between all three of you with the sharp, uncomfortable awareness of someone realising the adults had made a mess with consequences.

Jason’s laugh came out raw this time. No magic softening it. No warmth sanding down the edge. “You knew.”

Batman said nothing.

Jason’s eyes burned. “Course you did.”

“Jason,” Bruce said.

“No.” Jason pointed at him, hand shaking. “No, you don’t get to do the voice. You don’t get to stand there like this is a mission that got complicated.”

You felt cold spreading through you now, the aftershock of overuse. Your knees trembled. You barely noticed. Jason’s hurt filled the basement louder than any alarm.

He looked back at you. The anger in his face almost broke you because underneath it was betrayal so young it might as well have had dirt from a grave still under its nails.

“How long?” he asked. Your throat closed. “How long have you been doing that to me?”

“I haven’t—”

His eyes flashed.

You stopped. Started again, worse and more honest. “Not like tonight.”

Jason went very still.

Batman’s head turned toward you. You ignored him.

“I didn’t target you,” you said, voice shaking. “Not deliberately. Not before tonight. But my power responds to pain, and yours—” You swallowed. “Yours is loud. Sometimes being near me probably helped. Sometimes I let it.”

Jason stared.

The silence after that was worse than shouting.

“So all those nights,” he said softly. “All those times I thought I could breathe around you.”

Your eyes burned. “That was still you.”

“Don’t.”

“It was.”

“Don’t you dare.”

You flinched.

Jason stepped closer, not enough to threaten, but enough that every line of him felt like a wound held upright by fury. “I thought I was getting better.”

“You are.”

His laugh was vicious. “Was I?”

“Yes.”

“Or were you just putting a blanket over the monster so nobody had to look at it?”

“You’re not a monster.”

“You don’t get to decide that either.”

The words struck like a slap. You had no answer.

Jason looked at Bruce again. “This your plan?”

“Jason—”

“This why they’re here?” His voice rose. “You bring in your little miracle worker to fix the bad Robin? Make me quieter? Easier? Less embarrassing at family dinners?”

“That’s not what this is,” Bruce said, but there was guilt in his voice, and Jason heard it like a gunshot.

“Bullshit.”

Damian said, “Todd—”

“Stay out of it.”

For once, Damian did.

Jason backed away from all of you, shaking his head. His anger was wild now, but it belonged to him, and you understood with terrible clarity why he clung to it. After what you had just done, anger was proof he still had something no one else could touch.

“I didn’t agree to this,” he said.

You felt tears slip down your face. “I know.”

“I didn’t ask you to save me.”

“I know.”

“You don’t get to crawl inside my chest and turn the volume down because you’re scared of what I’ll do.”

“I know.”

“Then why did you?”

The question broke open in the basement, raw and enormous.

Because Bruce asked, at first, some ugly part of you thought. Because you were afraid. Because the Pit was eating his choice alive. Because you loved him. Because you had wanted to help for so long that you had stopped asking whether help without consent was just another kind of harm.

You said the only answer that did not try to make you look better.

“Because I thought I knew better than you.”

Jason’s face changed.

It hurt him that you told the truth. Good, maybe. Terrible, definitely.

“And because I care about you,” you said, quieter. “But that doesn’t make it right.”

“No,” he said. “It really fucking doesn’t.”

Your legs nearly gave then. You grabbed the edge of a crate, fingers slipping on wet metal.

Jason saw. He looked like he hated that he saw.

His body moved half an inch toward you before he stopped himself with visible effort. Even furious, even betrayed, even gutted by what you had done, some part of him still wanted to catch you.

That was what finally made you cry.

Jason’s expression shuttered. He reached down, picked up his helmet from the flooded floor, and put it on. The red faceplate came between you like a door slamming shut.

“Tell B to find a new specialist,” he said.

Then he left.

The cave was silent after Jason’s departure in a way you imagined battlefields were silent after everyone had stopped pretending victory was clean.

You sat on the medbay cot with a blanket around your shoulders, IV fluids running into your arm because Alfred had taken one look at you and said, very calmly, “Sit down before I make Master Bruce regret several of his life choices in chronological order.” You had sat. Bruce had not argued. Damian had disappeared somewhere, likely to report to the others or sharpen something in disapproval.

Bruce stood across from you, hands braced against the counter, head bowed.

You stared at him.

“No,” you said.

He looked up. Whatever he saw in your face made him go still.

“No,” you repeated, because the word was the only thing keeping you from falling apart. “You don’t get to be quiet right now.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “You need to recover.”

“You used me.”

His expression fractured, but not enough. Not yet.

“You knew he wouldn’t agree,” you said. “You knew if you told him what I could do and why you wanted me near him, he would tell you to go to hell. So you put me in his path and let the case do the rest.”

“I didn’t ask you to use your powers without consent.”

“You built a situation where you hoped I would.”

Bruce flinched.

There. There it was.

The truth beneath the strategy.

You laughed weakly, coldly. “God, you’re good. You didn’t even have to order it. You just put everyone in the right places and trusted fear to make the choice for you.”

“I was trying to protect him.”

“You were trying to control him.”

Bruce’s face hardened.

You had seen Batman’s anger before. It was a terrible thing, disciplined and glacial, sharpened by righteousness. But you were too tired to fear it.

“He almost killed someone,” Bruce said.

“And now he gets to wonder whether the only reason he didn’t is because someone violated him.”

The anger left Bruce like air from a punctured lung.

You pulled the blanket tighter around your shoulders. “He was fighting it before I touched him. Did you see that? Did you actually see him, or were you too busy waiting for proof that he needed intervention?”

Bruce said nothing.

“He was fighting it,” you whispered. “The Pit was loud, but he was still there. I should have trusted him longer. You should have trusted him period.”

That one landed.

Bruce turned away.

For a long while, the only sounds were the hum of the cave and the slow drip of water somewhere in the dark.

“What did it feel like?” Bruce asked eventually. You looked at him. “When you used your power on him,” he said. His voice was rough. “What did it feel like?”

You closed your eyes. Jason’s rage. Jason’s horror. Jason trying to get angry and finding your warmth wrapped around the anger before he could choose it.

“Like holding a door shut while someone was trapped on the other side,” you said. Bruce’s face went pale. “Does that sound like help to you?”

He did not answer.

You slid the IV from your arm before he could stop you.

“Where are you going?”

“To apologise.”

“He won’t want to see you.”

“I know.”

“You should rest.”

You looked at him then, and maybe for once he saw why Jason had been so angry. How awful it was to have someone decide your needs for you and call it love.

