alexxx

JD tore off his shirt before helping me with mine, tossing it to the back seat. As soon as I was free of the fabric I jumped forward, crashing my lips against his.

I couldn’t see the cop, but I knew he had to have been close behind us. JD pushed me against the seat, forcing his tongue past my lips. He wrapped an arm around my waist, tightening his hold on me as he pulled away just enough to watch out the windows.

“Stay calm,” he whispered in my ear. I could hear the cop outside the car, his voice muffled. He must’ve been radioing someone. JD threaded his hands through my hair, tugging lightly as he returned to peppering feverish kisses along the edge of my mouth.

The cop’s voice got quieter, JD shooting another glance out the windshield.

When he turned back to me, he gave me a small smirk before kissing me again, this time with a kind of hunger he hadn't had before. He pulled me on top of him, holding my hips firmly to his. I pulled back to catch my breath as JD continued down my neck, nipping at my skin.

"God, this really turns you on," I panted, my hands tangled in his hair as he sucked my neck. He bucked his hips in reply, forcing his hard-on to grind against me. "Fuck," I moaned.

He brought one hand up to trace the edge of my bra, placing wet kisses across my chest.

"Get in the back seat." His voice was rough and low, coming out almost pleadingly.

I shuffled off of him, climbing over the seat. He followed quickly, awkwardly falling over the center console. I laughed at his clumsiness, causing a bashful smile to come across his face. I pulled him up to meet my lips, dragging him on top of me.

"We're you this turned on after Heather?" I questioned breathlessly, tugging on his hair to kiss his jawline.

"Yeah," he muttered, rolling his hips against me. I brought my free hand down to tug his jeans open. "Didn't have an excuse to rip your shirt off and make out with you though."

"You don't need one."

He moaned at my comment, helping me push down his jeans. I frantically tugged at his boxers, rushing to get them off. I whined as soon as his cock was free, his pink tip leaking precum.

"Hurry," I moaned, desperate to feel him inside of me.

JD gave me a swift kiss before snaking his hand up my skirt, pushing my panties aside. He lined himself up, dropping his head to my shoulder as he pushed into me. We both moaned at the feeling, my walls stretching around him. Once he bottomed out he took a sharp breath, kissing my collarbone.

"S' tight," he choked out.

I wrapped my legs around him as he began to move, sliding back before roughly pushing into me again.

"Fuck, JD." I clenched around him, attempting to push him farther into me. My walls struggled to take him all, but I needed as much of him as possible. "So big," I whined.

"Good girl," he moaned. "You can take it."

JD bucked into me as I tugged his hair. He brought his lips back to mine, muffling my moans. His tongue delicately pushed against mine, the action much softer than his thrusts.

He trailed kisses down to my chest again, reaching under me to unclasp my bra. As soon as the fabric was discarded, he let out a loud whine, pushing his face into my tits. His thrusts became harder and more erratic.

"JD," I cried, my walls fluttering helplessly around him.

"Fuck, darling." He brought a hand to my clit, rubbing fast circles. My back arched against his chest as I let out a surprised squeak.

"F—faster!" I begged, rocking my hips to meet his thrusts. He picked up his pace, fucking me into the seat. I could feel my stomach tightening, warning me of my impending orgasm. He bucked into me, his rhythm wild.

He hit my g spot, pounding into me relentlessly as he sent me over the edge. I arched further into him, screaming his name as I came around his cock.

He was right behind me, shooting hot cum into me as he fucked us through both our orgasms.

He collapsed on top of me, nestling his head into my neck. I loosened my grip on his hair, running my hand down the back of his neck.

"Fuck," I panted.

"You can say that again," he muttered.

Okay so, there's a dead body in your freezer, a vigilante at your door, and a very real possibility that your future involves forever-turned-on lights, communal toilets, and a prison guard with suspicious interests. School does not prepare you for situations like these.

You don't quite remember much of school, only that you passed enough classes to secure a nine-to-five and afford an apartment with electricity. Electricity keeps the freezer running. The freezer keeps the body cold. Until tonight, that has been enough to prevent situations like this.

The vigilante seems far more concerned about your well-being than whatever crimes might be waiting inside your apartment. He keeps trying to peer past you, tilting his pretty face toward the narrow gap you have left between the door and its rotting frame.

Your fingers blanch on the knob.

“Is anyone else home?” the vigilante asks. His tone is easy, almost careless, but his gaze keeps moving over your face. The way his eyes move makes you uneasy. Does he know? Is he going to take you to prison? Are you going to end up on death row?

“I was expecting somebody else.” He laughs softly, then adds on quickly, “Not that finding you instead is a bad thing. It’s just…” His eyes flick past your shoulder toward the apartment. “Could I come inside for a minute? I need to check something.”

The door is open exactly six inches. Any narrower is rude; any wider, he’ll see the kitchen. Then he might ask about the deep freezer.

You certainly don't care about a man dressed like a bum with a hero suit underneath: joggers, an unzipped jacket, and the dark blue bird stretched across his chest. He does seem familiar.

But everyone does when you lose your memory.

“It’s too late to let strangers in,” you say rather flatly. You wouldn’t want a bum like him in your apartment anyway. Dead body or not.

His brows pinch, disappointment sliding across that perfect face.

Wrong answer.

Adjust.

A practical thought clicks into place: if he sees the freezer, punishment follows. A pre-emptive correction would be simply killing him. But there is no physical room beside the meal prep. Shifting him to the fridge would evict five days of carefully portioned meals, and the power bill is already stripping your bank account. Spoiled food means no food. No food means starving.

You can’t afford to get stupid.

A gentle tap-tap on the doorframe pulls your eyes back up. He smiles, soft and warm, igniting an unwelcome heat in your cheeks. To your surprise, his cheeks are pink as well.

“I’ll just… call her,” he murmurs, fingers drifting toward his pocket.

“She’s on vacation,” you blurt, too loud and way too quick to be considered normal. Another wrong answer, if the brief, puzzled tilt of his brow means anything.

But then he smiles, thinner this time, as though he is masking a bruise of disappointment. Either he is already suspicious and plans to alert the authorities, or he will try again on some quieter night. For the moment, you survive the encounter.

Still, a problem remains: there’s no freezer space for a second corpse, not unless you ditch the meal prep.

You watch him retreat down the dim hallway, one hand lifted in a genial wave before he disappears into the rattling elevator cage at the far end. Only when the doors slide shut do you slam the deadbolt, shove the chain back in place, and glance at the freezer.

Preparations will have to begin tonight.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The week passes without sirens, arrests, or freezer re-arrangements. You almost believe the vigilante was a fever dream - until a new voice slides through the paper-thin wall.

The building has been hollow for two years; anyone with sense either fled or wrapped themselves in the same caretaker-cocoon that once shielded you. Six months ago that cocoon tore, and routine became sedative: clock-in, clock-out, corpse check, reheated meal prep. The caregiver’s old tablet still pings PAID each month, money shrinking in an account you can’t access. Don’t think about investigations. Investigations ask questions.

The scrape-and-thud of furniture next door means fresh eyes. You crouch on cracked linoleum, snapping dry ramen into crooked shapes beside the chained freezer, and listen to a mid-twenties male voice on speaker: boxes, deliveries, parking permits - ordinary words that grate because ordinary people notice smells and knock on management’s door when your apartment is too loud. You swallow brittle noodles and run tonight’s checklist: finish the last stir-fry, rewrap the feet - frostburn is creeping, drain the drip tray, and smile if the newcomer says hello.

Caregiver’s Rule #12: smiles disarm.

Across the wall, you hear a door close. His front door. Footsteps echo down the hall, unless it’s only your heartbeat. It’s difficult to tell. The sound seems to move through the floorboards instead of over them, each step pressing closer, until the apartment feels too small to hold you, the freezer, and all the terrible inside it.

Is he going to introduce himself now?

You click the lock shut on the freezer. The faint sound of safekeeping does nothing to stop the dread that fills you with every step outside your door. Then comes a light tap against the wood, just like before.

You slowly ease yourself up, trying to seem neither too willing to open the door nor too afraid of what waits behind it.

Afraid people invite questions.

You force a smile onto your face. Do you look normal? Does the body smell, and have you simply gotten used to it?

The math is getting ugly: one freezer, one body, two possible problems.

Play smart.

Unlocking the door proves to be more difficult than it was a week ago. Your hands shake as they slide the lock out of place, and you do your best attempt at a cheerful smile. “You must be the new neighbor,” you force out.

Unease settles low in your stomach as you glance up at him. Same height as the vigilante who came by last week. Less of a bum, however. He wears a cardigan over a white shirt, with nice-looking pants that seem dry-cleaned, which is odd for a resident in this slum of a building. Same blue eyes that pin you in place and the same familiar dimpled smile that reminds you of your nightmares from the other night.

It would be easier if they were the same person. Then you would only have one body to worry about, but the chances of them being the same are awfully slim, and you are not one to take chances. Especially when there’s a cell waiting for you.

“I am,” he says, voice coated in honey. “Thin walls, huh?”

He’s friendlier than the vigilante from last week, though that does nothing to comfort you. His voice is nothing but warm, neighborly, and harmless. Suspicion builds in your stomach. Or maybe you’re just hungry. However, you don’t quite enjoy the caged-animal feeling that licks up your spine when his arm comes to rest against the wall, blocking your view of the hallway and any possible exits.

Nice guys - those are the ones you worry about.

“Dick Grayson,” he offers, extending a hand you refuse. Too risky to exchange DNA when there’s a felony cooling five feet away. “Blüdhaven PD. Anything you need…”

Shit. Sirens begin to scream inside your skull. The freezer rattles awake behind you. Your sins are already mocking you.

You manage that it must be “nice” - wrong adjective.

His smile slices: “Nice isn’t the word.”

You scramble for “safe,” tack on “for you” as if that helps. Since cops get wrist-slaps for killing, your brain mutters - you choke the thought down.

He softens, coaxing: “It’s not always safe.” Bait. Your gaze returns to his hands - broad, sure, the sort that could pry a freezer lid or close over a throat. Your stomach tightens. He keeps the patter light, claims he didn’t want to be rude, asks if you’re always like this.

“Yes,” you say, which somehow amuses him. You don’t really get the social cue behind it all. Then the real kicker, delivered with a wink: “Have a good night - and don’t forget your medication.”

Your smile turns to ice. You never mentioned the pills.

You should really kill him.

First plan: poison - too slow. Second: ceramic vase - probably shatters. Third: push him down the stairs - lobby cameras.

Should’ve checked the cameras.

Sirens howl in your head; even the freezer seems to vibrate with them. He knows you’re unmedicated. Worse - he knows you’re alone.

This is still normal, you insist, bolting the door a second time now. The padlock’s click echoes louder than his footsteps retreating down the hall.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

You’ve been hiding ever since Dick Grayson moved in two weeks ago. Since then, he has learned your schedule like the back of his own hand. He knows when you leave, hears the tardy shuffle in your step, counts the key fumbles when you chase the bus. He even indulges himself by stopping at the same coffee shop every morning, just to say hello before you scamper off to your pitiful nine-to-five. On Fridays, you return late with plastic bags full of discount groceries, shoulders hunched beneath the weight of marked-down items.

You used to leave the apartment more. Not much, but enough. A trip to the mailbox before work. A stop at the corner store after. Sometimes you would linger outside the laundromat with your tote bag pressed to your side, watching people through the glass like you were trying to remember how normal worked. But now that he has moved in beside you, your schedule has changed, and so have the dark circles under your eyes. You avoid him more often than not. You keep your curtains drawn shut, the cheap fabric pulled tight even in the middle of the afternoon. You only access the mailbox when he leaves for work, even if the morning paper you are so insistent on grabbing is already a day behind.

A sigh escapes him as he lies on his bed, shoulder pressed against the shared wall, listening for any sound from your apartment.

Nothing.

That bothers him more than noise would. The breaker tripped a few hours ago. He heard the electricity die through the wall, that low mechanical hum in your apartment cutting out all at once, leaving behind a flat, ugly quiet. It would be easy to climb onto your patio, pick the lock, and flip the switch back on for you. An easier option would be to check whether the caregiver he hired took the money and left you all alone.

His jaw tightens. You shouldn’t be working in your condition.

He groans into the hands resting over his face, dragging his palms down until the heels press against his eyes. Then he turns, burying his face into your old pillow. It barely smells like you anymore, but he still keeps it tucked beneath his head every night like a comfort plush.

How long have you been alone? It has to be at least six months. Maybe seven. You were fine when he left for Gotham. Or fine enough. The accident had left you different, sure. More numb. A little damaged in a way even the best doctors could not fully smooth over. But you had been alive and mostly manageable.

It has been two years now since the accident. Two years since the ring box sat heavy on the car’s center console, black velvet catching the passing streetlights every time the vehicle moved beneath them. He had asked you too soon. He knows that. You knew that. The two of you had been fighting more. He had been getting rougher with you, quicker to grab, to corner, to tell himself it was only because you scared him when you talked about leaving. You had threatened to leave. He had started acting too much like Bruce, all paranoia.

He has always been too hasty. Asking for your hand in marriage was never the mistake. Just the timing of it. You had stared at him with tears in your eyes as you tried to set boundaries, your face losing color as he promised he would keep you safe. No matter how badly you misunderstood him. Your fingers had curled around the seat belt, pressed hard against the buckle.

He had thought you were overwhelmed. Even tried the calming techniques first, using a low voice that typically worked with your outbursts. His hand open. Breathe with me, princess. You’re okay. But you kept shaking your head and reaching for the door, so he had started reaching for the tranquilizer dart in the back seat, just to get you quiet until he could bring you home and keep you safe until the wedding.

You were probably just afraid of happiness. Maybe that’s why you did it.

You were quick to unlock the car door. Quicker than his hand as he lunged across the console. Even faster than the desperate grip of his fingers against your sleeve before you slipped through them and threw yourself out of the vehicle.

Did you have to jump?

The question is as familiar as the guilt that ate him alive when he saw you in the hospital, your head wrapped in white, tubes taped to your skin and down your throat, machines clicking and breathing around you. Severe brain damage, they said. A long recovery. But money fixed enough of it. Bruce’s money. The best doctors the area could offer, even some who flew in. Bruce’s hand clamped heavy on his shoulder as the old man told him, “Don’t let it get to you. There are plenty of fish out there.”

But you were the only one he wanted to catch.

Did you have to throw yourself out of a moving car to get away from him? Was life with him that hellish?

He hates that word. Hellish. It doesn’t belong in his memories with you. Not in the kitchen, where he cooked meals and set bowls in front of you even when you glared at him as if he had poisoned them. Sure, you threw one at his face once. Called him a pervert. A fake hero. But you were simply cranky some days. Overwhelmed. Easy to brush off, the same way you brushed away the blankets he laid over your shoulders when you pretended not to be cold.

It doesn’t belong with the little doodles and notes he left on the fridge either, even if some of them came back shredded into death notes. Or with the scissors he had to pry from your hands while you threatened to slit your throat if he didn’t let you leave.

Of course, there were nights when you slow-danced with him in the living room to old love songs, your cheek resting against his chest as you finally got tired of fighting. Or even the mornings when you woke soft and quiet, blinking up at him like you forgot why you were angry. The afternoons when you asked so prettily for fresh air after he had kept you locked in the bedroom for too long, voice hoarse, fingers curled into his shirt.

Sure, spanking worked when you got too difficult, but so did a good timeout from time to time. You always melted against him after being alone long enough.

You could be sweet when you wanted to be. That was love. It had to be love.

He had loved you enough to try to move on with Barbara back in Gotham. It worked for a couple of weeks. Better than sitting at your bedside, loving you through recovery while you could barely remember who he was, watching your confused, frightened eyes fill with fear when he leaned too close. The times when he needed to remind you with a hand pinching your air tube that he was still the person you were supposed to kiss back.

His hand curls against the bedsheet where you would have slept.

If the Joker had not been loose for six months, Dick would have come back to you sooner. He would have continued his weekly checkups while you were drugged and less observant. Your caregiver was always good at giving you more than you needed to help with the nightmares she claimed were about him.

They’re just dreams. He’s not your monster.

You slept deeply enough then that he could sit beside your bed, brush the hair from your face, adjust your blanket, and pretend the quiet between you was peace instead of punishment. You never flinched in your sleep.

He cut things off with Barbara when he came back here. Watched her cry as he held her, her face tucked against his shoulder, her fingers twisting in the back of his shirt. He felt bad. Of course he felt bad. But her tears didn’t make him want to choke sense into her. They didn’t make him want to kiss her until she stopped making that awful, broken sound.

Yours did, however.

You’re not the same as before. He expected that. Certainly much healthier than you were in the hospital, at least. Your social skills are lacking, but that is expected when a lamb first learns how to walk again. If anything, it works out for the best. You’re more relaxed around him now. You don’t keep the lock in place like you used to when the two of you were first seeing each other. You don’t insult him. You stopped crying. The list could go on and on about how oddly perfect things would be between you two.

Finally, he hears your footsteps down the hall. Should he greet you? No. That would be too eager. He shouldn’t frighten such a delicate creature after work.

Your front door unlocks. He listens to the stumble of your shoes against the floor, the rustle of a plastic bag, the small irritated sound you make when something bumps into the wall. After a handful of minutes, the breaker clicks back on. The apartment gives a faint electric shudder through the wall, and the hum returns. You must have noticed by now that it has been off for a couple of hours. It’s a heatwave, after all. You probably have too many appliances plugged in.

Maybe he could offer to cook for you tonight. Something simple. Pasta, maybe. Open that fresh bottle of wine he got from a buddy. He can show up at your door with a friendly neighbor smile, pretend he hasn’t spent the last few hours listening for proof you are still breathing. You might let him in if he plays his cards right. He can pour you a glass, make you laugh, kiss you before walking you back to your door like the old days.

Then he hears it.

Your door opens again.

Are you leaving?

Dick pushes himself upright, head tilting toward the wall. Your footsteps are quick this time. Frantic. You mutter under your breath, the same word over and over.

Ice.

You must be going to the convenience store. All your food must have spoiled, or at least enough of it to scare you. That refrigerator was never the greatest. It was never his idea to keep you here for two years. You were supposed to move in with him after one, but work got busy. Gotham got loud. People kept needing him, and you had been safe enough. Or he thought you were.

He’s already moving before he finishes the thought, tugging his work uniform back into place, smoothing a hand over his glossy dark hair in the mirror by the door. The uniform helps. A good excuse for running into you at the convenience store down the road.

A friendly neighbor coming home after a long night of police work.

Not a man following you into the night.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

If Dick had known you could make such a horrified expression and still look so painfully cute, he might have pulled a stunt like this sooner. The convenience store is nearly empty at this hour. Outside, the heatwave fogs the beer-ad glass; inside, you stand in front of the ice chest with both arms full, eight plastic bags stacked awkwardly against your chest, as if you’re trying to carry a body instead of save one. He taps your shoulder; you nearly drop everything.

“Throwing a party?” he teases, bright and harmless, as though meeting here were a coincidence either of you should believe. His gaze flicks from the bags to your face - eight is a lot of ice for someone with no friends in any file he’s pulled, no emergency contacts who call more than once, no coworkers who walk you home. You’re usually alone.

That has always made things easier.

Your eyes jump to his uniform, then his badge, before Dick lifts a hand in an open-palm wave.

“Easy,” he says. “Just me.” Your grip only tightens; water runs from a corner of one bag and slides down your wrist. You don’t seem to notice. You're so much stranger and more calculated - so unlike the version of you who once snapped at him for thrills and shoved him away after too many kisses. Different isn’t ruined; it’s just leverage.

Your reply is lost to the freezer hum and the cashier’s squeaking stool.

“What was that?” he prompts. You glance at the bored clerk, then back at him, and repeat too loudly: “It’s for coffee meal prep.” He nearly laughs. Eight bags for morning coffee? Adorable. He props a shoulder against the glass, frost blooming behind him. “You need eight for one cup?” A beat. “Tired of seeing me in the mornings?”

You look away, try to brush past. “It’s melting - I won’t have any to practice with if it melts.”

Practice? Before you can retreat, he lifts six bags off your pile. You jerk for them, a small startled sound, but he’s always been stronger. For an instant he sees the old fury in your eyes, enough to make his heart kick before he reins in the teasing.

“How about I help?” he offers gently.

You huff and push toward the register while meltwater stipples the floor. Dick follows, shifts the bags against his hip, and - before you can fish out your wallet - taps his card: beep. You freeze mid-reach.

“I had it,” you mutter.

“I know,” he smiles. “And now you still have it.”

Tension moves between you, louder than the compressor rattle; the cashier pretends not to listen.

Why eight bags? Maybe the breaker scare sent you spiraling, food spoiling after the caregiver vanished. No reason for you to budget groceries or lug ice through Blüdhaven at night when he’s right here. He’ll audit the caregiver’s spending, see where the money went.

The bell jingles as you step into wet heat. Sidewalk puddles shine under streetlights; a distant siren wails and fades. You walk too fast - shoes slapping pavement in a nervous tempo - bags swinging hard against your legs. Each time you edge toward the curb, Dick glides between you and traffic. “Careful,” he says. You flinch. “I’m careful.” Twice you reach for the ice he’s carrying; twice he shifts it easily away.

“They’ll melt faster if we stop to argue,” he reminds you. That quiets you, though your eyes keep darting: his hands, the street, the apartment looming ahead. Plastic crackles whenever your grip flexes, leaving a thin trail of meltwater. When you veer to the curb again, he blocks you.

“Walking on the outside,” he explains - seat-belt muscle memory, sleeve slipping from his grasp.

“That’s not necessary,” you protest.

“Humor me,” he smiles, and you swallow the argument.

The lobby smells of old mail and cherry-lemon cleaner that never makes the place look clean. But it does take the smell of mold out. Elevator’s Under Construction - crooked sign over the button - so you climb the stairs. Halfway up, you freeze, alarmed to find him behind you.

“Go on. I’m not in a rush.” He motions ahead.

You don’t like his eyes on your back; good to know. He takes the next flight first, listening to your uneven breathing and the ice shifting in your arms.

Hallway air is thicker than outside, trapped under flickering bulbs. Your door waits - paint chipped, peephole cloudy, chain probably dangling because you left in a hurry. His door is beside it, close enough to hear everything. You whirl, blocking your knob.

“I can take them now.” Your smile appears a beat late - the wrong mask worn the wrong way. Dick’s chest warms.

“Should I help you get these inside?” he asks, voice honey-soft. Helping is love; love lets him in.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

You have gotten yourself into a spectacular pickle.

Bargaining at the threshold proves useless: your arms are full of melting ice, his arms are full of melting ice, and technically all of it belongs to you. You assure him - politely, firmly, repeatedly - that he doesn’t need to come inside, the bags aren’t heavy, it’s late, he must be tired, you’d hate to be a bother. Normal words for normal people. Dick Grayson only smiles and hoists the bags higher as they start to sink again.

Nice people are harder to shake; your caregiver warned you about that. They treat no like an invitation to try harder. Eight bags were a mistake. Four would have meant coffee prep or a broken fridge - anything ordinary. Eight screams emergency. Eight screams hidden freezer. Eight screams a smell you’re praying belongs to yesterday’s trash.

Behind the door, the apartment waits. So does the smell.

Sweet, damp, wrong - probably already leaking from the freezer seams after hours without power in a heatwave. Please be trash, please be trash. Maybe it isn’t bad yet. Maybe the chain kept the lid sealed. Maybe the trash under the sink reeks worse. You have never hoped for trash before, but there’s a first time for everything when a corpse is thawing in your kitchen.

Open the door and risk the odor. Refuse and risk the neighbor’s suspicions. Stand here and the ice keeps melting, the body keeps warming, the officer eventually calls someone. The officer is someone.

Slower disaster is better than fast. Keys slip in your wet fingers; metal clinks too loudly. Laugh. Harmless people laugh. You laugh like a woman you’ve seen in movies over misplaced keys, not like a woman calculating whether she can drop a policeman before he draws his gun. Dick doesn’t laugh back - he only watches.

Finally the lock turns. You step in first; he follows, gently shuts the door - then locks it. Fine, be creepy. Warm, stale air greets you, carrying a faint, rotting sweetness. Trash. Just trash. You clutch the ice, march past the chained chest freezer, swear you won’t look - then look anyway. Chain still tight. Good. Bad.

“Should I put these in the freezer?” he asks, kindness itself. For one absurd beat, you almost answer yes, right beside the dead woman. Then you see where he’s staring: not at you, but at the chain around the lid.

“Do you have a key?”

Words jam in your throat. A lock for sleep-eating? A safety latch? All terrible.

Your gaze darts to the ceramic vase by the door- heavy, blue-flowered, dusty. It has held receipts, dead pens, a spare button. It could hold blood. You edge one bag against your hip, freeing a hand. His head is turned. His hands are full. You might have a second. Handle’s chipped - won’t slip. Good.

Aim for his perfect face. If he falls, the entry rug is dark, good for soaking. Ice buys time. Boxes in his apartment for the body parts. One problem at a time.

He starts to turn.

You grip the vase and swing with all your might.

Sorry, officer.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Dick should have expected it. Your fire never truly burned away - no amount of medication or brain damage could smother that stubborn spark. Of course you fought him: manic smile at the door, polite excuses stacking. Of course you lunged for the vase. You were a frightened animal that didn’t know what was good for you.

He whistles low as he crouches by the chest freezer, one knee sinking into damp flooring, bobby pin clamped between his teeth. Picking the padlock feels crude but easier than ripping off the chain or searching for a key. The apartment smells off - wrong, even by your standards. Beside him, the ice bags sweat into widening puddles. He glances over.

You glare from the floor - cheek pressed to the fake tile, hair pasted to your face, both wrists cuffed to the radiator pipe because you refused to sit, to stop kicking, practically refused every warning he gave you. Pride props your hips at an uncomfortable angle; muffled sobs stutter as you try to swallow them. Stubborn thing. Makes him nostalgic for every time you mistook courage for good odds.

“You’re in trouble!” you shout, yanking the cuff. Metal rattles; skin scrapes raw, a thin red line blooming toward your palm. His smile fades. “Careful,” he murmurs.

You ignore him. “There’s a vigilante around here.”

Bobby pin pauses. He meets your eyes, smiles. “I know, baby. If only he were here.” Fury and panic twist your features - here you are. Not healed, but flickering under fear: sharp mouth, wounded pride, fight that proves you need someone stronger.

Click. Chain slithers to the wet floor like a dropped leash. You go still. Breath hitches in tiny bursts; his palm rests on the lid, not lifting yet, enjoying the desperate set of your face. Beg me not to.

“What’s in here?” he asks, voice low. Your lips tremble. Silence. “Baby, what did you do?” Thumb stroking the lip, he waits.

“A body.” The words leak out - tiny, broken.

He studies your face first: eyes wet, cheek glued to tile, wrist bleeding. Embarrassed, not remorseful - cornered, not guilty. Pulse steadies.

“A body,” he repeats, then lifts the lid. Cold sighs out, followed by sweetness gone sour. Plastic-wrapped limbs, frost-blurred features - the caregiver, tucked in with practical care. His gaze traces corpse, chain, puddled ice, then you: still glaring, still calculating whether biting helps. Optimistic.

“Well,” he breathes. Lid stays open; smell dulls. A cop should radio this in. Nightwing should. Instead he thinks: six months alone, one corpse, no help until now.

“You’re going to need someone, aren’t you, princess?”

“Don’t call me that.” Sharp even now.

He smiles with a fond look in his eyes. “I can make this disappear - body, payments, reports.” You stop struggling to listen. Good. “But you’ll do something for me.” He crouches close. Hard not to kiss your tears away.

“You’ll stop hiding. Take meds when I say. Eat real food.” His thumb grazes your torn wrist, voice softening, while his other hand trails down your spine. “And you’ll quit hurting yourself trying to escape the only man trying to help.”

A strangled sound escapes as his palm settles over your heat, giving you two soft, almost patronizing pats. His smile widens as you look over at him, cheeks warmed and dewy. His fingers find their way between your legs and glide along your slit, earning such pretty sounds from your lips. You probably haven't been touched for months. Years, even. So loyal, aren't you? Willing to do anything to cover up your little mistake, huh?

“If you’re lucky,” he whispers, “maybe I’ll marry a cruel thing like you.” He kisses the tear-damp cheek, tasting salt, watching your lips purse back. Pulling his hand away just to watch the frustration on your face. Maybe he'll save such things for marriage. Shouldn't get too hasty. Especially not after last time.

Odd, how neatly things work out - for everyone.

Those words still ring hollow, a repeating drone of his voice as you watch the familiar city pass by the windowpane. It is Gotham, but not. Unfamiliar stores fill the streets, similar roads but not quite, small inconsistencies that are enough to remind you that this isn't your home.

That the person in the driver's seat beside you is a complete stranger.

"Who am I to you?" You question, casting your glance back to that stiff, perfect posture of his as he makes a turn towards his apartment.

That hug from earlier, if you could even call it that, still lingers like a shadow, casting goosebumps over your skin whenever the memory overstayed its welcome.

You spot the whitening of his knuckles, the pads of his fingers squeezing into the steering wheel before the colour returns, as if his composure never faltered.

"You were my assigned partner." He answers briskly.

Were. There's finally one consistency, at the very least. To your relief, the version of you here didn't seem to get along with him either.

Your small amusement is quickly diminished at the rise of another concern of yours. If there was another version of you running around this city, you can't even begin to fathom the potential fractures of reality if an encounter truly happened.

You're already playing a huge risk in letting this Damian assist you. Still, you had no one else.

Your comms had contacted him, not that it was to any surprise of your own once the initial panic died down. It wasn't likely that you still had a connection to your own world, much less an existing channel with your Damian. It was pure luck that you still had use for the device at all. Or at least, you hoped you could consider it luck.

Your gaze lingers over his features. The likeness between him and your Damian was uncanny. The same nose bridge, freckles, and even that faint scar running down his jawline. It was all so familiar that you had to snap yourself out of it when you found your body conditioning itself into safety, as if forgetting he's a stranger.

"Well, I hope you'll let bygones be bygones." You answer wryly. "There wasn't anyone else I could contact. If you can help me find a way back home, I'll be out of your dimension in no time."

The silence grows terse. A shift has occurred, even if you're unsure on the why. You had only stated the obvious. Perhaps his moods were in line with what you were familiar with after all, and that is no soothing relief if it meant having to face that same temperament that landed you here.

"I'm already offering my help." Damian answers after a moment, as if he's finally settled for a response he was satisfied with.

"I hope so." You mutter, eyelids falling shut in your exhaustion. The sight of the city was making you nauseous. "It's kind of your fault I ended up here. The other you, anyways."

He hums, finger tapping once against the steering wheel. "Typical."

This Damian has an apartment akin to a serial killer's. The barest necessities, minimal decorations—it's as if every surface has gone untouched. If you hadn't seen it with your own eyes when he unlocked the door with his thumbprint, you would've assumed no one had ever stepped foot within these walls.

"Ever heard of decoration?" It lands wrong, and you internally wince. It's difficult, to not fall back into that same push-and-pull when you see Damian's figure in your peripheral vision. To not be mistaken with familiar company.

He watches you for longer than he should. He keeps doing that, the staring. "There's no reason for me to do so." He answers eventually.

Your brows furrow. Something about his responses from the moment you met him unnerved you, as if he's leaving his words purposely vague. Clues buried within that mask of his, where an unanswered story that didn't belong to your reality lingers in his.

"Where am I currently in your dimension?" You decide to settle at the sofa, stretching out your limbs. "If she's still in Gotham, I need to be careful not to be seen."

Ever since you arrived, your body has been aching horribly. It hadn't been this obvious when you had arrived, but now, it's stinging down to your nerves. Maybe the adrenaline had finally worn off, and you're left to deal with a body unequipped to the frantic mess your mind is trying to sort out.

"It won't be a problem." He answers, lips pursing into a thin line. "She's gone."

Your head tilts questioningly to meet his gaze, but he avoids yours. Pulling open his kitchen drawer, there's a taut tension in his body as if he's been expecting your question and dreading it all the same.

Gone could mean anything. Out of the city borders or—

Your eyes flicker down to his disappearing hand, and find his reappearing fingers gripped around pain ointment. Your stretch pauses halfway, the strange alertness of being noticed without your permission sending a chill down your spine.

Forcing your hands down back to your sides, you eye him warily as he makes his way round the couch, stopping before you. His hand extends, lifting his offering silently.

It's unfamiliar, and even if you try your hardest to reason to yourself, that this isn't the Damian you know, it doesn't make it any easier to allow him to assist you. You half expect mocking, a glimpse of his smirk when your gaze flickers to the ointment held out in front of you.

A low breath escapes his lips, and you expect him to give in. To understand that you don't require more of him other than his specific assistance to send you home—only for him to lower himself.

Damian Wayne—even if he isn't the one you're used to—is kneeling down to meet your gaze. Your breath stops, your chest seized tight as you stare at him, unable to hide your surprise.

He doesn't falter, his fingers mindlessly dipping into the ointment before placing the jar by your side. His free hand goes to grip your wrist, tugging gently to expose the bruises trailing along your arm from your fall.

"If it is me you have come to for assistance." He mutters with a click of his tongue. "Then, I expect you not to be stubborn."

You swallow, your jaw ticking as you find your tongue heavy with a lack of an adequate response. His unwavering concern, this intensity can't be tied solely to you. There has to be a reason for why he is looking at you this way.

"What did you mean?" You ask quietly. "By gone?"

His fingers, still coated with the ointment, brush gently over your thudding pulse. His gaze finally lifts, but you can't read him. There's a pull to his gaze, and the answer reveals itself by the time you recognise what is held within his eyes isn't irritation or indifference. It was grief.

"She's dead."

It's a strange feeling to know you're stepping into a world where a version of you used to exist. A sick form of good luck, a technical elimination of complications.

Except that it's only made everything more complicated. You had no idea on how to deal with the Damian in front of you now that the truth's been revealed.

When he first admitted that he wasn't the Damian you knew, you had quickly assumed that whatever dynamic he shared with you from this dimension was a parallel to the one you shared with your Damian. Forced tolerance, a begrudging partnership. No, you had needed to assume it so. Anything different would have shattered this fragile alliance you had with the stranger sitting across you, because despite everything you felt about your Damian—you relied on him as a partner.

Now, you weren't sure if you could trust the Damian in front of you. You had assumed that if he answered your questions, you would have cleared the air—but it has only raised more.

You can feel his attention while you're thinking. You swear with the intensity of his gaze casted onto you which you pretend not to notice, it's as if your existence only materialised when his eyes are on you. There's a strange urgency in his unblinking stare, as if to remind himself that you're still in front of him.

It's too much. It was the same back when he first saw you as well. Damian hasn't mentioned his strange reaction since, and his lack of an explanation for why he had embraced you clues you on nothing still, on what you meant to him.

"I'm not her." You mutter after a moment. You don't know why, but you feel you have to say it.

There's some form of attachment he must've had with you, and you couldn't let yourself be tangled into the mess of what's been left behind. This isn't your world, and the last thing you needed was a blur of that line.

"I know." He answers quickly. Without pause, as if he's been repeating it to himself before you had even verbalised it.

Your hesitance must be palpable because he lets out a sigh not long after, heavy from his chest.

"I didn't offer you my help because I think you're—" He swallows, pain etched into the lines of his grimace. "I understand that you are alone in this world. That some mistake of mine from your end caused this. I am taking responsibility for it—to bring you back. There is nothing more to it."

You watch him as he did to you, noting a delicate fragility to him you've never seen before. You had been so wrapped up in your situation, that you failed to notice the frantic quality of his gaze or the exhaustion plaguing his features. As if being around you—drained him from the impossibility of seeing you alive and breathing.

"Okay." You answer eventually. "I believe you."

His shoulders, tense and taut, finally loosen slightly at your response.

"Do you—" Your voice is plagued with exhaustion, and you struggle to find the words, the composure to hide your desperation. "—have any idea on how I'll be able to get back?"

Relief flickers briefly in his gaze, replaced with a familiar efficiency that slots over the dark pool his eyes held mere seconds ago. This, you were used to. Whenever he was asked to perform a duty, that was when you both cooperated the easiest.

"If it were me, I'd predict that there will be a two-way mechanism." He suggests automatically. So, he had been considering his own theories this entire time.

Leaning in, his elbows pressing against his thighs, he continues. "An entry will not be possible without a tunnel. To find the connection and restart it as you had before in your dimension, it should trigger an opening."

"I also considered the possibility of a tunnel." You frown, your fingers drawing a thin, edged line across the sofa's fabric. "The only problem is that when I arrived, before contacting you—I looked around the premise. I really tried."

"There was no opening." You admit, dread digging slowly into your bones.

"Perhaps it will only be activated if it was triggered in the same process as before." He suggests.

"...Doesn't that rely on Damian—" You falter, meeting his gaze. "—my Damian restarting the trigger on his side?"

He nods, even as his lips purse slightly at the mention of the other him. "Your only chance depends on him coming to the same realisation we have."

You draw a short breath. "Shit."

Damian doesn't hesitate when you ask by the third hour of silence—to accompany you back to the construction site when the passing hours has done enough in driving you insane.

You hate waiting. Your Damian knows that. This Damian seems to know too.

He follows you like a silent shadow, tracing your steps and overlooking the same rubble caused by your fall as you try to find an anomaly. Anything that proves to your stubborn anxiety—that you are actually doing something to feel less trapped.

"There is nothing here." He states.

"You don't know that." You wish your voice sounded stronger. "I wasn't in my right mind when I landed. I might identify something I missed."

His jaw ticks once, but he doesn't stop you. He doesn't argue—and that unnerves you. The Damian you know doesn't hesitate when picking a fight, and frankly—you miss that. You needed something to distract you—and he was merely standing there like he was watching a phantom.

"I thought you said you would help." Your voice breaks.

Fuck. Swallowing back your revealed fright, you finally slump down onto the dust-covered concrete, pressing your palm against your eyes.

You hear a shuffle, the fabric of his coat landing heavy next to you. You uncover your eyes, catching him as he crouches beside you. His gaze meets yours head-on—and you nearly drown in the weight of it.

"There's no relief in digging through a dead-end." He mutters, peering over your features. "It'll only worsen the thoughts."

You grow quiet. You didn't need a verbal confirmation, not when just his gaze alone tells, that he wasn't only talking about your situation. Your chest heaves, the scent of concrete filling your nostrils.

The silence stretches, an uncomfortable sensation of helplessness filling the air.

"...Do you like pizza?" He asks after a moment.

Blinking once, you must've misheard it. You can't help the snort that escapes you, the sound broken and unsteady. "What?"

"I dislike it." He mutters. "The ones in Gotham. It's too much grease, and lacking of any true nutrients."

That... sounds very Damian of him.

You raise a brow, and his lips purse together. Letting out a regretful sigh, he gestures with a tilt of his head. "There's an adequate franchise down the street."

Lifting himself off the ground, he holds out his hand towards you. "Since this dreadful day has been awfully unproductive, I suppose a meal like that is befitting."