“Don’t,” you said.

Bruce stepped back.

You left the cave with Alfred’s coat around your shoulders and Jason’s hurt still burning in your hands.

Jason did not answer the first time you knocked. Or the second. The third time, something heavy hit the inside of the door hard enough to rattle the frame.

“Go away.”

His voice was rough. Not helmet-filtered. Bare.

You stood in the hallway of his safehouse building with Alfred’s coat wrapped around you and a paper bag of food slowly cooling in your hand. It was nearly dawn. Crime Alley had that bruised, grey look it got before the city remembered to be cruel again. Somewhere down the hall, a radiator clanked like an old ghost with unfinished business.

“I brought food,” you said.

Silence.

Then, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“No.”

“You think soup fixes this?”

“No.”

“Then why are you here?”

Because I love you, you thought, but that felt like the kind of truth that asked for something, and you had no right to ask.

“Because you were right,” you said.

The hallway went quiet.

You rested the paper bag against your hip because your hands were shaking again. Not from power use now. From fear.

“I’m not here to make you forgive me,” you continued. “I’m not here to explain it until it sounds better. It doesn’t sound better. I used my power on you without consent. Before tonight, I let it help you in ways you didn’t know about. Maybe not like that, maybe not directly, but enough that you’re allowed to feel violated by it. You asked if your progress was real, and I know I don’t get to be the person who answers that for you right now.”

Nothing.

“I’m sorry,” you said, voice breaking. “Not because you found out. Because I did it.”

Behind the door, you heard movement.

Then Jason said, “Did Bruce send you?”

“No.”

“Did he know you came?”

“Yes.”

“Did he try to stop you?”

“Yes.”

A pause.

“Good.”

Despite everything, a miserable little laugh left you. “Yeah.”

The door opened. Jason stood there in sweatpants and a black T-shirt, barefoot, hair a mess, eyes bloodshot. He looked exhausted. Human. Furious. Beautiful in the worst possible way, because your heart clearly had no self-preservation instincts and deserved to be studied by professionals.

His gaze dropped to the food. “What is it?”

“Soup.”

His mouth twisted.

“And bread,” you added.

He stared at you. You stared back.

Finally, he stepped aside. Not much. Just enough.

You entered carefully, because every inch of his space felt like a privilege you had lost and been loaned temporarily under strict supervision. His apartment was dim, curtains drawn, books stacked in unstable towers near the couch, weapons cleaned and arranged on the kitchen table with the tenderness some people reserved for family photos. There was a cracked mug in the sink. A blanket on the couch. A helmet on the floor by the window, faceplate turned away.

Jason closed the door.

You set the food on the counter. Neither of you moved toward it.

For a moment, the apartment was full of everything you had ruined.

Jason leaned back against the door, arms folded. “You gonna do it now?”

Your stomach dropped. “Do what?”

“Make this easier.”

“No.”

“You sure? I’m real fucking upset. Must be uncomfortable for you.”

You deserved that. 

You nodded. “It is.” His eyes narrowed. “But I’m not going to touch it,” you said. “Not your anger. Not your pain. Not anything. I don’t care if I’m uncomfortable. It’s yours.”

Jason looked away first. The muscle in his jaw jumped.

You swallowed. “I know that’s late.”

“Yeah,” he said. “It is.”

He dragged both hands over his face, then pushed away from the door and paced toward the window. His whole body looked like it wanted a fight and could not find one that would not make the hurt worse.

“I thought it was me,” he said. The words were quiet enough to bruise. “I thought I was doing better. Around you. Sleeping more. Not snapping so fast. Not feeling like my skin was trying to crawl off every time the Pit got loud. I thought—” He laughed, low and ugly. “I thought maybe I was healing. Stupid, right?”

“No.”

He turned on you. “Don’t.”

“It wasn’t stupid.”

“You don’t get to comfort me.”

“I’m not using my power.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

You shut your mouth.

Jason breathed hard through his nose, eyes bright with anger he was finally allowed to feel. “I thought I was safe with you.”

Your eyes filled. You did not let yourself look away.

“You were,” you said, then immediately shook your head. “No. That’s not fair. You weren’t safe from me. I wanted you to be, but wanting didn’t make it true.”

Jason stared at you like that answer had gone somewhere neither of you expected.

You kept going before fear could stop you. “You were right in the basement. I don’t get to decide you’re not a monster. I don’t get to decide what parts of your pain matter or what parts should go quiet. I don’t get to make you easier because I care about you.”

His face tightened.

“You’re not an episode,” you said. “You’re not something to manage. You’re not Bruce’s failure with a pulse. You’re Jason. And I should have treated your anger like it belonged to you even when it scared me.”

Jason’s eyes went wet. He looked furious about it.

“You and Bruce talk about me like I’m a bomb,” he said. “Like sooner or later I’m gonna go off and prove everyone right.”

He looked away, breathing unevenly.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

Then he said, “Was any of it real?”

You had expected the question. It still hurt worse than expected.

“My feelings were real,” you said. “My choices were the problem.”

Jason’s laugh broke halfway through. “That sounds like something a therapist would say right before charging two hundred bucks.”

“I can try saying it worse.”

“Please don’t.”

A tiny, awful smile tugged at your mouth and vanished. Jason saw it. His expression cracked for half a second, not into forgiveness, not into softness, but into grief. Like he missed you already and hated you for being in the same room.

“Did B call me broken?” he asked.

“No.”

Jason’s eyes sharpened.

“He thought it,” you admitted. “Or close enough. He wanted you safer. Quieter. Less hurt. He didn’t say fix, not exactly, but he meant it somewhere underneath.”

Jason nodded once, sharp and unsurprised. “And you?”

You looked at him. He held your gaze like he needed the answer and dreaded it in equal measure.

You could have said no. You could have said you never thought of him as broken. It would have been almost true.

Almost.

“At first,” you said, hating yourself with every word, “I thought of the Pit as something I could help quiet.”

Jason’s face closed.

“But I didn’t understand what that meant,” you continued quickly. “I thought if I could take away the worst of it, I was helping you. I didn’t think enough about the fact that I was deciding what counted as worst.”

“Yeah,” he said coldly. “You didn’t.”

“No.”

He looked down at his hands.

You wanted to touch him so badly your fingers ached.

You did not move. That was all you could offer now: the absence of taking.

Jason noticed. He always noticed. It made him angrier, maybe. Or sadder. Sometimes those were cousins in his body.

“Why does it not work on you?” he asked abruptly.