Your gaze flickers between his hand and that unfamiliar, warmth in his eyes. Of how you had been in a similar position mere hours ago when he had offered you pain ointment. Of how he has been consistently extending his hand towards you, accompanying your side—ever since you entered this dimension.

This time, you take his hand.

Strangely enough, the fluorescent lights of 'Gotham City Pizzeria' and the smell of floor disinfectant—combined with the peculiar sight of Damian lifting a soggy pizza slice with a grimace did lift your spirits. If this was your dimension, you would have bothered with taking a picture to capture the sight of him clashing with an environment so strongly, but you couldn't afford to let this rare moment of normalcy be dimmed by that reminder.

"Should I be concerned that the Damian Wayne in this dimension consumes Gotham pizzas?" You murmur, wiping a streak of tomato at the corner of your mouth.

His lips quirk up slightly. "Even I have my faults."

Clearing his throat, he murmurs. "Your turn."

You raise a brow, confused.

He leans back, dusting his hands against the napkin. "I haven't learned anything about you since you arrived."

Oh. You had assumed that he didn't want to. Outside of the boundaries of your circumstance, he hasn't really pushed much further other than details he needed to have, to piece a solution together.

"What do you want to know?" You shrug.

His lips tilt upwards again, more intently this time. "Do you like pizza?"

Your smile lifts instinctively. "I do, detective. How'd you guess?"

His smile strains a little, and you realise why.

"Ah." You murmur.

"No." He stops you before you can retreat. "Don't stop on my account. I want to know what you like."

You swallow, fingers running over the crust flakes coating your thumb. You suppose you could answer, there wasn't any harm done. "I do like pizza. It's the only thing that's comforting enough after a long night of patrol. I think when I enter a familiar place at an hour like this, when there's no one else around, it's like the world closes in to exist in just this spot, y'know? I get to forget about my worries for a little while."

He nods, listening to you speak as if he intended on memorising every word. Like he may miss the chance to do so ever again.

"So, why'd you pick this place?" You return the question.

"...As I told you before, I'm not fond of it."

"So, why are you here?" You push.

A slow exhale escapes his mouth. "I suppose, it was like you said. Comforting—in a sense, to be surrounded by something familiar."

You can see him struggling, on what to say and what to keep buried. This provided company of his—it's like you're digging into a wound he's openly showing you.

"What else do you like?" He reiterates.

Your smile reappears, almost easing. "Need a full catalogue?"

"Yes." He answers almost immediately. It takes the breath out of you, the humour still stuck on your tongue with the way he looks at you, all-consuming. "I would."

"I suppose... I could tell you things I never told anyone." You whisper almost conspiratorially. "Something tells me you'll keep quite a good secret."

His lips lift, curving a small dimple by his cheek. "I swear."

"I guess..." Leaning your cheek against your palm, you take your time in truly looking at him. "I always did like your eyes."

He blinks, not expecting your answer. "My eyes?"

"Yeah." Your grin comes easier to you now, seeing him uncharacteristically flustered. "Made me unreasonably jealous at times. Green eyes like that, and you spend half the time glowering."

He scoffs lowly, but it holds no bite. "I wasn't aware there was a way to utilise them."

"No, you do it right when you're not thinking too hard." You murmur, lost in thought. "When you don't pretend to be strong, your eyes go soft. Just around the edges."

The moment those words leave you, you realise you're pushing too far, saying something so intimate, it should have never been verbalised.

He watches you, and to your dismay, he does it right then and there. The sharpened edges around his gaze softens, and so does Damian.

"You're direct." He mutters, almost fondly.

You swallow, averting your gaze. "So I've been told."

"I like that."

You shift your focus back to him immediately, a soft thudding in your chest. He has never averted his gaze. Rarely, you realise, does he pull his attention away from you. It's like he's treasuring it, the small impossibility of this conversation, of your presence in this pizzeria illuminated by the neon lights.

"Do you feel like you're dreaming?" You ask. "It feels like I know you even though I shouldn't."

His lips quirk. "It is a fair exchange for reality, if I get to meet you."

Your heart is thudding louder now, and you don't find it instinctive anymore to avert his gaze, no matter how much the depth feels like drowning.

"A once in a lifetime phenomenon." You declare. "Let's not waste it."

Gotham's cityscape takes a less intimidating turn in the weeks following your exploration with Damian, as the hidden beauty within begins to reveal itself. The confusing streets become interesting puzzles, a guessing game on what road could be an alternative to the ones you frequent in your dimension. When night falls? That's when this Gotham truly sings, coming alive.

Without the late nights being reserved for the sole purpose of patrol, Damian guides you within the ins-and-outs of alleyways, leading you through slot machines, bars that still had the hum of human company despite the late hour. Eventually, you both land on a rooftop that lets you oversee the entire city.

It's terrifyingly easy to enjoy his company when you're not busy pretending otherwise. There's a symphony to your shared steps, the trailing of his shadow that plays out like a familiar, comforting rhythm.

"It's different." You mutter almost excitedly. The faint buzz of exhaustion from the late hour leaves you increasingly lax, your hand tugging at his sleeve towards the Wayne Tower in the distance. "Ours is all red hues and sharp angles. I like yours more."

He hums, sounding amused. His gaze is still trained on you, not focused on your pointed finger towards the building at all. Letting out a huff, your hand, numbed by the freezing wind, lifts to cup his cheek.

He blinks, a rare vulnerable expression crossing his features at your touch.

"Stop looking at me." You gesture, trying to tune his head towards the cityscape. "You're missing out."

"No, I'm not." He answers honestly.

You blink, hand faltering over his cheek, but he raises his own to cover yours.

"Sorry." He murmurs, lashes lowering with his gaze as he closes his eyes momentarily. "Allow me to be a little selfish, just this once."

Your fingers shake in response, but you don't remove your hand.

"That's not very fair of you." You mutter.

"I suppose I have never practiced that trait well." Opening his eyes, you're faced with that tenderness, the one that leaves you breathless. "Does it make me hateful?"

"No." You answer honestly. "You've always been bad at that."

"At being fair?" He asks.

"Making me hate you." You admit quietly.

His gaze softens imperceptibly. "I suppose we're both not very good liars."

The touch of his cheek burns your skin. This is dangerous, your mind faintly warns you. You promised yourself to never hesitate in your decision, not even after meeting him. You were always meant to go home.

He spots your hesitance, and his warmth falters. His lips set back into that familiar, distant line as he lets your hand go.

"I apologise if I over-stepped." He says before you even have time to clear the air.

"No, that isn't it." You wince, drawing your hand back to scratch at your cheek. "I was just thinking. Maybe—it isn't so bad if I could stay a little longer. There's no guarantee on when the portal will open again, so it's not a ruled out possibility."

Your suggestion is a toss into the wind. A complete silent, interpretation that maybe that's what he'd like as well.

You don't even have time to process the slight hope in his gaze, the consideration of your words before something—no everything seizes. Your body collapses to the ground, the pain of your atoms glitching, seizing to exist, and reforming again, is nearly indescribable.

A near howl escapes your bitten lips as you crumple towards the floor, only for Damian to catch you in his arms, down on his knees in front of you. Your fingers grip tight around his wrists, steading yourself as your vision blurs in and out. By the time you've strained your neck to look back up at him, you see the pain contorting his expression, wiping it loose of all composure.

"I—I'm okay." You breathe out, even as you can feel how cold and clammy your skin has become.

He doesn't answer. He merely stares, a rush of emotions flooding too fast through his mind for you to read, before it falters. His grip is your only anchor, but he's trembling too.

"This isn't a good sign." He states, dread falling over his features. "You must return, soon."

"So, you're saying—" You recall his words faintly. "The longer I stay in this dimension, my body will begin to disintegrate?"

Those technical words, theories that sound ridiculous on paper, thread thinly in a reality where your body was now a self-destructive timer. He gives you a short nod, his dark circles illuminated by the hologram of his research. Despite it being your life on the line, he looks wrecked.

What had started out as a happy night, ended with the reminder that you're not only endangering yourself but him. He's faced losing you once, and your existence in this dimension that should have never happened—he might go through it all over again if you don't find the portal in time.

"Damian." You call out, spotting the weak composure he's trying to display. "Look at me."

He refuses to listen, or maybe, he's completely blocked everything out with his gaze trained on the coordinates and running calculations. Standing up from the couch, you move slowly towards him to not startle him. Your hand briefly touches his arm, and he flinches.

"Damian, we've been over this." You speak as calmly as you can. "There's no opening unless it's opened from my side."

"Then, why hasn't he done it?" He snaps.

You blink, taken aback by his reaction.

"I can't—" He swallows, jaw clenched as he stares at you with a raw agony. One he's been hiding from you since you arrived, that you had caught a brief glimpse of when he first embraced you in his panic. "I won't fail you again. I refuse to."

"Damian." Your brows furrow, hands intertwining with his to force him to feel your touch. "I need you to breathe."

His chest heaves, and you recognise a panic attack before he's even verbalised it. Pulling him towards the sofa, you force him to sit, hands still connected with his.

"It isn't fair." Damian shakes his head. "Nothing ever is. Either way, it feels as if I'm losing you all over again."

Your breath trembles in his admission, and you can do nothing but sit here and listen.

"It was my fault." He confesses, grief-stricken. "A mission gone wrong—and my arrogance. I had overestimated the ambush, and we were cornered."

His body goes still as he drowns in his memory. "You hadn't hesitated stepping in the way. I could do nothing but watch."

"I am unworthy for many things." His voice lowers, with such an encompassing belief in his words. "But not being able to save you? That is a punishment I will never recover from."

"To lose you again." He mutters, broken. "I won't know what to do."

"Damian." You whisper. "I'm scared too."

He looks up at you then, and tears are welled in the corners of his lashes.

"But I'm glad." You emphasise, squeezing his hand. "That it's you, that you're the one here with me."

He blinks, barely able to process your words. "Why?"

"Because you have been by my side, from the moment I arrived." You answer genuinely. "Even if it hurts you, and I know it does. You stuck around, and you got to know me. You didn't have to do that, not when it costs you everything to do so."

He swallows, his expression shattered as he listens.

"I would have never known this side of you, if you hadn't found me." You push forward. "And no matter how terrifying it is to be in a whole other dimension without knowing if I'll make it home, it doesn't change that I'm glad I met you."

He breathes out, as if your words were a sucker-punch to his gut. His eyes trace over your features, a hidden longing unravelling the longer he carried out his intent focus, wanting to capture everything.

"Can I be selfish one more time?" His voice is a quiet plea, and you don't resist to how weak it renders you.

You nod gently.

Leaning in, his fingers tremble as he reaches up to brush away a stray strand from your cheek. His warmth lingers over your skin, eventually brushing over your cheekbone as his gaze pours into you. He looks at you the same way he had countless times before, and you had never been able to put it to words. Till now.

When his lips touch yours, it feels like a goodbye. A wish made impossible, fulfilled for only a mere moment. It's softer than you ever expected, gentle in a way you had never been treated from anyone else before.

When you open your eyes, you watch his expression carefully draw back into his composure. He's doing it for you, picking up the pieces that's broken so you won't have to face it.

"Let's get you home." He promises, and you believe it.

As the days pass by, with your body experiencing more frequent glitches, Damian's kindness runs a deeper wound above your heart. Whenever you insist that you're fine so he can focus on his work—he merely accompanies you by your side like some personal torture he inflicts on himself. Whenever your body seizes into another episode, split between the fractures of reality—he's there, waiting for you to reach for him so you can feel real again.

He listens with a seared focus now whenever you tell him stories, of yourself—of your world, like he's running out of time. You both are.

It's the seventh day, when the daily scans of the construction site run by Damian finally begin to detect increasing abnormal activity from where you landed.

"The debris movement seems to reverse every time I run the scan." He mutters. "As if there's a disruption in the space."

You swallow dryly, eyeing the replay he's showing you. "Do you think it could mean.."

"Yes, I'm certain." Damian nods firmly. "The portal is being triggered on the other side. The only concern now is when we should be at the site."

This... is it. Despite everything you've prepared and anticipated for, the obvious fact that you should be relieved you have a chance of making it home—the realisation comes with a bitter-sweet note.

Damian doesn't comment further past the facts. He merely focuses on the hologram screen, inputting commands to verify an estimate window to make rounds at the construction site. Despite calling himself selfish, you had never seen him so composed, silent on his true thoughts of this discovery.

"In two days." He answers, staring unblinkingly at the figure. "We won't miss it."

That settles it. In two days... you're going home.

"I hate waiting."

"I am aware." Damian murmurs.

"Stop agreeing with me." You sigh.

"Alright."

Your head snaps, an unamused expression taking over your features.

His gaze flickers from his device to meet yours briefly, and his lips quirk up slightly. "Sorry." His voice doesn't sound apologetic at all. "You've made it too easy."

You can't help but scoff, chin leaning against his shoulder. "This is worse than the glitches."

"Have I mentioned that you're a horrible liar?" He mocks.

"Numerous times." You hum, eyeing the scan with a narrowed glance. "What if your calculations are wrong?"

"I ran over them one thousand and fifty-three times." He frowns. "The chance for error are near zero."

"Wow, from the looks of it—you seem rather eager to get rid of me." You tease.

"Was I that obvious?" He shrugs.

"Who's the bad liar now?" You tease.

He opens his mouth, ready to produce some quick retort—but something catches his eye.

Shifting your gaze to follow his, you catch movement from where the ground had been stagnant. The rubble—is beginning to move in an anti-clockwise direction.

"Now." Damian stands abruptly, a hand wrapping around your waist to lift you to your feet.

The shift in the atmosphere as a distant rumbling occurrs beneath your feet, it's much more aggressive than you expected. Damian tugs you back, just in time before a fracture cracks in the ground.

"The portal." You recognise, eyeing the glow beneath the fissure, something dreadfully familiar.

Your breath is almost winded, coming up short as you stare at the formation in trembling anticipation. Your gaze whips to Damian, your heart slamming against your ribcage—only for your words to fail you when you meet his expression.

Broken, that's all you saw. The same way he had seemed when you first met him.

"Damian." You call out, hesitant, but he shakes his head.

"I never got to tell you." He starts.

Your brows furrow. He had been nothing but honest since you got here. There isn’t a wound that he hasn’t uncovered in front of you, no vulnerability he hasn’t revealed. You know him, because he had let you.

"I want you to know that I am glad." He confesses, his voice picking up in pace. He sounds terrified that he won't be able to finish what he's started. "That I got to know you. There wasn't a moment where I regretted it, not even for a second."

"I must tell you." His voice cracks. "That I'd choose you, in a hundred lifetimes, no matter what reality, I'd always choose you."

The words are lost on your tongue. I'd choose you too. He has to know, even when the tears well up in your eyes.

He holds you tight, as if he's trying to sear this very embrace into his memory. "At least, I'll know now that somewhere out there, the person I am in your world was able to bring you back. That a version of me didn't lose you."

"I know it's selfish." He whispers. "But I wish I could keep you."

Contrary to his words, he lets go of you the moment he says it, his arms parting from your frame to remain firmly at his side. He's restraining himself, you realise. Damian, the very image of self-control, is barely keeping himself together. He’s letting you go, and in doing so, he’s saving you.

"Thank you." He murmurs in goodbye, casting you a solemn smile. "For sparing me the mercy of meeting you again."

"I hope he understands just how fortunate he is." A bittersweet smile graces his lips. "That he'll cherish you, and protect you always."

You think you ask him to wait. For more time. You remember briefly on how your hand extended towards him, before the portal had pulled you in. It was silent after that, and the loss of something indescribable hits you by the time the world comes back—roaring to life.

Tumbling onto the ground, you choke out a breath, saliva coating your lips as your fingers press numbly into the ground.

You're home. A quick glimpse of your surroundings is enough to confirm the familiar machinery, the abandoned lab. Yet, flashes of Damian's unmoving gaze before his frame completely disappeared, staring at you like he wanted to commit you to memory.

How could he have called it mercy, when he was so shattered?

Your tears slipped, and you feel a strange gap in your chest.

A rushed call of your name echoes before you can even name the emotion that consumes you. The syllables barely forms in your mind, as your head whips up in a daze. Your tear-stained expression is broken, completely unhidden—when you see Damian. Your Damian.

"Damian." Your voice croaks out. The name sounds strange on your tongue.

He freezes, unsure on how to process this version of you. Whatever he expected when he got you back, he must've never anticipated this. The version that has just lost him, and a part of you always will.

Pushing yourself to your feet, you stumble in your steps before collapsing into him. You're convinced he'll push you away, as he always does.

What you didn't expect was the steady warmth of his arms wrapping around you. Tense, but protective—as if he were trying to fend off the inner turmoil that's consuming you.

"It's alright." He mutters, voice stiff but his grip doesn't falter. "You're safe. I am here."

That breaks a silent sob out of you, and you bury your face into his chest. He doesn't push you for answers, nor does he distance himself. He remains planted exactly where he is, grounding you with his presence while you mourned for something that should have never been yours, and what you should have never lost.

He is embracing you so tight, it gave you a violent sense of déjà vu. The lines are blurring, and you can't find it in yourself to be angry when you know you should be.

"I am sorry." He mutters, voice breaking in composure. "I did this—I am sorry. I failed you."

"No, you didn't." You answer, your voice hoarse. "You brought me back."

It was the truth, broken into a hundred pieces.

In time, you will tell him. Of how he protected you even in another dimension. Of how that version of him will forever know that in another reality, he had saved you. That there was a Damian who didn't experience losing you.

Of how you'll never forget him. Even when he's out of bounds, but forever engraved into your existence, a memory that should have never existed.

But for now, you'll let yourself rest, knowing that you're home.

likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333

[extra pov] - alt! damian + reader’s damian after her return

dc masterlist -> damian + other dc works

There was an extra blanket folded on the back of his couch. Not his. Too soft. Too carefully mended. There were two takeout containers in the fridge when he remembered ordering only one. His emergency medkit had a roll of purple bandages tucked behind the gauze, even though he would rather die twice than buy purple bandages.

And then there were the notes.

Not the mission notes. Not the threat maps. Not the case files in his awful, blocky handwriting.

These were smaller. Written on receipts. Napkins. The inside of his wrist. Once, scratched into the dust on his windowsill.

Don’t look away. Blue mug. You’re forgetting someone. Forget-me-not.

The last one bothered him most.

Not because he knew what it meant.

Because he didn’t.

And somehow, somehow, that felt worse.

You met Jason Todd when he was thirteen and hungry enough to bite the hand that helped him.

He had been trying to steal the tyres off a parked car behind the community centre. You had been sitting on the fire escape above him, eating the last half of a bruised apple and watching him work with the grim focus of a surgeon.

“You’re doing that wrong,” you said.

Jason jerked so hard he hit his head on the bumper.

“Shut up,” he snapped, looking up at you with a tyre iron in his hand and fury in his eyes.

You took another bite of the apple. “I’m just saying. If you loosen the lug nuts before jacking it up, it’s easier.”

His glare sharpened. “You a cop?”

“I’m thirteen.”

“So?”

That had been the first time you laughed at him.

Jason had scowled like you’d personally offended his bloodline, but he didn’t leave. He stayed under that fire escape while you climbed down. He pretended not to listen while you told him which cars had alarms and which didn’t. You pretended not to notice when he pocketed the apple core after you tossed it aside.

After that, Jason was everywhere.

The alley behind the centre. The library steps. The roof of the old laundromat, where the neon sign flickered all night like a dying star. You shared stolen sandwiches, stolen books, stolen hours. He read too fast and argued with every author as if they were personally wronging him.

He liked Austen and denied it with violence in his eyes. He liked Shakespeare but said Hamlet needed to “get over himself.”

He liked you. Not that either of you said it.

Back then, love was a luxury item locked behind glass. You had friendship, which was safer. Friendship meant stealing gloves for each other in winter. Friendship meant pretending not to be scared when sirens got close. Friendship meant Jason showing up at your window one night with split knuckles and saying, “Don’t ask,” and you letting him in anyway.

Then Bruce Wayne took him in. Then Robin happened. Then the Joker happened.

Then Jason died.

And you learned the hard way that some people could leave the world and still haunt every room in it.

For years, Jason was a grave you visited without flowers because flowers felt too soft for him. Too delicate. Jason had been fire and teeth and a laugh like a match struck in the dark.

Then he came back. Older. Broader. Angry in ways that had edges. Red helmet. Guns. Ghost-green rage burning behind his eyes.

The first time he saw you after his resurrection, he froze so completely you thought the world had glitched.

You were standing in the rain outside an all-night bodega, one hand around a bag of groceries, the other around your keys like a weapon. Gotham rain slicked his leather jacket black. The red helmet stared at you from across the sidewalk.

Then he took it off.

And there he was.

Jason Todd. Dead boy. Living man. Your impossible.

You dropped the groceries.

He said your name like it hurt him.

You punched him in the chest so hard your knuckles ached.

He let you. Then he pulled you into his arms, and for one impossible second, the years folded like paper. You were thirteen again. He smelled like rain and gunpowder and something warm under all the war.

“You died,” you said into his jacket.

“I got better,” he rasped.

You hit him again.

He laughed. You cried.

Neither of you talked about the fact that he held you like someone who had been buried with your name still in his mouth.

The powers came later. Not from a glowing meteor. Not from a dramatic curse. Not from some poetic bargain with the universe.

They came from a warehouse in the Bowery and a group of men who thought memory could be weaponised.

You weren’t supposed to be there. That was the stupidest part. The most Gotham part. You were walking home from a late shift when someone grabbed you off the street because you saw a van door open and a girl inside with tape over her mouth.

You remembered screaming. You remembered a needle. You remembered white rooms underground, men in masks, machines that hummed like insects behind your skull.

They called the project Mnemosyne. They called you Subject Nine. They said things like “retention instability” and “observer-dependent identity collapse” while you were strapped to a chair with blood drying behind your ear.

You broke out during an explosion. Or maybe someone broke you out. It got hazy after the alarms. Smoke. Red emergency lights. Your own heartbeat clawing up your throat.

You found the girl from the van. You got her out. You ran until your lungs shredded.

On the street, under the flicker of a broken lamppost, she turned to you with wide, terrified eyes.

“You saved me,” she said.

Then a car backfired. She looked away. When she looked back, her face emptied.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

At first, you thought it was shock.

Then the paramedics came. You tried to tell them your name. One looked down to write it.

When he lifted his eyes, he frowned. “Sorry, are you family?”

You backed away.

Police arrived. Someone put a blanket around your shoulders, then turned to answer a question, then forgot why the blanket was there.

By morning, every record from the warehouse was gone. Every witness forgot you existed the moment they stopped seeing you. Security footage blurred around your body like reality had rubbed you out with a thumb.

You ran to the only person you trusted.

Jason.

He lived in a safehouse above a closed pawn shop then. Third floor. Reinforced door. Two locks, one electronic keypad, one old-school deadbolt because Jason trusted steel more than software.

You still knew the code. You shouldn’t have.

You entered shaking, half-starved, wearing a stolen hoodie and shoes that didn’t fit. Jason was in the kitchen cleaning a gun.

He looked up. For one second, he was your Jason.

His eyes widened. “Hey—what the hell happened to you?”

You nearly collapsed from relief. “Jay,” you choked.

He crossed the room fast, gun abandoned on the counter. His hands hovered over you like he wanted to check for injuries but didn’t know where to start.

“Talk to me,” he said, voice going low and urgent. “Who did this?”

You tried. You told him about the warehouse. The machines. The girl. The paramedics. The way people’s memories slid off you like rain off glass.

Jason listened. Jason believed you. Of course he did. Jason had crawled out of his own grave. Gotham had taught both of you that impossible was usually just Tuesday wearing a fake moustache.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay. We figure it out. Babs can look into missing footage. I’ll call—”

He turned toward the counter for his phone.

You felt it happen.

Not saw it. Not heard it.

Felt it. Like a hook in your chest going slack.

“Jason,” you said quickly.

He stopped. His shoulders went rigid. Slowly, he reached for the gun.

“Who the hell are you?” he asked.

The room dropped out from under you. “Jay.”

He spun, weapon raised.

The barrel pointed at your chest.

You forgot how to breathe.

“Don’t call me that,” he said. His voice was ice over panic. “How did you get in here?”

“Jason, please. Look at me.”

“I am looking at you.”

“No, I mean—don’t look away.”

His grip tightened. His eyes were sharp, scanning you like a threat map. “Answer the question.”

“You know me.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.” Your voice broke. “You do, Jason. We grew up together. You stole tyres behind the community centre. You loved Pride and Prejudice and threatened to burn my shoes if I told anyone. You came to my window after Willis—”

“Shut up.”

“You died and came back and found me outside the bodega. I punched you. You said you got better.”

His face changed. It was tiny. A crack in the armour. A twitch near his mouth. His eyes searched yours like something in him had heard a song through a wall.

“I don’t know you,” he said, but the words had lost their teeth.

“You do.”

His breathing got rough. “You’re lying.”

“I wish I were.”

For a second, you thought you had him. For a second, Jason lowered the gun.

Then something clattered in the hallway outside.

His gaze snapped to the door.

When he looked back—

Nothing. Blankness. Threat.

Gun up.

“Last chance,” he said. “Who are you?”

That was the first time Jason Todd forgot you.

It was not the last.

Loneliness became logistical. 

That was the cruel joke of it. Everyone imagined loneliness as candlelight and rain on windows and tragic music swelling in the distance. Very cinematic. Very marketable. Total scam.

Real loneliness was trying to rent a room from someone who forgot you halfway through handing over the keys. It was ordering food and watching the cashier blink at you because they’d turned to grab your drink. It was the doctors forgetting why you were in the exam room. Bus drivers demanding fare twice. Landlords calling the cops on “an intruder” inside the apartment you had paid for with cash they no longer remembered receiving.

It was learning not to cry in public because strangers would panic at the sight of tears on a face they couldn’t place.

You became a ghost with a pulse.

Worse, actually. Ghosts were remembered.

You tried recording yourself. The video showed you clearly until anyone else watched it. Then their eyes slipped away from the screen. Later, they couldn’t recall what they’d seen.

You tried writing notes. People could read them. They could understand the words. But the moment they looked away from the paper, the context dissolved.

You know me, you wrote once on Jason’s door.

He opened it, read the note, frowned, and looked down the hall.

You were standing right there.

He raised his gun before you could say hello.

Again. And again. And again.

The third time, he had a bruise on his jaw and blood on his collar. You had come because you’d heard gunfire from three blocks away and still knew his patrol routes like a prayer you’d never stopped saying.

You slipped in through the window.

“Behind you,” you said softly.

Jason turned, pistol already in hand.

You didn’t flinch fast enough. The gun pressed under your chin.

His eyes were green-blue violence. “You’ve got five seconds.”

You stared at him. Jason stared back.

Something inside him trembled.

Not his hand. Jason’s hands were steady. Always steady.

But his face. His face did something devastating.

It softened with confusion.

“You’re crying,” he said.

“I know.”

“Why?”

“Because you keep forgetting me.”

His finger shifted away from the trigger. “Do I know you?”

“Yes.”

He swallowed. “I feel like I do.”

That hurt worse than the gun.

You almost laughed. It came out broken. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said, quieter. “That’s the problem.”

You gave him facts.

You learned to weaponise intimacy. Not the pretty kind. The surgical kind. Details sharp enough to cut through the fog.

“You hate peas but pretend it’s ideological.” A blink. “You read the ending of books first when you’re scared the dog dies.” His jaw tightened. “You called me after your first nightmare when you came back. You didn’t say anything for eight minutes. I stayed on the line.”

His hand lowered.

“You remember?” you asked.

“No.” His voice sounded scraped raw. “But I believe you.”

Then he looked down at the gun in his hand.

Gone.

His expression hardened.

“Don’t move.”

You moved.

Not toward him.

Away. Out the window. Across the roof. Into the night.

Jason shouted after you, but you knew by the time he reached the fire escape, he would not remember why he was running.

Jason started hunting a ghost.

He didn’t know that was what he was doing. He called it a case because that made sense. Cases had suspects, evidence, motive. Cases could be solved with enough pressure, enough blood, enough stubborn refusal to sleep.

There was someone in his safehouses. Someone who knew his codes. Someone who cleaned his wounds when he passed out bleeding on his bathroom floor, because he woke up bandaged in purple wrap and furious about the tenderness of it. Someone who kept leaving food. Someone who had patched a bullet hole in his jacket by hand.

Someone who knew him. Someone he kept forgetting.

It made him meaner than usual, which was honestly saying something.

“Maybe it’s a stalker,” Tim said one night over comms.

Jason was crouched on a rooftop, watching a weapons deal go sideways in the alley below. “Thanks, Replacement. Stellar detective work. You crack that case with your enormous brain, or did the coffee tell you?”

“Your emotional repression is showing.”

“Your face is showing.”

“My camera’s off.”

“I can sense it.”

Oracle cut in. “Children.”

“He started it,” Jason said.

“I’m an adult,” Tim said.

“Emotionally? Twelve.”

Oracle sighed. “Jason, about your ghost.”

“Not a ghost.”

“You have described them as appearing, disappearing, bypassing security, and leaving cryptic notes. That is at least ghost-adjacent.”

Jason hated that she sounded amused.

“They’re a person,” he said.

The words came out too fast. Silence hit comms.

Then Dick, because apparently everyone was on this channel now, said, “You sound sure.”

Jason aimed down his rifle scope. “I am sure.”

“Why?”

He didn’t answer.

Because he didn’t know. Because sometimes he woke up with grief in his throat and a name already gone from his tongue. Because he caught himself buying your favourite candy and had no memory of learning you liked it.

Because once, half-asleep and feverish, he had reached across his bed like someone belonged there.

Because every time he found one of those notes, something in him whispered, Don’t lose them again.

Again.

That was the word that haunted him.

Again.

You watched him from a distance because love made you stupid.

That was the ugly truth.

You should have left Gotham. You tried, once. Got as far as Blüdhaven before realising the city forgot you, too, only with worse parking.

You came back.

For Jason. Because he was reckless. Because he bled too much. Because he left windows unlocked without meaning to.

Because some part of you still belonged to the boy under the fire escape, the one who took your advice and pretended he hadn’t, the one who looked at you like you were something worth surviving for.

You were in love with him. You had been for years, probably.

Maybe since the laundromat roof. Maybe since he read aloud to you from Persuasion and claimed it was “for the bit.” Maybe since he came back from the dead and said your name like it was the one thing the grave hadn’t taken.

You loved him. And Jason kept aiming guns at you.

Honestly? This is how Gotham did romance. Absolute trash fire. Zero stars. Would still haunt again.

The worst time happened in his apartment.

Not a safehouse. His actual apartment. The one with books stacked everywhere and a couch too ugly to be ironic. The one place you had never entered without permission.

But he had been hurt. Badly.

You found him by following blood drops up the stairwell. His door was ajar. His helmet lay cracked near the entryway.

Jason was on the floor. Unconscious.

For one terrible second, he looked dead again.

You made a sound you didn’t recognise.

Then you moved.

You stitched the knife wound in his side with shaking hands. Cleaned blood from his ribs. Checked his pupils. Sat beside him for hours, terrified that if you looked away from him, you would forget yourself too.

At dawn, he woke with a gasp.

His hand shot under the pillow.

You caught his wrist. “Jay, it’s me.”

His eyes focused.

He froze. His body knew you before his mind did. You felt it in the way his wrist slackened under your fingers. The way his breathing changed. The way his gaze dropped to your mouth and back up again with the stunned, aching recognition of someone seeing sunrise after years underground.

“You,” he whispered.

Hope was cruel.

You should have known better.

“Yeah,” you said.

His brows pulled together. “I was dreaming about you.”

Your heart cracked open. “What did you dream?”

His eyes didn’t leave your face. “Rain. A bodega. You were mad at me.”

“I was.”

“Why?”

“You died.”

A faint, pained smile touched his mouth. “Sounds like me.”

You laughed through the tears before you could stop yourself.

Jason stared at you like the sound had punched him.

“Don’t do that,” he said.

“What?”

“Laugh like I should know it.”

You looked down. His fingers shifted under yours. Not pulling away. Holding on.

“I’m trying,” he said.

“I know.”

“No.” His voice dropped, rough and desperate. “You don’t. I keep finding—things. Notes. Food. Bandages. I keep waking up feeling like somebody carved out half my chest and didn’t leave a scar.” His hand tightened around yours. “I don’t know you, but I miss you.”

You stopped breathing.

Jason’s eyes burned. “How the hell do I miss someone I don’t know?”

“Because you did know me.”

He stared.

“You were my best friend,” you said. “Before Bruce. Before Robin. Before the grave. Before all this.”

His expression shattered so quietly you almost missed it.

“Best friend,” he repeated.

“Yeah.”

Something unbearably soft moved across his face.

“And now?”

The question hung between you.

Now, you thought, I love you so much it’s ruining me.

Now, you thought, I would let you forget me forever if it meant you stayed alive.

Now, you thought, I am so tired.

You opened your mouth.

A crash sounded from the fire escape.

Jason turned. Just a glance. Just instinct.

Just enough.

When he looked back, he ripped his hand from yours like he’d been burned.

Gun out. Pointed at your heart.

You stood slowly.

His stitches pulled. He hissed.

“Stay back,” he snapped.

“Jason.”

“Who are you?”

Your whole body went cold.

Not because he had forgotten.

You were used to that by now.

Because this time, you had almost told him. This time, he had almost asked. This time, the universe had yanked the leash before either of you could cross the line.

You raised your hands.

Jason’s eyes flickered to the blood on your fingers.

His blood.

Your hands.

His gun.

“Did you do this to me?” he demanded.

That one broke you.

You left without answering.

After that, you stopped going to him. For three weeks, you did the closest thing to healing you knew how to do.

You disappeared on purpose.

No rooftops. No safehouses. No slipping through Jason’s window to check if he was sleeping. No leaving food. No purple bandages. No notes.

You found an abandoned greenhouse behind an old school in Burnley and made it yours. The glass roof was cracked, but enough panes remained to catch the winter light. Wild vines had claimed the walls. Broken pots littered the floor. In the back, under a rusted table, you found a tray of dead seedlings with faded labels.

Basil. Thyme. Forget-me-not.

The last one made you sit down hard.

Of course. Gotham had a sense of humour, and it was evil.

You stole soil. Seeds. Bottled water. A blanket. Cans of soup. You built a life out of scraps because that was what you had always done.

Then you practised.

At first, you didn’t know what practising meant. How did you control being forgotten? How did you command absence? How did you hold your own shape inside other people’s minds when your power made you slippery as smoke?

So you started with objects.

You put a cracked mirror on the table and stared at yourself.

“My name is…” You said your name.

The mirror held you.

You looked away.

Looked back.

Still there.

“Okay,” you whispered. “Great. Congrats. Object permanence, but traumatic.”

You laughed. It sounded awful.

Next, you tried with birds.

Pigeons nested in the rafters. They remembered food, at least. Or maybe they remembered patterns. You put seeds in the same place every morning. They flew away when you moved, then came back.

They did not know you. But they trusted the shape of your kindness.

That became the first lesson.

Memory was not just a face.

It was pattern. It was feeling. It was the body recognising safety before the mind could name it.

Jason’s body had known you. That meant something.

So you practised being more than sight. You recorded your voice and listened until you could hold yourself steady through the playback.

You wrote your name on your skin.

You held your own gaze in the mirror and said, “I am here,” until the words stopped feeling like a plea and started feeling like an order.

The power fought you. It wanted collapse. It wanted erasure. It wanted to fold you into the blind spot of the world.

You fought back.

Some days, you lost. Some days, you lay on the greenhouse floor with dirt under your nails and cried so hard your ribs ached.

Some days, you hated Jason for forgetting. Then you hated yourself for hating him. Then you hated the men who had done this.

Then you hated the world because it kept spinning, rude and bright and busy, while you became a rumour no one could keep.

But slowly, slowly, something changed.

A pigeon looked away from you. Looked back.

Didn’t startle.

You sobbed over that bird like it had handed you the moon.

The next week, a stray cat remembered where your hand was.

Then an old woman at a corner store frowned at you after turning away to count change and said, “Didn’t you already pay?”

You almost kissed her.

You didn’t, because boundaries. Also, she had a broom.

Control came like sunrise through fog.

Not all at once. Not enough.

But real.

You learned that fear made the forgetting worse. Panic scattered you. Shame erased your edges.

Calm helped. Touch helped. Names helped.

Love—

Love did something strange.

You didn’t know how to test that.

Not without Jason.

Jason did not handle your absence well. 

He would have denied that under oath, threat, torture, and probably alien mind probe.

But he was falling apart in practical, masculine, deeply embarrassing ways.

He stopped sleeping. He stopped cooking. He started tearing apart old case files from the Bowery, hunting for Mnemosyne, Subject Nine, memory tech, missing witnesses, anything.

He found nothing.

That was impossible. Nothing in Gotham left nothing behind.

So he dug deeper. Black Mask whispers. Penguin shipments. Old Cadmus shell companies. Court of Owls banking ghosts. He kicked down doors and broke fingers and followed the absence like it was blood.

Every trail ended in static.

Except one.

A flower. Pressed between the pages of a book he did not remember buying.

A tiny blue forget-me-not.

Beside it, in handwriting he recognised as his own:

They loved these.

Jason stared at the note until the words blurred.

A person. His person.

The thought slammed through him so hard he had to sit down.

His person.

He didn’t remember your face. He didn’t remember your name.

But grief had weight. Love had gravity. Whatever had been taken from him had left a crater.

Jason touched the dried flower with one finger.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to someone he couldn’t remember.

The apartment stayed quiet.

No answer. No laugh. No soft footsteps behind him.

For reasons he could not explain, that was when he broke.

Not loudly. Jason did not break like glass. He broke like a building condemned quietly from the inside.

He pressed the heel of his hand to his eye.

And cried.

You returned because Jason found the warehouse.

Of course he did.

You heard about it from two men in an alley who forgot you while you were standing between them. They were nervous. Talking too much. Red Hood had been asking questions. Red Hood had found the old Mnemosyne site. Red Hood was going to get himself killed because subtlety had never met that man and lived.

You went cold all over.

The warehouse was not empty.

They had rebuilt underneath it. New locks. New guards. New machines humming beneath the concrete.

And Jason had walked right in.

By the time you arrived, the place was already burning. Gunfire cracked below. Alarms shrieked. Smoke rolled through the stairwell.

You moved through it like a ghost, because that was what they had made you. Men looked away and lost you. Cameras blurred. Guards shouted at shadows.

Then you heard Jason scream.

Not in fear.

In rage.

That was worse.

You found him in the central lab, chained to a metal chair under a halo of white lights. His helmet was gone. Blood ran from his temple. Electrodes clung to his skin.

A man in a lab coat stood beside a console.

“You are fascinating,” he said to Jason. “Repeated exposure to the anomaly has created subconscious retention pathways. Emotional memory without declarative recall. Remarkable.”

Jason spat blood on the floor. “You talk like a Wikipedia page grew legs and got bullied.”

God, you loved him.

The scientist sighed.

“You keep searching for them,” he said. “Even when you cannot remember who they are. The attachment survives erasure. We need to know why.”