You blinked.

His gaze lifted. “Your power. You give everybody else the warm fuzzy bullshit. Why do you look like death every time?”

The question knocked the breath out of you. “That’s not—”

“Don’t lie.”

You closed your mouth.

Jason’s voice roughened. “I’m pissed at you. Doesn’t mean I stopped noticing.”

That was unfair. That was Jason.

You looked down at your hands. “It manifested because I was alone. When I was younger. I wanted someone to comfort me so badly that it felt like my chest was going to crack open. No one came. An injured cat did. I wanted it to feel safe, and then it did.” You swallowed. “After that, I could give comfort to other people. Animals. Anyone, if they let me. But it only goes outward.”

Jason was very still.

“I can make someone feel like the next minute is survivable,” you whispered. “I can’t make myself believe it.”

The apartment changed. Not magically. You kept your power locked down so tightly it hurt. But Jason’s anger shifted around the new information, not gone, not softened, just forced to make room for another wound.

“That’s fucked,” he said.

A laugh escaped you, startled and wet. “Yeah.”

“Real eloquent, I know.”

“No, it’s accurate.”

Jason looked at the floor, jaw tight. “So Bruce found the one person in Gotham who can comfort everybody except themselves and decided, yeah, let’s use that.”

“He was scared for you.”

“I don’t care.”

“I know.”

“No, I mean I don’t care why he did it. Fear doesn’t make it less shitty.”

You breathed in slowly. “You’re right.”

“And you.” His voice cracked on the words, anger struggling under hurt again. “You don’t get a pass because you were lonely.”

“I know.”

“You don’t get to be sad enough that my consent stops mattering.”

“I know.”

Jason stared at you. You let him.

Eventually, he dragged a hand through his hair and looked toward the counter. “Soup’s getting cold.”

You blinked.

He glared. “Don’t make that face.”

“What face?”

“That kicked-puppy, hopeful face.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. It’s annoying.”

You looked down quickly.

Jason swore under his breath. Then he walked to the counter, unpacked the soup and bread with jerky, irritated movements, and pushed one container toward you. “Eat.”

Your throat tightened. “Jason—”

“I’m still mad.”

“I know.”

“I don’t forgive you.”

“I know.”

“I might not.”

Your fingers curled around the warm container. “I know.”

He looked at you, eyes dark and tired and unbearably alive. “But you look like you’re gonna fall over, and I don’t want that on my floor.”

A tear slipped down your cheek.

He pointed at you with a spoon. “Don’t make it weird.”

You laughed, brokenly. He looked away, but not before you saw his mouth tremble.

You ate soup in silence on opposite sides of his kitchen.

It was not forgiveness. It was not absolution. It was not even peace. But it was food. Warmth you had not created. Care you had not earned by emptying yourself first. Jason sat across from you, furious and hurt and still there, and maybe that was the cruellest mercy of all.

He did not come back all at once. Jason Todd was not a door that opened because someone apologised properly. He was a city after a siege, checking every road for traps. He stopped answering your calls for a week, then answered one with “What?” so aggressively you nearly cried from relief. He refused to work cases with you, then appeared on a rooftop two buildings away during one of your field assignments and pretended that it did not count. He returned the jacket you had forgotten at his apartment washed, folded, and smelling like his detergent. There was a protein bar in the pocket with a sticky note that read: Eat before you faint, dumbass.

Bruce, to his credit or perhaps merely his survival instinct, tried to apologise to Jason. Jason broke his nose.

Alfred, you heard, allowed it.

You did not use your power on Jason again. Not once. Not when he was angry. Not when the Pit surged. Not when his hands shook after a contaminated weapons bust. Not when he looked at you like he hated you for being the person he wanted comfort from most. You learned the shape of restraint properly, not the soft, self-serving version you had practised before. You learned to sit on your hands. To ask with words instead of warmth. To let silence hurt. To let Jason be ugly with pain without trying to make it beautiful enough for you to hold.

It was the hardest thing you had ever done. It was also the only apology that mattered.

Months later, he asked.

It happened in his apartment during a storm, because apparently Jason’s emotional breakthroughs required rain for dramatic integrity. The Lazarus compound case had ended three weeks before. The deserters were in custody. The modified residue had been neutralised. The boy from the tank had been buried under a name no one knew was his, with Jason standing far back beneath a tree while Bruce stood even farther away and looked like grief had invented new architecture inside him.

You and Jason were not fixed. But you were something.

You were sitting on his couch with a book in your lap, not reading, while Jason paced near the window with the restless energy of a man trying to outrun his own nervous system. His eyes had that green-edged brightness they got when the Pit was not loud enough to take him but loud enough to make staying in his body feel like a fight.

“You want me to go?” you asked softly.

“No.”

The answer came fast.

You nodded and stayed seated. He paced another line into the floor. Rain hit the windows hard enough to blur the city lights.

“Can you ask?” he said suddenly.

You looked up. Jason had stopped moving. He stood with his back to you, shoulders tense, hands flexing at his sides.

Your heart began to pound. “Ask what?”

His voice was rough. “You know what.”

You set the book aside carefully. “Jason.”

“Don’t make me say it if you already know.”

“I need you to say it.”

He turned then, anger flaring, but this time it was not at you. Not really. It was at the humiliation of need. At the vulnerability of wanting the very thing that had hurt him. At the terrible work of choosing something instead of having it chosen for him.

His jaw worked. Then, through clenched teeth, he said, “Ask me if I want help.”

Your eyes burned. You kept your voice steady. “Do you want me to use my power to help quiet the Pit?”

Jason closed his eyes. A tremor moved through him.

“Yes.”

“How much?”

His breath shook. “Not gone. Don’t make it gone.”

“I won’t.”

“Just enough that I can breathe.”

“Okay.”

“And if I say stop—”

“I stop.”

“Immediately.”

“Immediately.”

He opened his eyes. The trust there was not whole. It was not easy. It had scars and conditions and a knife hidden in its boot. But it was trust because he was choosing it, and because you understood now that choice was the whole sacred thing.

You held out your hand.

Jason stared at it for a long moment. Then he crossed the room and took it.

You let the power move slowly this time. Carefully. Not like the basement. Not like a door forced shut. More like opening a window in a room full of smoke. Warmth passed from your palm into his hand, then no farther than he allowed. You could feel the Pit recoil, restless and ugly, but you did not chase it. You did not smother it. You did not decide what Jason needed removed.

You gave him exactly what he asked for.

Jason’s breath caught. His fingers tightened around yours.