Jason’s head lifted. Something terrible moved through his face.

“Them,” he said.

The scientist smiled.

“Ah,” he said. “There it is.”

You stepped into the room.

The scientist turned. His eyes landed on you.

Recognition flared—not of you, but of his experiment.

“Subject Nine,” he breathed.

Jason looked at you.

Everything stopped.

He stared like a starving man seeing food. Like an injured animal seeing home. Like a boy under a fire escape looking up at someone who knew which cars had alarms.

“You,” he whispered.

You held his gaze. “Hi, Jay.”

His breathing shook.

The scientist reached for a switch.

You moved first.

You were not a vigilante. Not really. You didn’t have armour or training from assassins or a dramatic cape. But you had survived Gotham. You had survived being erased. You had survived Jason Todd’s gun pointed at your heart more times than anyone should.

So you picked up a metal tray and hit the scientist in the face with it.

He dropped like a sack of bad decisions.

Jason blinked. 

You froze.

No. No, not now.

His eyes closed for half a second from blood loss and pain.

When they opened, panic flickered there.

Not blankness.

Panic.

“Don’t go,” he said.

You nearly dropped the tray. “You remember?”

“No.” His voice cracked. “Yes. I don’t—stay where I can see you.”

You rushed to him and started working on the restraints.

His hands were shaking. Jason Todd’s hands were shaking.

“Look at me,” you said.

“I am.”

“Keep looking.”

“Not a hardship,” he rasped.

“Jason.”

“What? You’re pretty. I’m concussed. Let me have this.”

You laughed, breathless and wrecked. His eyes filled with something like wonder.

“I know that laugh,” he whispered.

Your hands stilled.

“I know it.”

The restraints snapped open. Jason sagged forward. You caught him. His forehead dropped against your shoulder, and for one impossible second, he simply breathed you in.

Then the door opened.

Three guards rushed in.

Jason’s instincts took over.

He turned.

“No!” you shouted.

The forgetting hit like a wave.

You felt it tearing at the room, at him, at the fragile thread between your mind and his.

Not again.

Not again.

Something in you rose up.

Not fear. Not grief.

Fury.

You were tired of being stolen.

You grabbed Jason’s face between both hands and forced him back toward you.

“Remember me,” you said.

The lights flickered. The air bent. Jason’s pupils blew wide.

You felt the power twist, searching for absence, searching for the old path out.

You refused it.

“I am here,” you said, voice shaking. “I am real. You know me. You loved me before you had words for it. You found me in the rain. You forgot me with a gun in your hand, and I still came back because I am apparently an idiot with catastrophic taste in men.”

Jason made a strangled sound.

The guards shouted.

You did not look away.

“You are Jason Peter Todd,” you said through tears. “You hate peas. You love books. You died and came back wrong and still tried to be good even when you didn’t believe you were. You were my best friend. You are the love of my life. And I am done being erased.”

The room went silent.

Not actually. The alarms still screamed. The guards still moved. Fire still ate through the walls.

But inside the circle of Jason’s gaze, silence bloomed.

Blue and bright. Forget-me-not.

Jason stared at you.

Then, slowly, impossibly, he said your name.

You broke.

Jason caught you with one arm and raised his gun with the other.

He did not point it at you.

He pointed it past you.

“Hey,” he said to the guards, voice low and murderously calm. “You interrupted something important.”

The fight lasted forty-seven seconds. Jason was injured, half-electrocuted, and running on spite, which, unfortunately for everyone else, was his most renewable energy source. You helped by making yourself difficult to track, appearing in blind spots, knocking guns aside, and turning absence into a weapon instead of a wound.

When it was over, Jason leaned against the console, breathing hard.

You stood in front of him.

He looked at you. Then, deliberately, he turned his head away.

Your heart stopped.

“Jason—”

He looked back.

His face crumpled.

Still there. Still seeing you. Still knowing.

“Oh,” you whispered.

Jason laughed once, broken and disbelieving.

Then he reached for you.

You met him halfway.

The kiss was not graceful. There was blood on his mouth and smoke in your lungs. His hand shook against the back of your neck. You were crying too hard to breathe properly. It was a terrible first kiss, technically speaking.

It was also perfect.

Jason kissed you like a memory returning to a body. Like a vow. Like a wound finally closing.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“I forgot you,” he said.

“Not on purpose.”

“I pointed guns at you.”

“Yeah.” You swallowed. “We’re going to unpack that. Emotionally. Extensively. Possibly with yelling.”

His mouth twitched. “Fair.”

“You scared me.”

His face went hollow with guilt. “I know.”

“No, you don’t.” You touched his jaw. “But you will.”

Jason nodded. No defense. No deflection. No joke sharp enough to hide behind.

Just Jason.

Your Jason.

“I’ll remember,” he said.

The words trembled.

You believed him.

Recovery was not pretty. It did not arrive in one cinematic montage where sunlight poured through windows and everything healed because love had entered the chat.

Love helped.

Love was not a cure.

There were still bad days.

Some mornings, Jason woke up reaching for a gun because you were in his kitchen and his brain stuttered before recognition landed. He never pointed it at you again, but the reach was enough to make you go quiet.

He hated himself for that. You hated the flinch.

You both learned to survive the aftermath.

He started sleeping with his weapons locked away when you stayed over. You started announcing yourself before entering rooms.

He put your name in his phone with a blue heart beside it and stared at it so often you threatened to change it to Emotional Support Cryptid.

He said, “Do it, and I’ll make yours Haunting Me Professionally.”

You changed it immediately.

Jason laughed for a full minute.

The first time he left the room and remembered you when he came back, he cried in the hallway before opening the door.

You pretended not to notice. He knew you noticed.

He loved you for pretending.

The Bats took it with varying levels of grace.

Dick hugged you, forgot you when he turned to yell for Bruce, then turned back and screamed. Tim started wearing a body camera and taking notes with alarming intensity.

Damian narrowed his eyes and said, “Your condition is inconvenient.”

You said, “So is your personality, but here we are.”

Jason laughed so hard he had to sit down.

Damian remembered you after that. Pure spite, apparently, was also a memory anchor. 

Bruce was the hardest.

Not because he forgot.

Because he looked at Jason after remembering enough and said, quietly, “You’ve been grieving someone.”

Jason’s face closed.

You reached for his hand. Jason let you.

“Yeah,” he said. “I was.”

Bruce looked at your joined hands. Then at you.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

And maybe he forgot the exact shape of you when he looked away.

But he remembered Jason holding on.

That was enough for now.

Months later, the greenhouse bloomed.

You brought Jason there on a Sunday morning, when Gotham was pretending to be gentle.

The forget-me-nots had grown wild in the back, tiny blue flowers spilling from cracked pots, stubborn and bright against the ruin.

Jason stood under the broken glass roof with his hands in his jacket pockets.

“Subtle,” he said.

You nudged him. “Shut up.”

He looked down at the flowers. Then at you.

He did that a lot now. Looked at you.

Not out of fear. Not because he had to.

Because he wanted to. Because every glance was proof.

“You know,” he said, “I used to think I was haunted.”

“You were.”

“Rude.”

“You left notes to yourself about me. That’s haunting behaviour.”

“I was being investigative.”

“You wrote ‘blue mug’ on your arm.”

“Important clue.”

“You cried over a flower.”

Jason pointed at you. “That information was shared in confidence.”

You smiled.

His expression softened.

“I missed you,” he said.

The air changed.

You looked at him.

Jason swallowed, but he didn’t look away.

“I didn’t know your name. Didn’t know your face. But I missed you all the time.” His voice roughened. “There was this… space. Everywhere. In my apartment. In my bed. In my head. Like my life had been built around someone, and then the world took them out but left the shape behind.”

Your eyes burned. “Jay.”

“I think some part of me knew,” he said. “Even when I forgot. Even when I was scared. Even when I—” His jaw tightened. “Even when I hurt you.”

You stepped closer.

“You didn’t stop loving me,” you said softly. “You just couldn’t remember where the love was supposed to go.”

Jason’s face broke open.

“Yeah,” he whispered.

You took his hand. He held on carefully, like you were both precious and real.

“I love you,” he said.

You had imagined those words so many times that they should have felt familiar.

They didn’t. They felt new. They felt like sun through cracked glass.

“I love you too,” you said.

Jason smiled. Small. Shy. Devastating.

Then he turned away.

Only for a second. Only to look at the flowers.

When he looked back, his smile was still there.

So was recognition. So was love.

You exhaled.

Jason squeezed your hand.

“Still here,” he said.

You leaned into him, shoulder against his arm, and looked at the forget-me-nots blooming in the ruins.

“Yeah,” you whispered.

For once, the world remembered you.

That was the first lesson.

The second was that someone always had to catch what was left.

Dick had built a life out of becoming that someone. He caught teammates before they hit concrete. Caught civilians before buildings collapsed. Caught the Titans when they spiralled, caught Bruce when he vanished too far inside the Bat, caught Jason’s anger when nobody else could hold it without bleeding, caught Tim’s exhaustion before it became a body bag, caught Damian’s sharp edges and pretended they did not cut.

He smiled. He joked. He opened his arms and made himself the net. It was easier that way.

People trusted nets. People did not ask if nets were tired.

You did, though.

That was one of the first things that unsettled him about you.

You always asked.

“Shoulder?” you said, appearing beside him before he had even fully made it through the medbay doors.

Dick looked down at the red line slicing through his suit, just under the joint. “Hello to you too.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Is it the shoulder?”

“It is deeply rude that you know that from ten feet away.”

“It’s my entire thing.”

“Your entire thing is being bossy and magical.”

“My entire thing is healing idiots who think flirting counts as a treatment plan.”

He gasped and pressed his uninjured hand to his chest. “You think I’m flirting?”

“I think you’re bleeding on my floor.”

“That’s not a no.”

You gave him a look.

Dick smiled.

It was easy with you.

That was the problem. Most things with you felt easy, even when they weren’t. Even in the aftermath of horror, with sirens in the distance and smoke still clinging to everyone’s suits, you had a way of lowering the temperature in a room. You came in with steady hands, soft eyes, and a voice like warm water over bruised skin.

You were the Titans’ miracle.

Not that you liked being called that. Gar had tried once, dramatically, from a medbay cot after you healed three cracked ribs and a bruised spleen.

“My angel,” he had declared, one hand thrown over his forehead. “My saviour. My divine little first-aid kit.”

You had thrown a roll of gauze at his head.

Vic had laughed for a full minute.

Kory had kissed your cheek in gratitude.

Raven had watched you with that quiet, knowing look of hers.

Dick had watched too. He watched more than he should have.

He watched the way your face tightened for half a second after you healed someone. The way you always turned slightly away before taking a breath. The way you flexed your fingers like you were shaking off static. The way you insisted on cleaning up alone afterwards.

At first, he thought healing took energy. That made sense. Every power had a cost. Every body had limits.

You told them yours was fatigue.

Dick believed you.

Not because he was careless.

Because he wanted to. Because after years of watching good people stay hurt, there was something dangerously addictive about watching wounds vanish under your hands.

When Raven came back from a mission with psychic backlash clawing through her mind, and you pressed your fingers to her temples until her breathing evened out, Dick did not ask why you spent the next hour sitting alone in the dark.

When Gar twisted his knee badly enough that the sound made everyone in the room wince, and you healed him before the panic really hit, Dick did not ask why you limped afterwards.

When Kory took a blast meant for a child, and her skin split gold-bright across her ribs, Dick did not ask why your own hand shook as you helped her sit up.

He noticed. But noticing was not knowing.

That was what he told himself later. Over and over. Like repetition could turn guilt into absolution.

He noticed. He just didn’t know.

Not yet.

The night everything changed began with rain.

Blüdhaven rain was different from Gotham rain. Gotham rain fell like a verdict. Cold, black, heavy with memory. Blüdhaven rain came down silver beneath neon signs, slicking the streets until every alley looked like it had been painted in oil. It turned rooftops treacherous, fire escapes slippery, windows into mirrors.

Dick loved it anyway.

It was his city. Bruised, stubborn, trying. A little ugly in the right light. A little beautiful in the wrong one.

The Titans had come because the call was too big for one vigilante and too strange for local police. A new metahuman trafficking ring had gotten its hands on alien tech and old magic, which was never a combination that suggested anyone involved had made good life choices.

By midnight, the docks were burning. By twelve-thirty, three warehouses had partially collapsed. By one, the sky above Blüdhaven was full of drones shaped like metal wasps, each one armed with sonic emitters strong enough to rupture glass and destabilise inner ears.

“Tell me again why crime can’t be normal,” Gar shouted over comms.

Dick flipped over a drone, brought both escrima sticks down, and sent it sparking into the rain-slick rooftop. “You want normal crime?”

“I want crime that doesn’t make my teeth vibrate.”

“You have teeth right now?” Vic asked.

“I have emotional teeth.”

“That tracks,” you said over comms.

Dick smiled despite himself. Your voice always did that to him. Cut through the noise. Found him.

“You’re supposed to be behind the barricade,” he said, ducking under a burst of sonic fire.

“I am behind the barricade.”

“You’re too calm.”

“I’m very calm behind the barricade.”

Raven’s voice came in, flat as ever. “They are not behind the barricade.”

Dick exhaled sharply. “Of course they’re not.”

“I’m near the barricade,” you corrected.

Kory flew overhead, a streak of orange through the storm. “Friend healer, there are many injured civilians near the west warehouse.”

“I see them.”

Dick’s attention snapped toward the west side of the docks.

Through the rain, he saw you moving below.

Not at the barricade. Not near the barricade. Running straight toward the worst of the damage, because apparently, self-preservation was not included in the miracle package.

“Absolutely not,” Dick said.

“You sound like Bruce.”

“That was cruel and unnecessary.”

“You’ll live.”

“Not if you keep sprinting into active combat zones.”

“Then stop watching me and stop the drones.”

A drone screamed toward you.

Dick moved before thought could catch up. He launched himself from the rooftop, grapple line firing, body arcing low through rain and smoke. The drone’s emitter pulsed once. Pain stabbed through his ears. His vision blurred.

He released the line. Dropped. Twisted.

His boot connected with the drone hard enough to crack the metal shell. It spun away and exploded against the side of a warehouse in a shower of blue sparks.

Dick landed in front of you, one knee down, rain streaming off his hair.

You stared at him.

He looked up with his best smile. “Hi.”

Your eyes narrowed. “That was incredibly dramatic.”

“I’m a performer.”

“That was incredibly stupid.”

“I’m also Batman-adjacent.”

“Unfortunately accurate.”

Behind you, a civilian groaned.

Your expression shifted instantly.

There was the healer.

The softness vanished into focus. You moved past Dick and dropped beside a woman pinned beneath a collapsed beam. Her leg was crushed at an angle that made Dick’s stomach turn. Her breathing came in panicked sobs.

“Hey,” you said gently, all teasing gone. “Look at me. Not the leg. Me.”

The woman grabbed your wrist with shaking fingers. “I can’t—I can’t feel—”

“I know. I’ve got you.”

Dick watched you place both hands over the injury.

He watched your shoulders rise as you inhaled.

Then the woman gasped.

The beam shifted. Dick lifted it enough for Vic to pull her free.

Her leg was whole. Bruised, but whole.

She started crying.

You smiled at her.

Then, very subtly, your left knee buckled.

Dick caught it.

Not much. Just one hand at your elbow, enough to steady you.

You went stiff beneath his touch.

“You okay?” he asked.

You smiled too quickly. “Fine.”

There it was. That word.

Dick hated it when Bruce used it. Hated it when Jason spat it through bloodied teeth. Hated it when Tim said it without looking up from a laptop.

He hated it most from you.

Because you made it sound kind.

Another drone shrieked overhead before he could say anything.

The docks trembled.

Raven’s voice cut through comms. “Nightwing, the central warehouse is rigged. There are people inside.”

“How many?”

“Too many.”

Dick looked up. The central warehouse stood at the edge of the pier, half its roof torn open, old brick walls glowing with intermittent blasts of alien-blue light. Through the broken windows, he saw movement.

Civilians. Hostages.

The structure groaned. Then the upper floor exploded outward.

Kory shouted. Dick ran.

You called his name.

He ignored you.

He heard you following anyway.

Of course he did.

Inside, the warehouse was chaos.

Smoke. Screaming. Sprinklers raining dirty water from cracked pipes. Drones buzzing between support beams like insects. Civilians huddled behind shipping containers while armed traffickers tried to retreat through a back exit.

Nightwing moved through them like a blade wrapped in blue light.

Strike. Dodge. Flip. Disarm. Smile, because fear spread faster when people saw the hero afraid.

“Exit to the south!” he shouted. “Go! Go now!”

Kory blew a hole through a side wall for evacuation. Vic ripped open jammed doors. Raven shielded a group of children from falling debris. Gar, currently a gorilla, blocked a collapsing beam with both massive hands and yelled, “I would like everyone to appreciate my core strength!”

You were everywhere you should not be. Healing a burned firefighter. Pressing a hand to a child’s forehead. Closing the wound across a police officer’s side. Calm, quick, relentless.

Too relentless.

Dick saw your face pale. He saw the way you pressed one hand briefly to your ribs after healing the officer.

Something in him tightened.

Then the floor screamed.

Not cracked.

Screamed.

The alien tech at the centre of the warehouse pulsed, drawing power from the old magical sigils carved beneath the concrete. The combination sent a shockwave through the building.

Every support beam lit blue.

Raven’s shield shattered. Kory slammed into a wall. Gar lost his grip.

The ceiling began to come down.

Dick saw it happen in pieces.

A family trapped near the upper catwalk. A little boy separated from his mother. The metal walkway beneath them twisting loose.

No time for the grapple. No time for a plan.

Just the fall.

Dick launched himself upward, using a stack of containers as steps. His boots hit metal. His body moved on instinct, rainwater and smoke and adrenaline turning the world sharp.

He grabbed the boy first and tossed him toward Kory, trusting her to catch him.

She did. Of course she did.

The mother screamed as the catwalk tilted.

Dick caught her wrist.

For half a second, they hung there over open air.

“Don’t look down,” he told her.

She looked down.

They always looked down.

A support cable snapped. The catwalk dropped. Dick twisted, threw the woman upward with everything he had, and felt Vic’s metal hand close around her coat.

Then the world gave way beneath him.

Falling was supposed to be familiar.

This was not.

The sonic emitters went off all at once.

His inner ear shattered into static. The building spun wrong. His grapple fired but missed the broken beam by inches. His fingers closed on nothing. His shoulder clipped metal hard enough to tear a shout from his throat.

Then he hit a lower catwalk.

Pain cracked across his back.

He bounced. Fell again.

He tried to turn. Tried to tuck.

Couldn’t.

There were too many angles. Too much debris. Too much noise.

The ground rushed up.

For the first time in years, Dick Grayson did not know how to fall.

He hit concrete.

And everything stopped.

At first, there was no pain.

That was how Dick knew it was bad. Pain was information. Pain told you what was damaged and how much time you had before the body started making executive decisions without you.

No pain meant the body had gone quiet. No pain meant the damage had passed language.

He stared up at the broken ceiling. Rain fell through the hole in the roof, silver and soft against his face.

Someone was screaming his name. Maybe several someones.

Dick tried to move.

Nothing happened.

Not his legs. Not his right hand. His chest moved, barely. Breath scraping in shallow and wrong.

Ah. That was bad.

A shadow fell over him.

You.

Your face appeared above his, wet with rain, streaked with soot, eyes wide with a terror that did not belong on you.

“Dick,” you said.

He tried to smile. He wasn’t sure if it worked.

“Hey,” he breathed.

It came out broken.

Your hands hovered over him, trembling.

That scared him more than the fall. You never trembled.

“Don’t move,” you said.

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

Your face twisted.

Bad joke. Wrong moment. Classic Grayson.

He tried to lift his hand to touch your face.

Nothing.

Your eyes flicked down.

You saw.

He saw you see.

“Talk to me,” you said.

“Can’t feel…”

He stopped.

Your lips parted.

He did not want to finish the sentence.

He had spent his life moving. Flying. Running rooftops. Dancing along edges so narrow most people could not stand on them without shaking. His body was not just a tool. It was memory. Family. Language. A living echo of the Flying Graysons.

He could not feel half of it.

“Dick,” you whispered.

The building groaned around you. Distantly, Kory shouted for you both. Vic cursed. Raven’s power surged dark and bright somewhere behind the smoke.

You cupped Dick’s face. Your hands were warm despite the rain.

“I’m here,” you said.

He believed you. That was the danger.

“Don’t,” he managed.

Your expression shifted.

He was not Bruce. He had not figured it out fully. Not yet. But something old and instinctive in him understood the shape of sacrifice when it leaned too close.

You had looked pale after healing people. You had limped after fixing Gar’s knee. You had hidden your hand after Damian broke his wrist on a mission with the Supersons. You had smiled through it all.

“You’re hurt,” he said.

You shook your head. “You’re dying.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t.”

Your eyes filled. “Dick—”

“Please.”

That word hurt more than the fall. Please was not a word Nightwing used often in the field. Please belonged to civilians, to scared children, to moments too human for masks.

Your face broke. Only for a second.

Then you leaned down and pressed your forehead to his.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

His heart lurched.

“No,” he said, or tried to.

Your hands slid beneath his shoulders.

And then the pain came.

Not his.

Yours.

He knew because it came with your scream. It tore through the warehouse, raw and animal and absolute.

Dick’s body snapped back into itself. Sensation flooded his legs. His fingers. His lungs. Pain, yes, but normal pain. Bruises. Strains. Things he knew how to name.

His spine straightened. His ribs expanded. His right hand clenched.

He gasped and rolled onto his side, coughing through smoke.

For one impossible second, relief hit him.

Then he saw you.

You were on the concrete beside him, twisted at the same angle he had been. Your back arched unnaturally. Blood spread beneath you. One of your legs lay still, too still. Your hand curled against the ground, fingers shaking like they were trying to remember how to move.

Your mouth opened. No sound came out.

Dick’s world narrowed.

“No,” he said.

It did not sound like him.

He crawled to you, hands skidding in water and blood.

“No, no, no.”

Your eyes found his.

You looked relieved. Relieved. Like seeing him move was worth what had happened to you.

Something terrible opened inside him.

“Why would you do that?” he choked.

Your lips moved.

He leaned closer.

“Caught you,” you whispered.

Dick broke.

Not loudly. Not at first. The sound that left him was small. Fractured. A child’s sound buried under a man’s voice.

He gathered you into his arms with shaking hands, trying not to jostle your spine, trying not to touch anywhere wrong, trying not to look at the blood, the angle of your body, the proof.

The proof.

He had fallen. You had become the fall.

“Kory!” he screamed.

The name tore through his throat.

Orange light flashed.

Kory landed beside him hard enough to crack concrete. Her eyes went wide when she saw you.

“Oh, beloved healer,” she breathed.

Dick looked up at her, wild. “We need medevac.”

Vic’s voice came through comms, tight with horror. “Already calling it.”

Raven appeared from the smoke, her hood torn, shadows curling violently around her.

She looked at you. Then at Dick.

Her expression went white.

Not pale.

White. Like she had felt something nobody else could.

“She took it,” Raven whispered.

Dick stared at her. “What?”

Raven’s voice shook. “The injury. She took it from you.”

The warehouse seemed to tilt.

No. No, he knew that. He had seen it. He had felt his body become whole as yours broke.

But hearing it made it real in a way his mind had been refusing to allow.

Gar, shifted back into human form, stumbled toward them. “What do you mean took it?”

Raven swallowed. “Their power doesn’t erase wounds.”

Dick looked down at you.

Your eyes were half-closed now.

No.

No.

No.

“It transfers them,” Raven said.

No one spoke. Even the burning warehouse seemed to go quiet.

Dick pressed his fingers to your throat.

Pulse there.

Fast. Weak. Too weak.

“Stay with me,” he said, voice shaking. “Hey. Look at me. Come on, look at me.”

Your eyelids fluttered.

He smiled because he did not know how to do anything else with terror.

“There you are,” he whispered. “Stay with me, okay? I’ve got you.”

Your lips twitched faintly.

“Net,” you breathed.

“What?”

“You’re… always the net.”

Dick’s vision blurred.

“Yeah,” he said, voice breaking. “Yeah, baby. I’m the net. So you don’t get to fall through. You hear me?”

Your eyes closed.

Dick’s smile vanished. “No. No, no. Open your eyes. Open your eyes.”

Kory knelt beside him and placed one glowing hand carefully against your shoulder, not healing, not touching the wound, just there.

“Dick,” she said softly.

He shook his head. “They’re not dying.”

“No,” Kory agreed, though her voice trembled. “They are not.”

Dick looked down at you in his arms.

He had caught you.

Too late.

But he had caught you.

And he would not let go.

Titan Tower’s medbay had seen bad nights.

This was worse.

The room was full of people trying not to fall apart loudly.

Kory stood by the window, arms crossed tightly over her chest, her glow dimmed to a low, anxious pulse beneath her skin. Gar sat on the floor with his back against the wall, knees pulled to his chest. Vic kept running diagnostics, jaw clenched, his human eye red. Raven stood in the corner with her hood up, shadows tucked close around her like grief with teeth.

Dick sat beside your bed and held your hand.

He had been told to leave twice.

He had not.

The first time, a nurse tried gentle concern.

The second time, Donna tried command voice.

Neither worked.

Finally, Raven had looked at everyone and said, “Let him stay.”

So he stayed.

You lay still beneath white sheets and too many wires, your body strapped carefully to prevent movement. Spinal stabilizers ran along your back. An oxygen line curved beneath your nose. Your face looked wrong without expression. Too empty. Too quiet.

Dick kept staring at your mouth. Waiting for it to quirk. Waiting for you to make a joke about his bedside manner. Waiting for you to open your eyes and call him dramatic.

His suit was still on. Torn, wet, stained with your blood and his own, though technically the blood was all yours now in the ways that mattered. Someone had thrown a blanket over his shoulders.

Probably Kory. Maybe Donna.

He did not remember.

He remembered your scream. He remembered your body twisting. He remembered Raven saying, It transfers them.

His hand tightened around yours. Your fingers did not move.

“Dick.”

Donna’s voice came from the doorway.

He did not look up.

“How long?” he asked.

She was quiet for a second. “The doctors don’t know.”

He nodded once.

Meaningless.

His gaze stayed on your face.

Donna came closer. “They said the injury may not behave like a normal spinal trauma. Their body processes transferred wounds differently.”

“May,” Dick repeated.

“Yes.”

“May not.”

“Yes.”

He laughed once. It was ugly.

Donna’s hand settled on his shoulder.

That almost undid him.

Dick bowed his head over your hand.

“I should have known,” he said.

Donna did not answer.

He hated her for that. Loved her for it too.

“I noticed things,” he continued, voice low. “After they healed people. I noticed.”

“Dick.”

“I noticed and I let it go.”

“You didn’t know.”

“I should have.”

Donna squeezed his shoulder. “That is Bruce talking.”

His head snapped up.

She looked at him steadily.

“You are allowed to be hurt without making guilt useful,” she said.

Dick stared at her.

Then he looked back at you.

“Useful is all I’ve got right now.”

Donna’s expression softened.

Behind them, Gar made a broken sound.

“I let them heal me last week,” he said.

Everyone looked at him.

He stared at the floor. “My knee. It was nothing. Like, yeah, it hurt, but it wasn’t—” His voice cracked. “It wasn’t worth that.”

Raven closed her eyes. Kory turned away sharply.

Vic’s metal hand curled into a fist. “They healed my neural interface after Psimon fried half my systems.”

“They helped me after Trigon,” Raven said quietly.

Silence fell.

Not empty.

Crowded.

Every person in the room was remembering.

Every hand you had held. Every wound you had closed. Every time you had smiled afterward and said you were tired.

Only tired.

Dick felt sick.

Not because you had lied.

Because all of them had been relieved enough to believe you.

The door opened again.

Clark Kent stepped in, rain-dark hair mussed, glasses absent, Superman suit visible beneath a jacket he had clearly thrown on in a hurry.

He looked around the room once. Then at you.

His face changed.

“Oh,” he said softly.

That was all.

Just oh.

Dick wanted to stand. Wanted to say something. Wanted to be Nightwing, team leader, eldest brother, person who knew how to make everyone breathe again.

He couldn’t.

Clark came to the other side of your bed.

“I came as soon as I heard,” he said.

Dick nodded.

Clark’s eyes lowered to your still hand in Dick’s grip.

“They healed me yesterday,” Clark said.

Dick’s breath caught.

“Kryptonite burn,” Clark continued quietly. “They looked pale afterwards. Bruce noticed. He told them to rest.”

A horrible laugh escaped Dick. “Of course he did.”

Clark looked at him with infinite gentleness. “Bruce didn’t know either.”

Dick shut his eyes.

He could imagine Bruce finding out. The silence. The rage. The way he would turn terror into protocols and guilt into surveillance. The way he would blame himself first, hardest, longest.

Dick had learned from the best. Unfortunately.

“Can you hear anything?” Dick asked.

Clark’s face tightened.

Heartbeats. That was what Dick meant.

Clark nodded. “Their heart is steady for now.”

For now.

The phrase lodged under Dick’s ribs.

He looked down at you.

“Good,” he said, like the word had weight, like saying it could make it true. “That’s good.”

Clark stayed for a while.

So did everyone else.

One by one, though, they drifted out. Not far. Never far. Titans did not abandon their own. They lingered in hallways, in waiting rooms, in corners with vending machine coffee and red-rimmed eyes.

Eventually, only Dick remained.

He was good at vigils. He hated that too.

Hours passed in monitor beeps and the low hum of machines.

Your hand was warm in his.

That became his whole world.

Warm meant alive. Warm meant here. Warm meant not yet.

Near dawn, your fingers twitched.

Dick nearly came out of his chair.

“Hey,” he said, leaning forward. “Hey, I’m here.”

Your eyelids fluttered.

He forgot how to breathe.

Then your eyes opened. Unfocused at first. Cloudy with pain and medication.

Then they found him.

You smiled. Barely.

It devastated him.

“Hi, pretty bird,” you rasped.

Dick made a sound between a laugh and a sob.

“You’re not allowed to be charming right now,” he said.

Your brow furrowed faintly. “M’dying?”

“No.”

“Then I’m allowed.”

His mouth trembled.

You blinked slowly, gaze shifting around the room. “Tower?”

“Yeah.”

“Everyone okay?”

There it was. First question.

Not, Am I okay? Not, What happened?

Everyone.

Dick had never loved and hated anything more.

He leaned closer.

“No,” he said.

Your eyes came back to him.

“They’re not okay. I’m not okay. You scared the hell out of us.”

Your expression shifted with slow understanding.

Then memory returned.

He watched it happen.

The warehouse. The fall. The choice.

Your eyes filled. “Dick—”

“No.” His voice cracked. He swallowed hard and tried again. “No, don’t. Don’t say you’re sorry. Don’t make it easier. Please don’t make it easier.”

You went quiet.

He pressed your hand to his forehead.

His shoulders shook once. Only once.

“I watched you become the fall,” he whispered.

Your breath hitched.

“You were—” He stopped, unable to finish. “You were on the ground. Like me. Because of me.”

“Not because of you.”

“You took my injury.”

“Yes.”

The honesty punched the air out of him.

No deflection. No lie. No, I’m fine.

Just yes.

Dick lifted his head. His eyes burned.

“How long?”

Your gaze slid away.

His stomach dropped. “How long have you been doing that?”

You were quiet.

Too quiet.

Dick understood before you answered.

“All of it?” he asked.

Your mouth trembled.

“Most of it,” you whispered.

Dick stood so fast the chair slammed backward.

You flinched.

He froze immediately.

Regret flashed through him.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.” He pushed both hands through his hair and turned away, pacing once before spinning back to you. “It’s not okay. None of this is okay.”

Your face had gone pale.

He forced himself to lower his voice. “You took Gar’s knee.”

You closed your eyes.

“Raven’s psychic backlash.”

A tear slipped down your temple into your hair.

“Kory’s burn.”

“Dick…”

“Vic’s neural damage. Clark’s kryptonite poisoning. Jason’s bullet wounds. Tim’s concussions. Damian’s broken bones. Mine.”

Your silence confirmed every word.

Dick felt like the room had tilted beneath him.

“How are you alive?” he whispered.

Your eyes opened.

There was something old in them then. Older than your face. Older than your smile.

“I heal faster than most people.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have.”

“That sounds like something Bruce would say.”

A weak breath of laughter escaped you.

Dick did not smile.

The laugh died.

“I didn’t want you to know,” you said.

“No kidding.”

“Dick.”

His name in your voice hurt.

He came back to the chair slowly and sat down because standing made him want to run through walls.

You turned your head toward him.

The movement was tiny. It still cost you. He saw the pain ripple over your face.

“Don’t,” he said quickly.

You stilled.

He hated this. He hated all of it. The bed. The machines. Your body trapped under injury. His body whole because yours wasn’t.

“I need to know why,” he said.

“You know why.”

“No.” His voice came out sharper than intended. “No, I really don’t.”

Your eyes searched his face.

He let you see it. All of it. The fear. The anger. The betrayal. The love he had been carrying like a secret too fragile to name.

You looked away first.

“I didn’t want anyone to choose pain,” you said.

Dick stared at you.

“Everyone I work with is the same,” you continued. “The League. The Titans. The Outlaws. All of you. If I told you what healing costs me, you’d refuse unless you were unconscious or dying. Maybe even then.”

“Yes,” Dick said. “Because we’re not monsters.”

“You’re martyrs.”

He went still.

You looked back at him. Softly, exhaustedly furious.

“You are,” you said. “Every single one of you. You’d let yourselves bleed out if it meant I didn’t have to feel it. You’d call that noble. I call it stupid.”

Dick let out a stunned laugh. “You cannot be serious right now.”

“I am extremely serious.”

“You are lying in a medbay because you took a broken spine from me.”

“And I’d do it again.”

The room went silent.

Dick’s face crumpled before he could stop it.

You saw. Of course you saw.

Regret passed over your features.

“Dick—”

“No.” He shook his head. “No, don’t say that.”

“I can’t lie to you anymore.”

“That’s not fair.”

“I know.”

“You don’t get to almost die for me and then tell me you’d do it again.”

“I love you.”

Dick stopped. Everything stopped.

The monitors kept beeping. Somewhere outside, someone walked down the hall. Rain tapped lightly against the Tower windows.

But inside Dick, every moving part went still.

You looked terrified now.

Not of death.

Of him. Of what he would do with the truth.

Your eyes glistened.

“I love you,” you said again, voice breaking. “And I know that’s not an excuse. I know it doesn’t make lying okay. I know it doesn’t make taking the choice away okay. But it’s the reason.”

Dick could not move. He had imagined hearing those words from you more times than he would ever admit. Usually in softer places. A kitchen at two in the morning. His apartment. A rooftop under a kinder sky. Your hand in his, your smile warm enough to make the world feel less like a thing that constantly needed saving.

Not here. Not with your spine braced. Not with your blood still dried under his fingernails.

“You can’t say that,” he whispered.

Your face went blank.

Dick realised what it sounded like and reached for you immediately.

“No. No, that’s not—” He sat on the edge of the chair, one hand hovering near yours. “That’s not what I mean.”

You looked at his hand.

He waited.

This time, he waited.

After a moment, you moved your fingers weakly toward him.

Permission.

Dick took your hand like it was made of light.

“You can’t say you love me like that,” he said, voice shaking. “Like it means your life is automatically worth less than mine.”

Your eyes filled again. “I don’t think that.”

“You do.”

“I don’t.”

“You do,” he said, gentler now. “Because I know that trick. I invented that trick. I perfected that trick. I have a whole family of emotionally repressed vigilantes who could give a TED Talk on that trick.”

A watery laugh escaped you.

Dick’s thumb moved over your knuckles.

“I know what it looks like when someone calls self-destruction devotion,” he said.

Your smile faded.

He swallowed hard. “I know because I do it all the time.”

You looked at him for a long moment.

Then you whispered, “Yeah.”

He laughed once, and this time it was almost real. “Rude.”

“Accurate.”

“Still rude.”

Your fingers twitched against his palm.

He lowered his head until his forehead rested against your hand.

“I love you too,” he whispered.

Your breath caught.

He held onto you tighter.

“I love you,” he said again, because now that the words were out, he could not bear to let them stand alone. “I love you so much I don’t know what to do with it. And I am so angry at you that I can barely breathe.”

You made a small sound.

He lifted his head.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I know.”

“I only wanted you alive.”

His face twisted.

“I know,” he said.

That was the worst part. He knew.

There was no cruelty in what you had done. No malice. No carelessness.

Only love. Misdirected. Secretive. Devastating love. The kind that looked too much like his own.

Dick leaned forward and pressed his lips to your knuckles.

Your eyes closed.

He stayed there.

When he spoke again, his voice was softer.

“We have to tell everyone.”

Your eyes opened. Fear flickered.

“They already know some of it,” he continued. “Raven felt it. She told us what happened.”

You looked toward the door.

Dick followed your gaze.

Through the small window, shadows moved in the hallway.

The Titans.

Waiting. Hurting. Loving you.

Your mouth trembled. “They’re going to hate me.”

Dick shook his head immediately. “No.”

“They should.”

“No.”

“I lied to them.”

“Yeah,” he said. “And they’re going to be upset. They’re going to be scared. Gar is probably going to cry on you, so prepare emotionally for dampness.”

Despite everything, your lips twitched.

“Vic is going to pretend he’s fine and then build you seventeen medical devices,” Dick continued. “Raven is going to stare into your soul until you confess every symptom you’ve ever hidden. Kory might actually lift a car.”

“She wouldn’t.”

“She might. For emphasis.”

Your smile faded, but some of the terror went with it.

“And you?” you asked.

Dick breathed in.

“I’m going to stay mad for a while,” he admitted.

You nodded.

“But I’m also going to stay.”

Your face cracked open.

He leaned closer.

“I’m not leaving because this is hard,” he said. “I’m not leaving because you scared me. I’m not leaving because you made a bad choice trying to save me.”

Your eyes searched his.

“I need you to promise me something,” he said.

“Dick…”

“No secret healing. Not with us. Not anymore.”

Your jaw tightened. “Emergency circumstances—”

“We’ll define them.”

“You sound like Batman.”

“I know. I’m devastated too.”

A weak laugh.

His heart nearly buckled under the sound.

“I mean it,” he said. “You have to tell people what they’re agreeing to.”

You looked down. “I know.”

“And you have to let us take care of you afterwards.”

“That’s harder.”

“I know.”

“I’m bad at it.”

“Baby, you are catastrophically bad at it.”

You huffed.

He smiled faintly, then sobered. “But we’re going to practice.”

“We?”

“Yeah.” His thumb brushed your hand. “We.”

Your eyes glistened.

“Okay,” you whispered.

It was not enough.

But it was a beginning.

Dick could work with beginnings.

He was a circus kid. A vigilante. A Robin. A Nightwing. A man who had lost the ground and learned to trust the air anyway.

Beginnings were just another kind of leap.

The Titans entered one at a time. Gar cried first, obviously. He tried very hard not to, which made it worse. He stood beside your bed with his arms crossed, lower lip trembling, eyes too bright.