“Okay,” he whispered after a few seconds. “Stop.”

You stopped. The warmth withdrew immediately.

Jason swayed.

You did not grab him. He noticed that too.

After a moment, he sat beside you on the couch, not close enough to touch except for your still-linked hands. His breathing was uneven, but his eyes were clear.

“Was that me?” he asked.

The question was so quiet it nearly broke you.

You turned toward him. “Yes.”

His mouth twisted. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Because it feels easier to believe when I’m pissed at you.”

“I know.”

That earned you a tiny, reluctant huff.

Then he looked down at your joined hands. “I still hate what you did.”

“I know.”

“I still hate what Bruce did.”

“You should.”

“I still don’t like people messing with my head.”

“I wasn’t in your head,” you said softly, then corrected yourself before he could. “But I was too close.”

Jason looked at you. You held his gaze.

He nodded once.

“Yeah,” he said. “You were.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

It was not forgiveness. Not exactly. But it was the first time the words did not bounce off a wall.

Jason leaned back against the couch, still holding your hand like he had forgotten to let go or decided not to. “You look tired.”

“I’m fine.”

“Lie.”

You smiled faintly. “Sometimes using it makes me cold.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” His jaw tightened. “Does it hurt?”

“Not like pain.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It feels like giving away the last blanket in winter.”

Jason went still. Then, with his free hand, he reached for the throw blanket folded over the back of the couch and dropped it over your lap with aggressive precision.

You looked at it. Then at him.

His ears had gone faintly pink. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Your face did.”

“My face is touched.”

“Your face is annoying.”

You smiled. He rolled his eyes, but his hand stayed in yours.

After a while, you said, “You don’t have to let me help like that again.”

“I know.”

“You don’t have to forgive me to ask.”

“I know.”

“You don’t have to be less angry because I’m sad about it.”

Jason looked over at you, something quiet and fierce in his face. “Good. Because I’m gonna be angry for a while.”

“Okay.”

“But I missed you,” he said, like the words personally offended him. “And I’m pissed about that too.”

Your laugh came out soft and shaking.

He looked away, scowling at the window. “Don’t get smug.”

“I’m not.”

“You are spiritually smug.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is when you do it.”

The rain kept falling outside, turning Gotham’s lights into rivers against the glass. Jason’s apartment was dim and cluttered and warm in the way places became warm when someone let another person stay. The Pit had not disappeared. The hurt had not vanished. Bruce’s fear had not become harmless because he meant well. Your love had not become innocent because it was love.

But Jason’s hand was around yours. No force. No hidden warmth. No secret easing. Just his thumb, rough and hesitant, brushing over your knuckles because he chose to do it.

And you, who had spent your life giving comfort you could not keep, let yourself sit beside him beneath the blanket he had thrown at you like a threat.

For once, the warmth in the room belonged to both of you.

Not fixed. Not quieted. Not saved.

You tried to go through the usual methods. Five things you can see, four things you can feel, on and on. You had done it before, calmed yourself down from bad dreams. You’d get water, calm your breathing on your own, lay alone in bed making lists of things in your head.

But everything was too quiet. Quite usually would have been welcome, the absences of sirens, and voices, and shouts should have brought some relaxation, some peace. But not this time. You stared at the dark in front of you, like you were waiting for whatever had been chasing you down in your dream to emerge from your imagination.

Your whole body felt tight, the nightmare’s teeth still stuck in your skin like a rabid animal, your skin still felt like static, and your mind seemed to think it was still running away, like you were still in danger, convinced that the usual safety of your room and the familiarity of your bed had suddenly disappeared, and staying here was the wrong choice.

The same thought kept coming back to you, over and over through your attempt to calm yourself. Jason.

Jason was just down the hall, he was real, and he was warm.

The tiles of the floor were cold enough to make you flinch as you made your way towards the door. You were sure of your destination, until your hand hovered just over the doorknob …

The last thing you ever wanted to do was wake him. Jason barely slept as is, he treated it like it was something optional rather than something he needed. Though, he did always tell you that you didn’t have to tiptoe around him. And yet you always told him that you still would, and you did.

You eased the bedroom door open. The hallway was dim, lit only by the low golden glow of the nightlight in the bathroom half way down.

The manor had enough halls and wings that it felt like it could swallow you whole in the dark silence. But the part you occupied had a cozy type of comfort that came when a place felt lived-in. A throw blanket over the banister, a framed photo propped up on a small side table that you hadn’t put there, but guessed it was probably Jason. There was a pair of shoes left by the door where you had kicked them off like you belonged here. Which you sort of did by now. Belonging in the weird, bruise tender way that belonging worked in a family and home rooted in vigilantism.

You kept your breath steady as you made your way towards his room, trying your best to keep your steps soft, but the floorboards still groaned under you like the house had a story it wanted you to hear.

When you reached Jason’s closed door you hesitated again.

Staying in separate rooms had started out as just what felt the most practical. It made sense at the time, you moved in slowly. Staying a few nights here and there, bringing things only as you needed, until eventually you just stopped going home. You still had your own routines, your own stuff, your own life. And Jason had his … Well, everything.

Between the nights he came home late, bruised and quiet in a way that was heavy instead of calm, not wanting to drag his grief through your door, and the nights you had deadlines or early mornings, when he couldn’t stomach the thought of his insomnia becoming yours by association, it had just become comfortable.

The space never felt cold or distant, it was just two people who chose each other, but also chose to continue to live in their own spaces. There were nights you would fall asleep together, where you’d wake up with your back pressed against him, spine curved against his chest like a puzzle piece, his arms wrapped around you in a way that made you think, still hazy from sleep, This. This is it. This is what the world was meant to be.

Right now, you just wanted him. You wanted the way he was warm, and solid, and always smelled like something safe and familiar – even if the smell wasn’t always exactly pleasant. You wanted the way that he was real, the fact that he breathed and moved and lived.

You knocked once, quieter than you had planned. Nothing. You knocked again, forcing yourself to be just a little louder this time. “Jay ?”

It was followed by silence again, before you heard a quiet rustle, and then his voice, low and rough, still scratchy. “Yeah ?”

“Can I come in ?”

The pause that followed was shorter than before, like he was processing what you said through the fog sleep had left in his head. “Always.”

You pushed the door open with a creak that sounded too loud in the quiet space. Jason’s room was darker than the hall, the pale glow of the bathroom’s nightlight didn’t quite reach his end of the hall. Dark curtains were drawn over the window, the glow of the city spilling in through the gaps. Jason was a shape in the middle of his bed, half sat up propped on his elbows, hair sticking up in the back where his head had been against the pillows. His eyes were still heavy, but when they adjusted to the space of you standing in his doorway his posture shifted into something more alert.

“You okay ?” He asked. He already knew the answer, he could read your body language like it was a book he’d already memorized. When you didn’t answer with anything other than a noise that sounded like a choked, forced laugh, he shifted again sitting himself a bit more upright. “Nightmare ?”

All you could do was nod your head, your throat felt too tight to trust yourself to speak, and you felt the backs of your eyes starting to burn. Which was a rude way for your body and mind to react. You cried a lot, something you were trying to work on ‘fixing’. Jason always said it didn’t need fixing, but you never fully believed him.

Jason didn’t need any other answer from you, he moved to the side, gesturing to the newly emptied space beside him. “C’mon”

You hesitated in the doorway, like you were still waiting for permission, a sign that you were allowed to join him.

A sign Jason gave you, as clear as day: “You’re allowed to be in here. It’s your space too.”

You still didn’t move. “I can … stay in your bed tonight ?”

Jason paused at your question, brows raised before his expression softened in a way that would have made your tummy do flips had you been able to see it clearly. “Of course you can. Come here.”

Finally you moved to cross his room, closing the door quietly behind you, casting the room in darkness again. When you climbed into his bed, you were careful to take up as little space as possible. Jason pulled you against him with a lazy, gentle tug. It was immediate, like muscle memory.

“Wanna talk about it ?” He asked after a few moments of silence

You shook your head, letting your eyes flutter shut for just a moment. “I don’t think I even remember it” You admitted, a bit embarrassed by the fact “Just that it was scary.”

Jason let out a hum of acknowledgement, giving a small nod. “That’s okay.” He assured you, “I get that sometimes too.”

You weren’t surprised when he didn’t push any further, he had always had an immense level of respect for things best left in the dark. He knew that sometimes, the best way to deal with scary things was to just not give them the time to be scary. The quiet between you stretched, your attention turning to the sound of his heartbeat, and the feeling of his chest rising and falling with each breath he took.

He was so warm, your cheek pressed against his bare chest, arm draped over him as his fingertips traced up and down your arm, tracing the curve of it in slow, barely there strokes. His fingertips lingered over the rougher patches of skin, light over the scabs and red marks that were still angry.

“You’ve been pickin’ again” It wasn’t really a question

“Only a little.” You mumbled back

Jason nodded, even though he knew – could feel – that it wasn’t only a little. But he didn’t press, didn’t lecture.

“We’ll see about a bath tomorrow” He said instead “See if Alfred has that oat mix that helped last time, yeah ?”

“You don’t have things keeping you busy ?” You asked

Jason shrugged, shifting to press his lips against your forehead “Nothing that can’t wait until later in the day.” He muttered against your skin

Warm he thought

“Oh … I think that would be nice then”

Jason’s fingers moved from your arm to brush over your hair, gently scratching against your scalp, the spots he knew you liked the best. His offer, the care behind it, had brought you some comfort. Your heart slowly calmed, but the bitter taste of fear still felt heavy on you. Your heart had settled, but your mind still refused.

Jason seemed to feel it too, his chin rested on top of your head, you fit into the curve of his neck like you were made to be there. “Want me to try and distract you ?”

“Distract me ?”

“Yep. The tried and tested tactic.” You could hear the smile in his voice “Get you bored enough to go back to sleep.”

You hummed a little laugh, “You’re hardly boring.”

“Sweet talker” he replied, pulling his head back from yours to smooth the hair away from your face. He ran his thumb across the cheek, pushing away the moisture under your eye. Maybe you’d been crying in your sleep, maybe you’d been crying since you got into his room. He didn’t comment on it. “Let’s see … If you had to pick an animal to be your sidekick forever, which would you pick ?”

Your mouth opened and closed a few times “That’s your topic ? I thought the goal was to bore me to sleep ?”

Jason shrugged, “It’s an icebreaker. Gotta work my way up to boring.”

“Okay, okay. That makes sense” You played along “Then … I think I’d pick a goose.”

A puff of air that might have been a laugh escaped Jason's nose “A goose ?” He repeated “Why a goose ?”

“Because they’re scary” You answered, like it was obvious “And their teeth are sharp.”

Jason made a sound of approval, “You know what ? You’re right about them being scary. Y’know, I was chased by one before.”

“You were ?”

“Yep” He made sure to make a solid pop sound on the ‘p’, just for emphasis “Bruce took me and Dick to the park, one of ‘em chased me around for almost a mile. And Dick ? He just laughed at me. Some big brother, huh ?”

The story may or may not have been true, but the giggle it pulled from you was enough for him. You felt him shift in the bed next to you, his arms loosened around you moments before you heard a quiet click in the dark. The dim lamp on his bedside table flickered on, casting a soft, cool light across the room.

You could see him clearly now. The messy hair falling against his forehead, the faint, scratchy stubble along his jaw and chin, that soft crease between his brows that you’ve become so familiar with, the one that never goes away even when he lets himself relax.

His arm curled around you, pulling your body back against his. His thumb traced the curve of your cheek, his eyes gentle as he looked at you like you were something precious that he chose, something that he would keep choosing, again and again.

“How ya feelin’ ?” He whispered

You checked in with yourself. Your chest felt looser, your fingers didn’t tremble against his chest anymore. Your dream was still there, the fear and anxiety still lingering like a stubborn cold. But it felt lighter than it had before.

“A little better …” You answered, “Still a bit on edge, but better.”

There was a pause, just for a moment before you asked, “Do you want me to go back to my room ?”

You felt his arms tighten around you immediately, “No.” He answered, a little too quickly. Before he shrugged, like he was trying to play it cool. “No. You can stay.”

He pulled you closer to him, “I like you here, you silly girl” His hand came up, gently pinching the tip of your nose, just to see it scrunch up in that cute way it always did. “You silly goose”

“Honk Honk” You grinned

His lips pressed against your forehead again, slow and sweet in a way that made your cheeks feel embarrassingly warm.

“You wanna tell me what you’ve been up to lately ?” He asked, like he knew your brain wasn’t quite ready to sleep yet. “Anything interesting happening in your world ? Feels like it’s been forever since I’ve heard from you.”

He had a point. Every now and then, the world seems to work against the two of you. Your schedules would never align, and it felt like the two of you were just two ships passing in the night. Always close, but never quite able to reach. Always just barely missing one another, always showing up right as the other left.