“I’m mad at you,” he said.

Your face softened. “I know.”

“I’m, like, really mad.”

“I know.”

“And sad. And mad. And also really glad you’re not dead, which is making the mad part complicated.”

“That sounds complicated.”

“It is.” His voice cracked. “You took my knee.”

Your eyes lowered.

Gar wiped his face with his sleeve. “It was just my knee.”

“Gar…”

“No, it was. It hurt, yeah, but I would’ve been fine. It wasn’t worth you hurting.”

You looked at Dick. He said nothing.

This was yours to answer.

You swallowed.

“At the time,” you said carefully, “it felt worth it to me.”

Gar looked stricken.

“I know that doesn’t make it okay,” you added quickly. “I know I should have told you. I’m sorry.”

Gar sniffled. Then he leaned down very carefully and hugged the top of your head.

Dick almost told him to be careful.

He did not.

You closed your eyes.

Gar whispered, “You’re not allowed to die. I already decided.”

“Okay,” you whispered back.

“Cool.”

Then he backed away, crying harder.

Vic came next.

He did not cry. He brought a tablet.

“I’ve got three ideas,” he said, voice too controlled, “for a biofeedback system that can warn before a transfer exceeds safe neurological load.”

You stared at him.

“Hello to you too,” you said.

Vic’s mouth twitched.

Dick smiled despite himself.

“Also,” Vic added, “I’m mad.”

“Noted.”

“And I’m building the thing anyway.”

“Also noted.”

Vic’s expression cracked slightly. “You should’ve told us.”

“I know.”

“I would’ve let you help,” he said quietly. “Sometimes. Maybe. But I would’ve wanted to know when helping me hurt you.”

Your eyes filled again.

“I know,” you whispered.

Vic nodded once.

Then he set the tablet on your bedside table like an offering.

Raven came after him.

She stood beside your bed, silent and pale, shadows moving slowly around her wrists.

You looked nervous.

Raven looked at you for a long time.

Then she said, “You took more than injuries.”

Your face went still.

Dick’s attention sharpened.

Raven’s eyes did not leave yours. “Emotional pain too. Psychic pain. Fear. Grief.”

You swallowed.

“Sometimes,” you said.

Dick felt like the floor had dropped again.

Of course. Of course there was more.

Raven’s expression tightened. “Mine?”

You closed your eyes. The silence answered.

Raven inhaled sharply.

Dick started to reach for her, but she lifted one hand.

You opened your eyes. “Only when it was too much. Only when I thought—”

“That I couldn’t survive it?” Raven asked.

You flinched.

Raven looked away.

For a moment, she was very young.

Then she stepped closer and placed two fingers lightly against your hand.

“I understand why,” Raven said. Your tears spilled over. “But do not do it again without asking me.”

“I won’t,” you whispered.

Raven nodded.

Then, after a pause, she added, “You are loved for more than your usefulness.”

You broke then. Quietly. Completely.

Dick stood, but Raven was already there, leaning carefully over you, touching your forehead with hers.

Not a hug. Not exactly.

Something quieter. Something sacred.

Kory came last.

She tried to be gentle.

Kory’s gentleness had always been a force of nature trying to fit through a doorway.

Her eyes shone bright green as she took your hand.

“My beloved friend,” she said, voice trembling, “you have carried pain alone when you had an army.”

You gave a wet laugh. “When you say it like that, it sounds very stupid.”

“It was,” Kory said.

Everyone blinked.

Kory’s chin lifted. “It was brave. It was loving. It was also stupid.”

Gar made a tiny sound. “She said the thing.”

Kory ignored him.

She leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“You will not do this alone again,” she said.

You nodded, crying too hard to speak.

Dick watched them surround you.

Not crowding. Not demanding.

Just there. A net, woven from people who loved you enough to be angry.

For the first time since the warehouse, something inside him loosened.

Not healed. Not yet.

But held.

Recovery was slow. Not as slow as normal spinal trauma, because your body was strange and stubborn and apparently determined to give medical science a migraine.

But not fast either.

Feeling returned in fragments. Left foot. Right toes. Thighs. Hips. Pain followed each return like lightning learning your name.

You hated it.

Dick loved every sign because it meant you were still there, still fighting, still coming back.

He also hated it because every gasp from you felt like punishment.

He spent most days at your bedside.

At first, he tried to make himself useful. He brought food. Adjusted pillows. Read medical updates. Ran interference when too many worried heroes wanted to visit. Smuggled in snacks Alfred absolutely did not approve of but definitely knew about because Alfred knew everything and permitted crimes selectively.

Then you caught him reorganising the medbay supply cabinet at three in the morning.

“Dick.”

He froze with a roll of bandages in each hand.

You stared at him from the bed, unimpressed. “What are you doing?”

“Inventory.”

“This is not your medbay.”

“Organisation helps.”

“You alphabetised antiseptic.”

“Antiseptic deserves respect.”

“You need sleep.”

“So do you.”

“I was asleep until you started stress-cleaning gauze.”

He looked down at the bandages. Then back at you.

“You were in pain.”

Your expression softened.

He hated how easily you saw through him.

“I’m often in pain right now,” you said gently.

His hands tightened.

“Don’t do that,” you said.

“Do what?”

“Make my pain your failure.”

He laughed once, humourless. “Kind of hard not to, considering.”

“Dick.”

He looked away.

You sighed. “Come here.”

He put the bandages down and came to your bedside.

You patted the edge of the mattress.

He gave you a look. “Absolutely not.”

“Sit.”

“I could hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

“I’m not risking your spine because you want cuddles.”

“I do want cuddles.”

His expression flickered.

You smiled faintly. “That one got you.”

“Cruel.”

“Effective.”

He compromised by dragging the chair close enough that his knees touched the bed. You reached for him, and he gave you his hand.

It had become familiar now. His hand in yours. Your pulse under his fingers. Your life, stubborn and warm.

“You’re doing the thing,” you said.

“What thing?”

“The smile.”

Dick blinked. “I’m not smiling.”

“The inside smile. The fake one. The one that says, ‘I’m fine, don’t look too closely, I’m very handsome and emotionally functional.’”

He stared at you. “You think I’m handsome?”

“You heard the rest.”

“I prioritised.”

Your mouth twitched.

Dick’s smile came easier this time. Realer.

Then it faded.

“I don’t know how to stop seeing it,” he admitted.

Your thumb moved weakly against his hand.

“The fall?” you asked.

He nodded.

Your face gentled.

“When I close my eyes,” he said, voice low, “I see you on the floor.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No.” He leaned forward. “I’m not telling you so you apologise. I’m telling you because we said no more hiding.”

You absorbed that.

Then nodded slowly.

“Okay,” you whispered. “No more hiding.”

His throat tightened.

You looked down at your joined hands.

“I still feel it sometimes,” you said.

Dick went still.

“The fall,” you clarified. “Not the full injury anymore. But echoes. Like my body remembers impact that wasn’t mine.”

Dick could not speak.

You continued, because apparently both of you had chosen emotional destruction as a bonding activity.

“I don’t regret saving you.” He closed his eyes. “But I’m starting to understand that not regretting it doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt you.”

His eyes opened.

You looked at him, open and tired and honest. “I’m sorry for that part.”

Dick breathed in carefully.

Then out.

“I don’t regret being alive,” he said.

Your lips parted.

“I need you to know that. I don’t regret it. I don’t wish you hadn’t saved me if the alternative was dying in that warehouse.”

Your eyes filled.

“But I hate that you paid for it alone,” he continued. “I hate that I didn’t get to say yes. I hate that you thought love meant making yourself the place pain goes to disappear.”

You nodded, tears spilling silently.

“I’m learning,” you whispered.

He kissed your hand. “Me too.”

You studied him. “What are you learning?”

Dick huffed softly. “That apparently I have control issues.”

Your brows rose. 

“I know. Shocking. Alert the media.”

“Front-page news.”

“And,” he continued, “that being the net all the time is not actually the same as being loved.”

Your expression changed.

He swallowed. “I think I liked being needed because it felt safer than being wanted.”

You went very still.

Dick looked down at your hand.

“If people need you, you have a job. A role. Something to do. Something to offer. You can earn your place over and over.” His mouth twisted. “But being wanted? Just because you’re you? That’s terrifying.”

Your voice was soft. “Yeah.”

He looked up. Your eyes were wet.

“I know,” you said.

And there it was.

The mirror. Two people who had made themselves useful enough to avoid asking if they were loved.

Dick smiled sadly. “We’re a pair, huh?”

“A disastrous one.”

“Hot.”

You laughed. This time, it did not sound broken.

Dick felt the laugh settle into his chest like sunrise.

He leaned closer, giving you time to refuse.

You did not.

His lips touched yours softly. Carefully.

There was nothing dramatic about it. No collapsing warehouse. No blue fire. No scream. Just his hand in yours, your mouth warm beneath his, and the quiet, astonishing fact that you were both still alive.

When he pulled back, your eyes were closed.

“Was that okay?” he asked.

Your eyes opened slowly. “You’re asking after?”

“I panicked.”

“Adorable.”

“I can do better.”

“I know.”

He smiled.

You tugged weakly at his hand. “Again.”

This time, he laughed before kissing you.

The first time you stood again, everyone cried.

Gar denied it. He was lying.

Vic recorded the whole thing and claimed it was for medical documentation. Also lying.

Kory hovered with both hands out like she intended to catch you, the bed, Dick, and possibly the entire Tower if necessary. Raven stood nearby, pretending calm while her shadows formed nervous little curls at her feet.

Dick stood in front of you.

Not behind. Not beside.

In front, hands open.

A net. But not the only one.

“You’ve got this,” he said.

You glared at him. “If I fall, I’m haunting you.”

“Reasonable.”

“As a poltergeist.”

“Mean, but fair.”

“I’ll move all your cereal into different boxes.”

Gar gasped. “That’s evil.”

“I contain multitudes.”

Dick’s grin trembled.

You saw. Your expression softened.

“Hey,” you said quietly. He focused on you. “I’m here.”

He nodded.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “You are.”

You took one step. Your knees shook.

Dick did not grab you. It took everything in him. Every instinct screamed. Every memory of your body broken on concrete rose up sharp and hungry.

But he did not grab you. He let you choose the step. Let you own the balance. Let you move.

You took another.

Then another.

Then your strength failed.

Dick caught you.

So did Kory.

So did Vic.

Raven’s shadows braced your legs.

Gar cheered and cried openly this time.

You ended up laughing against Dick’s chest while everyone crowded in, careful and loud and ridiculous.

The pain had gone somewhere. The fear had too.

Not away. Never fully away.

But spread out. Held by more hands.

That was the secret none of you had known at first.

Pain did not become lighter because one person carried all of it.

It became survivable when everyone carried a piece.

Later, after the others left and you were back in bed, exhausted but smiling, Dick sat beside you and traced idle circles over your palm.

“You caught me,” you said.

He looked up.

“In the warehouse,” you continued. “After.”

His face sobered. “I was too late.”

“No.” You squeezed his hand. “You caught me.”

Dick swallowed hard.

“You caught me too,” he said.

Your smile faded into something tender. “I broke all your rules when I did.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m trying not to romanticise that.”

“Good.”

“But I did catch you.”

His mouth curved despite himself.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “You did.”

You looked at him in the soft medbay light. “Now what?”

Dick leaned back in his chair, still holding your hand. “Now we learn how to do the next part without almost dying.”

“Sounds improbable.”

“We can try.”

“Are there snacks?”

“Definitely.”

“Then I’m in.”

He laughed.

There it was again. That bright thing. That impossible thing.

Joy, growing stubbornly in the aftermath.

Dick Grayson still knew how to fall. He always would. But now, when he looked at you, when he felt your fingers threaded through his, when he remembered the warehouse and the scream and the terrible miracle of being saved, he understood something he had spent his whole life avoiding.

Catching someone did not mean never falling. Being loved did not mean never hitting the ground.

Sometimes love was the hand reaching down afterwards. Sometimes it was the person who stayed through recovery. Sometimes it was telling the truth when the lie would be easier. Sometimes it was a whole team gathered around a bed, furious and crying and refusing to let one person become the only place pain could live.

And sometimes, impossibly, it was you.

Alive. Healing. Learning. Smiling at him like the world was still worth saving.

Dick lifted your hand and kissed your knuckles.

“I love you,” he said.

Your eyes softened. “I love you too, pretty bird.”

His heart stumbled. “Still not over that nickname.”

“You love it.”

“I do.”

You smiled wider.

Outside the Tower windows, Blüdhaven glittered beneath the rain.

Messy. Bruised. Trying.

Still standing.

So were you. So was he.

practically sobbing with how deep he was and how you’d came for the nth time already tonight, you shakes your head.

“it’s too much,” gasping as he grinds his hips just enough to feel the drag against your walls.

he hums, “you want me to stop?”

immediately pushing back into him, you let out a sharp, “no!”

jason chuckles against your neck while he maneuvers you onto your knees while he’s mounting you from behind. nipping at the nape of your neck while he kisses your cervix and you drop your head backwards to rest on his shoulder. an idea crosses his mind while you make broken sounds into the empty air. arms wrapping around your middle, he turns you to face your full length mirror with your makeup bag still sitting in front of it on the ground. pushing back into you while his hand snakes up to squeeze your breasts and coaxs another gasp.

almost like it’s involuntarily, he kneads with his fingers and moans your name, “is this okay?” when you nod he tsks, “what’d i say about words ma?”

you grab at his hand as you jolt, “yes, it’s perfect,” struggling to speak but he just groans against your neck again.

the sound vibrating across your skin and sending shivers down your spine until you push back into him.

“look,” he pants between measured thrusts, “look at you.”

biting your lip, you lift your head to look at the lewd sight in the mirror.

he had you arched against him on the bed, both of you on your knees as he grinds slowly into you. “you’re so beautiful. my pretty, pretty girl.” smiling to himself at your blissed out state while he pulls you back into him.

embarrassed, you shut your eyes and try to turn your head when his hand comes up higher to make you face the mirror again. murmuring dirty words in your ear again.

“nah, you gotta watch us, hah? don’t we look so good together?” his voice as sensual as ever as he reaches places that only he could.

watching as his hips slam a little harder, you nod, “yes, yes, so good jay.”

humming in agreement, he coos, “good ma, now say it.”

“say it?” hiccuping as you question him.

“call yourself pretty. say i’m beautiful hmm? go on.” breathing by your ear.

you arch further as he grinds deeper, “but that’s so embarrassing.”

“what? how’s being my beautiful wife embarrassing?” pulling you up a little higher so you’re barely holding yourself up, “look at that body, god, could make a grown man cry.”

caressing from the inside with his slow and deep ministrations, you gasp again, “jay—”

“she’s gripping me so tight too, pretty and—nghh, so so beautiful.” a thin layer of sweat on his skin making it glisten beautifully under your bedroom light, “say it, come on please baby?”

coaxing with another sharp thrust, you nearly cry out, “pretty, ‘m so pretty.”

he laughs again, turning your head enough to kiss him over your shoulder while he progressively moves faster. hips meeting yours in pace that was bringing you dangerously close again. moaning loudly into his mouth, he groans right back, then swallows the sound down. you pull away to breathe and he immediately makes you turn to watch again. ministrations making your tits bounce and voice falter. grabbing his hand at your chest, you bring it lower and lower til the message is so clear to him that he’s mad he didn’t think of it first.

fingers meeting that sensitive nub, he rubs tight circles as he feels you clench. the sound you make has his mouth wide and he returns it with something you hadn’t heard either. the peak was threatening his own as you flutter around him.

you whine his name while he shushes you, “i know baby, you can let go for me. you just keep making those pretty sounds yeah.”

his fingers rub your clit faster and you nearly collapse forward. though he holds you up with one strong arm across your midriff.

“i love you so, so much baby,” voice a little more frantic and his hips sloppier, “i need it. i need to feel you baby please.”

tears slip down your face as it crashes over you and you clamp around him. he’d been waiting for you to let go first and makes two harsh thrusts before spilling inside. he’s continuing to push his hips despite the overstimulation to seal that lock of himself inside of you like a brand. grinding his hips into yours while your legs give out entirely like jelly.

he doesn’t let you fall over and uses his last bit of strength to pull you backwards to collapse onto his chest. your back to his chest while you try to catch your breath and he’s already pressing kisses to your sweaty hair while he remains buried deep. you slide onto your side and he turns you, groaning when he slips out with a slick sound.

you snuggle into him immediately and he buries his nose in your hair just to breathe you in, “mmm, i love you,” he murmurs over and over, “i love you, i love you, i love—”

“that tickles,” you giggle as his breath ghosts over your skin again.

“tickles huh? maybe you should say it back or i’ll really tickle you.” laughing as he already drags his hands to you sides and wiggles them til you squirm and laugh that pretty sound again.

“okay, i do,” you pant between laughs, “i love you too, now quit it todd.”

watching his face flush and his fingers stop, you smile at how easily you can fluster him even when he’d been inside you moments ago. you lean in to kiss his perfect face again and he melts into it immediately, cradling the back of your head. slipping his tongue inside your mouth while your legs automatically wrap around his waist. you can feel yourself getting worked up all over again as his softened length just twitches like he were ready to go. you smile against his lips and pull back, watching him chase after you til you put a hand to his chest.

“i do love you jason. a lot.”

his eyes twists over your face and his brows knit. then he’s leaning down to kiss your forehead and pull you into another tight hug.

“i love you more pretty girl. now we gotta sleep before i get you pregnant.” saying the last part more to himself than to you.

despite how spent you are, you lift your head like a dog with a bone, “well, that sounds kinda—”

“don’t tempt me,” he practically groans and pulls your head right back into his chest, “sleep ma.”

a/n: @starr-jazz i lowkey got carried away with this request but you made me wake up like a sleeper agent.

You were definitely talking about him; he knew that now, probably to your friend studying abroad. It would explain the late hour. 

He listens to you sigh, “Yes, I know. We are poor communicators, but I think what we have going is good… No, he doesn’t know I like him, but I’m fine with that, really!”

Jason's heart skips a beat. You like him? Of course, you like him. You were one of the few people who made him feel normal after coming back from the dead. You didn’t hesitate to let him back in, even after you watched him pummel the guy that tried to take your bag. You don’t just let anyone back into your life like that, but maybe he misread it.

So distracted by his thoughts, he misses the change in your voice, “Uh, I’ve gotta go.”

You liked him, liked him. It made sense. Your sweet smile felt like home.  The way you let him into your home and bed. Maybe he had always known. Had he actually been taking advantage of your affection?

The window creaks open, and he's on his feet, ready to flee the scene before you’ve even gotten it open all the way. He stays tense, but you just grin at him. Your head tilts, eyes smothered in affection, “I can't imagine this fire escape is comfortable.”

His muscles ease, “Yeah.”

You snort at the less than chalant tone, “It's early. Did you need something?”

“Can I come in?” he asks after a beat of silence. You stare at him, and it makes him a little antsy, something new and different with you.

“Since when have you needed to ask?” you answer as you step away from the window to give him space, “I was just getting ready for bed.”

“It's late,” he says as he closes the window behind him, already prying his shoes off, jacket and gear following. You watch him only because his eyes aren’t on you, and he won't tease what he doesn’t know. Jason does know. He has always known that you liked the suit. Even back when you were both younger, and he was Robin, you liked the hero get-up.

“It's not that late,” you murmur as you sit on the armrest of the couch. Jason pauses as he undoes the utility belt to look at you. You meet his eyes and pretend you weren’t already staring. Jason takes a moment to appreciate how pretty you look. 