It was a cruel trick the world liked to play Jason always thought. And he hated it.

“Well, I had tea with Bruce the other day.” You answered

“Oh yeah ?” Jason asked, turning his head down to look at you, like you were the most interesting thing in the entire world. “How was that ?”

“It was nice …” You whispered, “Can’t believe I caught him having down time.”

“Yeah. That is surprising. You sure it was him ?”

His poor joke drew a small laugh from you, making something like pride bubble in his chest.

“Yes. I’m sure it was him.” You answered with a playful eyeroll. “He asked me how my classes were going –”

It was always strange, in a refreshing way, to talk to Bruce. Someone who, no matter what else was going on, he always cared about the little things.

“He knows a lot about socialization.” You continued, “More than I expected him to, really.”

Jason gave a small, agreeable nod “I bet he does, I imagine he’s seen quite a bit of it … You talk about anything else ?”

“Not much,” You answered with a little shrug “He did say he was happy I stopped calling him Mister Wayne though.”

Jason scoffed at that, “Yeah. I think everyone is. That was weird for all of us.”

You gasped in mock offence, “Well – It was weird for me to call the guy by his first name. I mean, he’s letting me live in his mansion when he has zero obligation to.”

Jason waved his hand in the air, like he was swatting away an annoying bug. “Oh please, the old man would let anyone with puppy dog eyes live here. And you – you precious girl –” He pinched your chin gently between his fingertips “ – have just about the best puppy dog eyes this world has ever seen.”

“And you – Jason Peter Todd – are absolutely impossible.”

“And you love me” He countered

“Yeah …” You agreed softly, “More than anything.”

He leaned down, pressing a kiss against your nose, before his lips brushed against yours in a kiss that was so tender it made your heart ache.

“And I love you” He whispered against your mouth

The moment lingered, the feeling of his lips still barely against yours, close enough to feel warm, and count his lashes. The quiet was broken by a little sniffle, the warmth made the anxiety biting at you feel further away. Being near him made you feel a little more brave.

“I’m sorry …” You mumbled, “I just didn’t think I could be alone after …”

“You don’t have to be. You never have to be.”

His words landed like a blanket, making the tension between your shoulders finally ease. He kissed your temple, lingering as he took in a few deep breaths.

“Sleepy yet ?” He asked as he pulled back

You shook your head, “Not really … But I feel better”

“Good. Good. That’s good progress.”

You tucked yourself against him again, wiggling closer into the familiarity of him. “What … What have you been reading lately ?” You asked, realizing your brain wasn’t quite ready to quiet itself just yet.

Jason’s expression flashed to surprise, before shifting into something almost shy “You wanna know what I’ve been reading ?” He repeated, like he wasn’t exactly sure he had heard you right.

“Yeah.” You answered softly, “You’re always reading something, between everything else. I think it’s nice to find time for stuff like that … I like that you have something that makes the world feel kinder to you.”

Jason’s eyes darted away, like your words had hit a sensitive spot by accident. He cleared his throat before reaching towards the nightstand, and you watched as he picked a hardcover and held it up in the lamp’s light for you to see. The dustjacket had been removed, the book’s binding frayed in the corners and along the spine, exposing the fibers of the paperboard beneath it. But the title was still clearly printed on the front.

“Pride and Prejudice,” He said.

Your head tilted to the side, like a small, curious animal “Haven’t you already read it though ?” The question was genuine, not meant to poke fun, or ridicule him. You’d always found it sweet the way he liked to read, the way he gravitated towards the classics. There was something that felt so admirably human about it, about the way he appreciated the time, the story, the worlds that were so carefully handcrafted.

You loved it about him, one of the many reasons on your evergrowing list.

“I have” He answered, “But it’s still a good book, that doesn’t change just because I already know the story. Plus, it’s familiar. I can turn my brain off and still enjoy it.”

His thumb ran over the edges of the book as he spoke, “You want me to read to you ?” He offered, seemingly out of the blue “I should be just starting a new chapter, not too far in. You haven’t missed much.”

Your brows furrowed. In all the time you knew him, Jason had never offered to read to you. “You’d do that ?”

He nodded, “Wouldn’t have offered if I wouldn’t”

That was true, he had never been one to throw around empty promises or hollow words. At least he never had with you.

“Okay … Yeah. I think – I think I would like that” You answered, your voice small.

He shifted again, propping the pillows up behind him so he could sit against the headboard, making a space for you to lean comfortably against him. You had been intimate with Jason before, but this made your heart race in an entirely new way – pressed against his side, head rested in his lap while he had one hand rested on top of your head while the other held the book open.

It was far from the closest you’ve been to him, but this felt like something special.

Jason cleared his throat, and began reading.

His voice was soothing, low and steady as he read. He read like he knew the story by heart, like he understood all the subtle humor, like he was part of the lives that lived between the pages. You let your eyes close, your breaths evening out as you listened to the story and the sound of pages turning.

You spoke after a few minutes, “So … What exactly is the prejudice ?”

Jason pressed his thumb against the page he was on, turning his attention back to you. “It’s a few things.” He answered “Mostly it’s Elizabeth and Darcy. Elizabeth judges Darcy based on rumors, doesn’t get to know him. And Darcy thinks Elizabeth is beneath him because her family is a lower class than his.”

Your brows furrowed, confused, “But her father’s a gentleman, isn’t he ?”

“He is” Jason nodded, his explanations didn’t come with any air of superiority. He answered like he welcomed your questions, like he’d been waiting to tell you. “But they’re on the lower end of the upper class, she doesn’t have the connections or significant wealth.”

You nodded with a hum of understanding. “That makes sense … So do you like him ? Darcy, I mean”

Jason shrugged, leaning his head back against the headboard, looking up at the ceiling as if deep in thought. “I guess so.” He finally decided “I respect him. I like that, eventually, he’s man enough to admit when he’s wrong. He put in the work, showed up when he needed to. Not to spoil the story, but eventually he reflects, and lets himself grow. I appreciate that.”

He paused, before adding “But my favorite ? Is Elizabeth.”

Your head raised from his lap, just enough to meet his eyes. “Elizabeth ?” You repeated, for some reason the information had surprised you “How come ?”

“Think she’s one of the strongest characters in the whole story.” He answered, he didn’t even have to think about it. “She’s witty, sticks to her morals. She can hold her ground, and call people out on their bullshit. And she’s loyal – to herself and the people she cares about.”

“Huh …” That really did make sense, for Jason to enjoy a character like that.

“Lately though, I’ve been liking her more than usual.” He went on, drawing your attention back to him. “She reminds me of you.”

“Of me ?”

“Yep.”

“Does that make you Mr. Darcy ?” You asked, a little giggle in your voice as you imagine Jason as a high class gentleman in a too fancy suit using too fancy words.

But the more you thought about it, the more it made sense. The strong internal code, the brooding arrogance that only thinly veiled how much is truly cared. The touch exterior, like the shell of an animal, evolved to protect itself above all else.

Your thoughts were interrupted by a sharp scoff from Jason, “Oh, please. I am way cooler than Darcy.” His chest shook gently with a low chuckle, “But, if you’re Elizabeth, I suppose I could be Darcy ... Just for you though.”

You smiled softly, relaxing back against his lap as it felt like finally the last of the nightmare had let go of you. Jason continued reading, and you let your eyes close once more.

At some point, you spoke up again, barely audible over the growing sleep in your voice “How come y’ were awake so fast when I knocked ?”

“Because it was you.” He answered, without pausing to consider it

You felt your throat tighten again, not trusting yourself to not cry again to risk opening your eyes again. Jason continued reading, pages turning with careful touches. Your mind drifted into the depth of the story.

The nightmare tried to come back, tried to wrap its fingers around your throat again, but it found nothing there but Jason, his comfort and his voice, a steady security that fear couldn’t get through. Your fingers curled loosely around his side, snuggling in just a little closer to him. Jason didn’t comment, only continued to read, his voice steady and gentle, his free hand mindlessly pushing stray hairs from your eyes.

You could only form half-baked, sluggish thoughts as his voice lulled you closer to sleep.

This, you thought, was why the separate rooms never mattered. Because the space was never something that couldn’t be crossed, it was only ever there when it was needed. And when it wasn’t, you were always welcome here, where you fit in like a missing piece.

“You read nice …” You mumbled, before the night could fully take you.

“Yeah ?” He almost cooed, setting the book back down on the bedside table. “Good enough for you to go to sleep ?”

You nodded, slow and tired, barely registering when Jason moved to flick the light off, and position himself to lay next to you again. He kept himself propped up on an elbow, the other returning to the steady, familiar motion along your arm.

Once Simon feels as though you are ready, he notches his tip at your entrance, and your eyes begin to water just from the slight burn. He rests his elbows on either side of your head, digging into the mattress where his arms cage your head in, and he places a feather light kiss to your soft, swollen lips.

He pushes in slowly, and when you cry out, he kisses you harder, swallowing the sounds of pain that have yet to turn into pleasure as if he can’t bear to hear you like this. Pulling away, he stills inside you with only the tip in, rocking ever so slightly without pushing anymore in. Your walls stretch around him, tightly wrapped around his length, slick coating him to make it easier.

“It’s okay. You’re okay… you’re doing so good,” he praises, waiting for your body to adjust, for you to tell him you’re ready for more.

When you nod your head, he pushes in some more, but your body is so tense he can barely sink another inch into you. His thumb quickly finds your clit, and he rubs slow, tight circles on the sensitive bundle of nerves to ease your body into relaxation. You moan louder for him, your body giving in to the pleasure racing through every last inch of you, and your walls relax around him, allowing him to sink the rest of the way in.

Tears well up in your eyes when he stops, fully buried inside of you with his tip leaking precum against your cervix, and he kisses you with the utmost passion. He takes away the pain of your first time, rocking into you slowly, barely pulling out before pushing in again. Your walls mold to him, the burn and stretch from his impossibly large length turning into the most blissful feeling the longer he works your muscles.

"So good for me… you feel so good for me," he praises, resting his forehead against yours, letting your warm breath mingle with his from the proximity.

He pulls out further now, the delicious feeling of his length inside of you consuming everything you know. He takes you slowly, the veins and ridges of his cock sliding through your walls, filling you up to the brim, leaving no space inside of you empty for long.

You moan out from the sensations running through you. Your nipples drag against his chest, your cheeks are wet from tears due to the previous pain, your mouth hangs open from the overwhelming feeling of being so close to the man you love. You whimper and whine, you cry and beg for more, for so much more.

"Goddamit- you're so tight lovie," he curses, your walls wrapped so tightly around him, and he tries his hardest to hold back his release from happening too early.

Arching your back from the mattress, your chest presses against his, and the warmth of his skin floods your body. Your hips meet his every thrust, your body begs for more without you having to say a word, and he meets you there in every way. His fingers find your clit, and he rubs the sensitive bundle of nerves with tight, quick circles. His pace picks up as he begins to pound into you, pulling out until only the tip remains before sinking back in and knocking against your cervix.

It isn't until he slides a pillow under your hips that you truly feel the pleasure he can give you. He thrusts in hard, hitting your sweet spot with precision, and stars burst in your eyes when your lids shut tight.

"F-fuck Si," you cry out, your hands curling around his biceps where your nails dig into his rough skin and you listen to him grunt out from the pleasurable pain of you.

He keeps hitting that same spot, over and over again, devouring the way your body writhes beneath him, knowing he is the first person to ever make you feel this way. Heat pools in your lower belly, unfamiliar and scary, and as it sits there like a coiled spring ready to snap at any given moment, you try to warn him.

"Simon… p-please it feels weird," you whisper, pulling his body closer to yours, unable to control the feeling building inside of you as he continues to please your body.

His thrusts slow, his fingers on your clit matching the same pace, and he moves his mouth to suck in a nipple. It peaks between his teeth, and he sucks, bites, licks against the sensitive bud until you're writhing again despite the slow pace. He builds up your orgasm, knowing what it is even if you don't, and he reassures you the best way he can.

"Just let it happen lovie," he says, slowly picking up his pace again, angling his hips to hit that sweet spot buried so deep inside of you.

The feeling builds again, undeniable and intense, and before you can protest, his lips find yours and he swallows the words right out of your mouth. He thrusts into you fast, deep, hard, anything to push you over the edge that your body so desperately craves. Your walls tighten around him, pulsing and clenching with need, your body becomes rigid and your muscles draw taut.

Cum gushes from your entrance, soaking his length in your pleasure, leaving rings of cream around his base as he continues to fuck you through your peak. You squirm beneath him, the feeling so foreign and addicting, and you give your body to him, knowing he can take care of you in every single way it demands.

"That's it… you did so good for me," he whispers, placing kisses along your jaw, moving down the length of your neck where he finds the spot on your soft, salty skin that makes you weak.

His hips roll against yours, his release inevitable as he chases it, and with a guttural groan and a few more thrusts, he's burying himself to the hilt. Long, thick ropes of warm cum flood your pussy, spurting out with each pulse of his cock, coating your walls in everything he has to give. He pumps himself in and out, slow with unsteady movements and jerky hips, until your pussy drains every last drop of his seed.

Simon collapses on top of you, his body warm and sweaty against your own, and you wrap your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist to pull him even closer. He stays inside you until his cock softens and your body grows exhausted, and then he pulls out and cleans up the mess with his tongue, promising you that he will have you squirming on his face as soon as he can catch his breath.

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Jason stood by the front door a little longer than necessary, his helmet tucked in his arm, between his side and the crook of his elbow, and he just listened.

Until he heard it, the sound of running water from the bathroom. His entire face changed in a second. It should have been embarrassing how immediate it was. How one moment he looks like Red Hood, all tough edges, bruised knuckles, spit and anger and Gotham grime to last for days, and the very next he’s just … a boy.

A very happy one.

“Oh, thank fuck,” He whispered to himself, dropping his helmet on the couch as he passed. He was grinning before he even turned into the hall.

He appeared in the bathroom mirror behind you moments later, when you were half bent over the sink, toothbrush still in your mouth.

There he was. Hair messed up from his helmet, eyes exhausted, leather jacket half unzipped. You could tell it had been a rough night, and somewhere under his clothes bruises were already blooming. But he was looking at you like he had just walked through Heaven’s gates instead of into your slightly cluttered, too small, too expensive apartment at 1am.

“There’s my girl”

It comes out of him soft, and delighted, and terribly fond.

You barely have time to spit the toothpaste and rinse your mouth before he’s on you. Jason does not enter spaces normally when he’s this happy. He arrives in them entirely, every piece of him committing to it at once.

“Hi, baby” You laughed as his arms came around you from behind, picking you up and bringing you to the bedroom. He practically dropped you onto the bed, before plopping himself down on top of you. Heavy, warm, large. All dramatic deadweight, burying his face into your shoulder with a deep groan.

“There she is,” He mumbled, “I missed you”

“You were gone not even five hours” You replied, trying to shift yourself into a position more comfortable. But it was no use.

“It was five hours. And fourty-six minutes. And it was the worst five hours and fourty-six minutes of my life”

“You know you say that every patrol is the worst time of your life ?” You asked him

“Yeah. I do. And I mean it every time.”

He shifted, pulling his weight off you and wrapping his arms tighter around you as he spoke, like he all of a sudden developed a deep fear of somebody prying you off of him if he let go even for a second. He smelled like the city. Like smoke, and chilly air, rain damp leather, gunpowder, sweat and the faintest trace of blood.

But underneath it all, he still smelled like Jason. Jason who was home, and safe.

He pressed a kiss to the side of your jaw, then another, and another right after because he’s decided that taking a break was optional for him tonight.

You laughed, trying to push at his shoulder. He didn’t budge. “Jay”

“Nope”

“Jay.”

“Nope,” he repeated, grinning against your skin as he kissed you again, pressing a new one on every inch of skin he could reach. “Can’t hear you. I’m busy”

“Busy doing what exactly ?” You asked

“Kissin’ my girl.” He answered, as if it was obviously the most important thing in the world for him to be doing right now. The sheer amount of joy put into a single phrase made something ache sweet in your chest. Because he means it every single time he says it. My girl. Not in the sharp possessive type of way. He said it with reverence, in a Look-What-I-Get-To-Have-Way.

He pulled back just enough to look at you properly, hands coming up to cup your face, making sure your eyes stayed on him and nothing else. And there it was, that smile of his. The real one, the one where his eyes crinkled and his nose scrunched up. The smile that was too big to hide, and too bright to try and play cool. But Jason had never been able to even think about acting normal when it came to loving you.

“You stayed up for me,” He said proudly

“I always stay up for you”

“I know” His grin somehow got even brighter “That’s the best part”

It was immediately followed by: “Do we have any snacks”

You laughed so hard you snorted. “You are unbelievable”

“Hey. I deserve them. I got stabbed a little”

“You did not” You gave a playful smack to his arm. You would have known the second he walked through the door if he got stabbed.

“Emotionally. Because I had to be away from you”

“That does not count as being stabbed, Jason”

“It should” He grumbled, flopping sideways again until nearly his entire body was draped over yours. Clingy in that absurd post-patrol way he allows himself to have when he makes it home. He propped himself half up on his elbow, and just stared at you. You stared back.

He started laughing first, warm, loud laughter. The kind that shook his shoulder and made him duck his head into your neck when he was catching his breath afterwards, still grinning helplessly because he had lost all control over it.

He couldn’t contain it. Not here, not with you. Outside of this apartment he could keep himself locked up so tight sometimes he feels like he might crack under all of it. But here ? With you curled up under him, the sheets freshly washed, the lights dimmed and warm, everything overflows. Affection, relief, want, joy so pure and earnest it becomes boyish.

He steals kisses between sentences, and smiles for no reason, and touches you over and over, every place he can reach.

When you brush his hair back from his forehead he melts. Eyes closing, face going soft, leaning into your hand with a little sigh that makes you laugh again.

“There he is,” You teased, softer this time “Big scary crime lord.”

“Don’t ruin my reputation” He teased back. But his reputation was clearly not as important as having his face pressed into the palm of your hand.

“You are laying across me like a large dog”

“Yes. A guard dog.”

“A lap dog” You corrected

Jason let out a dramatic gasp, head popping up from your hand before he grabbed your face and kissed you three times in rapid succession.

“That is defamation,” "A kiss “Slander,” another kiss “Character assassination” A third kiss.

You were breathless, still laughing, when he finally settled again, heavy with contentment, head tucked against your chest to listen to the sound of your heart beating.

Neither of you said anything for a while, instead Jason just listened. Breathing slowly, rubbing his thumb in slow circles against your side, still smiling.

He never really thought he’d get to this part of things. He got the dramatic parts of life, the life-or-death parts, the yearning so deep it ached.

But he didn’t think he’d get this. The coming home part. The being loved openly and dearly part. The getting to collapses into the arms of the girl he loves and hearing her laugh while the city spins outside and he is untouched and unbothered for a few hours.

His head tilted up again suddenly, eyes bright.

“You know what ?” He asked

“What ?”

“I think that I am devastatingly in love with you”

You smiled at him, fingers brushing through the white streak of hair above the center of his forehead.

“Oh yeah ?”