He remembers the first time he saw you after he came back from the dead. Five years can change a lot in a person. All he could think about then was how much prettier you'd gotten since you were 15. The same thought lingers now. You were in your pj’s, a shirt he was pretty sure was his, and a ratty pair of shorts that made your legs all the more distracting. 

“What is it?” Your head does the same tilt in question as earlier. Too sweet, too you. Jason’s feet move without thought once he’s got the utility belt off. Your head tips back to look up at him as he slides into your space. His hands hold your cheeks, cradling your jaw. Your confused look turns to a salacious grin. He hated how you could easily read him for filth. 

Your lips part in what is likely a tease, but he’s kissing you before it can escape your breath. It comes out as a sigh. Your lips move against his without second thought or complaint. You shift, attempting to stand up, hands on his shoulders. Jason doesn’t let you, lips not parting as he pushes you back on the couch. You let out a girlish giggle as you fall, his weight settling over you. His lips track down your cheek and jaw, pressing gently to your throat.

Your hand slides into his hair, and Jason shudders at the familiar touch. He sucks soft at your pulse before pulling back enough to look down at you. His hand smooths your hair as you ask, “What is it?”

“You can ask me, you know,” he mutters, eyes unmoved from yours.

“Ask you what, Jay?” you question, voice a soft lilt that makes Jason want to kiss you more. 

“You're not a mind reader, but you don't have to be. I’d answer any question you ask,” he tells, watching the twitch of your brow as you decipher his words. 

You give him a disgruntled look, “You were listening to my conversation. Jason, that was private.”

“Would you have ever said anything to me?” he shoots back, and your mouth snaps shut. He leans down to kiss your cheek, “Don’t be mad at me, okay? What we have going is good, and I wish I had the nerve to talk to you without eavesdropping.” 

You sigh both in frustration and from his affection, “You don't have to say anything you don’t mean. I’m happy with being your best friend.”

“I don't want you to think you're my stress relief. I wouldn’t use you like that,” he says earnestly, hand pushing at your jaw to make you look at him, “you’ve always been my girl.”

You gnaw at your lip. Even when you were younger, even when all the other boys yelled cooties, you were Jason’s girl. You never moved on from that, even after he died, “I know. You're going to be honest for once?”

“For once?” Jason laughs, his thumb affectionately into the corner of your mouth as you grin, “That’s how it's going to be?”

“Yeah, that’s how it's going to be,” you hand curls around his wrist, thumb mimicking his over his pulse.

“Alright, sweetheart,” he pecks your lips, “I like you,” he pecks again, “more than a best friend,” and again, “more than a fuck.”

“Such a gentleman,” you grin. Your hand in his tugs him back down for a real kiss, “I like you too, nosey.”

Jason kisses you back, the previous want returning now that feelings were assorted. He lets up to slide off the couch and pick you up, carrying you to your bedroom.

“Do I need to take you on a date before I do things to you?” he asks as he drops you on the bed.

You laugh as you bounce, “You’ve been doing things to me for months. I think we can do the date later.”

You tug your shirt off at the end of the sentence, tossing it to the end of the bed. Jason’s right back on you, pushing you back on the bed to kiss your clavicle as he pushes your shorts down, “You're too good to me, sweetheart.”

-------------

Masterlist

It was one of those long, annoying days at Camp Half-Blood. It was humid, and the training drills felt like they would never end. You got assigned to collect all of the weapons and put them away in the weapons shed behind the Ares Cabin with an Aphrodite boy who was no help at all. He spent the whole time watching you and using his dagger to scrape the dirt out from under his nails. 

By the time dinner was over, you didn’t feel like sitting through a campfire where the heat from the fire would mingle with the lingering heat of the day and the smothering humidity in the air. The way that all of the Apollo kids were singing their campfire songs didn’t seem fun at the moment, just grating against your eardrums, like nails on a chalkboard. It wasn’t necessarily their fault that you were having a shitty day, that their singing didn’t help your mood, but in the moment, it was easier to blame them for your headache before shuffling back towards the cabins. 

Your own cabin was too crowded, so you didn’t go back to Cabin 20, where most of your siblings were undoubtedly skipping the campfire to rest on account of the waxing crescent moon. So, you decided to go to your boyfriend’s cabin. 

Cabin 1. The Zeus Cabin. 

Jason wasn’t in the cabin, but you knew he wouldn’t mind if you made yourself at home until he came back. Knowing Jason, he was at the campfire because technically everyone had to go to the campfire every night, and Jason loved being technical about things. 

The Zeus Cabin was cold, like someone had turned the A/C on blast since it was built and never bothered to turn it off, letting the marble interior turn into ice. 

But considering you had spent most of the day in the sun, in 74% humidity, you found it to be rather comforting at the moment. 

Your sneakers stayed at the door, toed off before you could track mud on the marble floors, and you padded over to the bottom drawer of Jason’s dresser. The drawer slid open on its tracks, and you grabbed what you needed. A pair of boxer shorts with the Superman logo on them. You had gotten them for Jason as a joke last year for his birthday, so it only made sense that you changed into them for pajamas. 

You stole one of his LA Dodgers shirts; it was threadbare and stretched out. Jason had told you about how he got it from a street vendor when he was fifteen, and Camp Jupiter let him and Dakota go on a rather extensive scouting mission. He had handed the vendor two leaves that The Mist disguised to look like a ten and a five-dollar bill. 

The clothes you had worn today peeled off your body like a layer of second skin, your Camp Half-Blood t-shirt sticking to your back in a way that made you cringe and flick it into the corner of the cabin. A problem for you later. 

Your shorts, bra, and socks joined the pile of dirty clothes in the corner, and soon you were slipping into the clean, dry, chilled boxer shorts and worn-out t-shirt that technically didn’t belong to you. Jason’s bed was practically calling your name, so of course, you had to crawl in and under the covers. 

His comforter was plain white but soft and plush, his sheets were a light blue that always made his cheeks look flushed when your fingers splayed across his chest, and his breath came in short, ragged bursts. It was a lovely shade of blue that made you whisper into his ear, “nuh-uh, eye’s open, Jase,” so that you could see how thin a ring of matching blue threatened to be swallowed up by the black of his pupils when your thumb pressed down on his bottom lip. 

Jason’s bed welcomed you with a mix of the camp detergent, pine, and ozone. Practically his signature scent. 

You curled up, gathering the blanket to your chest, stuffing it right under your chin, covering the goosebumps that had started to prickle your skin now that you were cooling down from the unbearable heat of the day. 

Above your head, the thunderstorm on the ceiling filled the otherwise empty and quiet cabin. You let your thoughts drift for the next however many minutes until you heard the quiet, familiar, reserved sigh come from the doorway. 

“Hey, Love.”

Jason’s voice traveled from the front of the cabin to where you were curled up in his bed in the corner of the cabin. You could hear the rustle of clothing as he made his way closer to you, his sock-clad feet making muffled, padded noises on the almost sterile, white marble floors. By the time he made it over to the bed, his t-shirt and cargo shorts had been deposited into his dirty clothes hamper, leaving him in just his socks and boxers. 

“You’re lying on top of my pajamas—can I just, like… just scoot over a little bit for like a second so I can grab them?” His voice was tired, and Jason sounded more tired than you felt. Knowing him, he spent the miserably humid day sparring until his arms couldn’t reach above his own shoulders. 

You turned to him, still cocooned in his blankets, and pretended to think about his request, humming as if you were entertaining the idea. 

“Hmm, let me think about that for a minute,” you mused, scrunching up your nose and letting your eyes crinkle. 

You paused for a moment longer than what would have been funny, just long enough for Jason to shift his weight from one leg to the other while huffing a breath out through his nose. 

“No, I don’t think that I will,” you told him, a rather menacing smile making the corners of your lips curl upwards, “and besides, you won’t need them for what I’m in the mood for.”

It was almost too easy to make Jason flush. It could have been comedic. Just that snarky little line about him not needing his pajamas had a rush of blood tinging his face pink. The back of his neck, the apples of his cheeks, the tips of his ears. 

All pink because you told him that he wouldn’t need his pajamas. 

You could also see blood rushing elsewhere, a certain appendage making itself known, starting to press against the already-tight fabric of his boxer briefs. 

“Well… I don’t—uhm, it’s been a pretty long day,” Jason mumbled, putting the pieces together in his head as the flush spread further across his cheeks. “It’s not that I don’t want to—gods, of course I want to, but, uh, I don’t know if my arms… they’re kinda jelly-ish from training today.”

He held out his arms, making a point to move them in a wobbly way, as if to demonstrate the fact that he trained too hard and turned his arms into rather useless noodles. Gorgeous, muscular noodles, but still useless nonetheless. 

“Wasn’t planning on you having to use them anyway,” you responded rather quickly, like you already had this response planned out in your head, like you knew that Jason would react like that. 

His eyebrows practically shot up to his hairline. 

“Not enough moon tonight?” He deadpanned, shifting his weight from one side to the other again. “You’re acting kinda punchy.”

You huffed at Jason and rolled your eyes. Sure, maybe you got more irritable than usual with less moon in the sky, but it didn’t make you any less irritated when your boyfriend pointed it out to you. 

“Oh my gods, Jason, just get in bed,” you snarked at him, peeling the comforter off of you like an invitation for him to join you between the sheets. “And don’t worry about your arms.”

Jason finally relented and flopped down in bed. You could see the way that his eyelids started to droop when his head finally hit the pillow. 

You wasted no time, rolling over and swinging a leg over his hips so that you were straddling Jason. 

“Oh.”

“Oh? What? You forgot that your girlfriend likes to touch you? That you’re not the only one who can be touchy?”

His blond lashes stopped fluttering. In fact, his blue eyes widened and practically glazed over. 

“N-no, I didn’t—I could never,” Jason whispered, his breath stuttering in his chest. Your hands pressed into his chest to steady yourself, fingers spreading like a brand over his warm skin.

It made Jason make a noise like a deflating, yet happy, balloon when you shifted your weight onto his dick, only two layers of clothes separating the two of you.

“Love, you look—hmph—” he made a little gasping noise when you shifted your weight yet again on him, interrupting him mid-thought. “I love how you look in my shirts, my boxers, shit—any of my clothes.”

You just smiled at him, toothy and a bit mischievous, while you shimmed off the boxers, shifting your weight from one leg to another as you tugged them off each leg. Jason’s eyes widened with unmistakable boyish joy when he saw that you weren’t wearing any underwear under his underwear that you stole from him. 

“Like what you see, weather boy?”

Despite your rather compromising position, the groan that left Jason was monumental, and the eye roll was practically an insult. It was your favorite way to aggravate him. 

“Love—please don’t—not right now,” he stammered out, squirming under you.

You didn’t even bother to suppress your laughter. You knew he wasn’t serious, or at least he wasn’t serious enough to keep him from getting impossibly harder against your thigh. You leaned down so that your lips brushed the shell of his ear, the way that always made him shudder.

“What? Feeling sensitive?” You giggled into his ear, letting your teeth graze the skin while your smile twisted into something more menacing.

He gasped. 

“Holy fuck,” Jason’s chest heaved, while his hands shot up to the hem of your (his) shirt and tugged at it, like he was asking for permission to take it off. When you smiled at him, he took that as a yes and yanked it off, excited to be graced with the presence of your tits in his face. His wonderfully blue and blown-out eyes went from left to right, and then right to left again, before they went back up to your face, like he was excited to see the same chest he’s been seeing for the past four years. “Please, tell me what you’re going to do that doesn’t involve my arms.”

A golden opportunity presented itself to you on a silver platter.

“Wouldn’t you like to know, weather boy?”

Before Jason could react with a presumably negative retort, you yanked down enough of his boxers for his dick to spring out. The girthy length greeted you with its flushed, already leaking tip, waiting for you—waiting for you to do anything, any sort of relief that you were willing to gift him. He hissed as the cold air touched the hot, sensitive skin. 

“Just relax, Jason,” you told him, pressing your thumb onto his bottom lip, a way to silence any future comments about what you had decided to dub him. 

You grabbed him, wrapping your hand around Jason’s dick—squeezing just enough for him to forget any earlier complaints as you stroked him once, twice, then he whimpered.

That’s when you kneeled up just enough to line him up with your already wet pussy. Just the feeling of the tip of his dick grazing your soft, wet folds was enough to have him jerking his hips up into you. His cockhead caught on your entrance, the leaking warmth of you practically beckoning him inside—calling him home. 

“Uh-uh-uh, Jason,” you chided out at him, pressing your palms to his chest, pushing him back down to the mattress. He let you push him back down into the sheets, into the pillows. The way that the muscles in his chest tensed—tightening, flexing, resisting—and then went lax, told you that he let you push him back into the bed. Jason would let you do anything.

And then you sank down.

Your breath caught in your chest, just because it had been a little bit too long, and he was thicker than you last remembered. Jason whimpered, trying his hardest not to buck up all the way into you. 

“Oh my gods—I missed you—fuck, I missed you,” Jason whined, squeezing his eyes shut as he worked harder than he felt comfortable admitting to not thrusting his hips into the warm, wet, velvety closeness that was you.

The smirk you gave him was rather cruel. It made his eyes glass over. Or maybe that was because you were sinking down further, your hips finally flush with Jason’s. 

You rocked your hips, letting yourself get used to him. He just scrunched up his face, letting a puff of air out from his nose. Jason’s flush started from his shoulders, went up his neck, and all the way to the tips of his ears. His breathing didn’t steady, but his hands found your thighs, giving you a squeeze like he had to convince himself that you were there, that you were real and letting him have you in this way, in a way without armor. 

“Yeah? Yeah, I know you did, Jase,” you murmured, still pressing down on his chest. 

You started slow, raising yourself up on your knees just enough for him to get that close to slipping out before you lowered yourself back down, holding up most of your weight on your hands where they were leaning on his shoulders. Just hard enough to remind Jason that he wasn’t the one making decisions right now. 

You only sped up when he started to fist at the sheets. And because your knees started to disagree with how they were being bent. 

Jason’s hands moved up to your hips. Not to guide—no, he was good at following instructions, even when they weren’t verbal; he knew that he wasn’t in charge right now. No, Jason’s hands moved up to your hips so that he could touch your skin, so that he could feel the heat of your body, the texture of your skin, the movement that was leaving him breathless and biting back whines. 

He was breathless, his face flushed like he just finished climbing Mount Othrys, fingertips pressing into the flesh of your hips, watching as your body yielded to his hands. 

Both of you were tired from the rather long and grueling day, so of course, things got a bit sloppier, as they tended to do. Jason tried to help you move along with him, the best he could with his overused arms, to take some of the strain away from you. You, in turn, migrated your hands to the center of his chest, fingertips resting on his collarbone while you held your weight up with the heels of your hands right on those delicious chest muscles of his—the ones that he’d probably let you bite later, marking him with the unique set of teeth that you possessed like you were branding him as your own with something as individual as your thumbprint. But the indentation of your bite on his flesh was much more intimate than your thumbprint on his glasses; it was something that only you could leave on him in the form of an angry red bruise. Only you were allowed to leave angry red bruises in the shape of teeth on Jason. 

By now, there was a thin sheen of sweat on both of you, making your hands slip down his chest and onto his collarbone. It made you reposition your hands, scrambling back to the center of his chest, away from his neck. 

“Are y’close?” Jason asked you, his voice strained and rather thin. His voice was soft right now, a version of him that only you were allowed to see, allowed to touch and hear like this. 

You didn’t dignify him with an answer, opting to just scrunch your nose and let him deduce in his dazed, hazy little state. 

And he did. He saw how he was shuddering with each movement more than you, how he was getting louder, much louder than you were. So he let one of his hands travel from your hip to between your legs, right above where the two of you joined, and he rubbed with his thumb. His rather large, calloused thumb finding the bundle of nerves—rubbing it expertly as always until your thighs tightened around his waist. 

“Yeah? Like that?” He asked again, the blue of his eyes almost completely swallowed by his dark pupils. His voice went up an octave. 

“Mhm, just like that—keep going,” you cooed at him, your own rhythm faltering before you continued, your motions less smooth and more disjointed now. Jason could see it; he could see that it was better for you now, even while he was a whimpering puddle underneath of you. 

Jason took that as his cue to press harder. For his thumb to slide down a bit farther and then back up again, getting between that swollen bundle of nerves and the flushed flesh that typically covered it. 

It was an onslaught of sensation. Enough to make your face crinkle, your shoulders hunch, your thighs clamp around Jason’s waist—enough for your body to fold in on itself with a squeal that was typically uncharacteristic of yourself. 

That’s when your hands slipped. They slipped from Jason’s collarbone, sliding forward on the glossy surface of his chest. You didn’t mean to grab him like that, but you weren’t thinking quite right with the sensation of feeling so full and so much all at once. So to steady yourself, you grabbed at the closest thing to your hands;

Jason’s neck.

It was harder than it should have been since you were already leaning forward, so half of your weight was transferred from his broad chest to his neck. He reacted before you did. 

The lightbulb in his bedside lamp flared to life and then quickly burst, the glass bulb shattering within a matter of seconds. 

Jason’s eyes went from hooded and dazed to widening in an instant. His hips jerked up like he forgot that you were the one fucking him and not the other way around—like he forgot who was in charge for a moment. 

And Gods, the noise that left his mouth. It was a thin, breathy little whimper. Something that you had never heard from him before. It was a noise that no son of Jupiter should ever be reduced to. But here Jason was, whining and whimpering like he wasn’t Hera’s Champion being ridden into oblivion by a daughter of Hecate choking him on accident. 

You could even feel him jerk inside of you, almost as if Jason liked it.

“Jason—“ your hands quickly scrabbled to leave his neck, planting them next to either side of Jason’s head on the pillows, your hips stilling despite the rhythm that was making the two of you unravel. You felt horrible, like you overstepped, did something that you weren’t supposed to, something that could hurt him, although his forearms were sparkling with electricity. 

But Jason just squeezed his eyes shut, turning his head to the side like he couldn’t stand the idea of you seeing him right now, seeing him react so positively, so enthusiastically to the fact that your hands accidentally wrapped around his neck. When Jason felt your hands leave his neck, he had to bite back a whine, a literal whine like he was some unruly puppy being denied table scraps. The only thing that kept him from pouting was the fact that now your tits were right in his face, within kissing distance. 

“I, uhm—wait-wait,” he sputtered out, flushing even more red as his hands scrambled cover his face. His voice was so quiet that if the cabin wasn’t silent, you wouldn’t have heard him. It was like the words were getting pulled out of his mouth involuntarily, stumbling out as if compelled. “You don’t—you don’t have to stop… But that’s—that’s only if, you know—if you… if you want to.”

You settled back on Jason, leaning your weight back just a little bit, enough to take your hands away from where you had accidentally grabbed. Your head tilted to the side, like angling your brain differently would somehow let the pieces click together faster in your head while you were still reeling from the idea of doing something that your boyfriend wasn’t comfortable with. 

“You-you liked that?”

He peeked through where his fingers were splayed over his face with what one might call an embarrassed squeak. Jason nodded. 

Your nervousness dissolved instantly. Your smile turned cruel. Jason’s hands went back to your hips, letting you see his adorably flushed face—his fair skin pinked up like you had slapped him. 

“Then just tell me if it’s too much, Jase,” you told him, the corners of your lips turning up in a way that made Jason’s stomach flip worse than when your hands grabbed his neck for the first time. There was a spark in your eye—not the same kind that appeared when Jason was overwhelmed, not a spark of electricity, but magic. Literal magic. It was a faint purple; it looked like glitter falling from your lashes as you braced yourself to put your hands on the neck of the boy you loved. 

Jason only noticed because he was staring at your face, at your eyes, so that he could see if you were thinking of him differently. Your eyes didn’t change. 

This time, you wrapped your hands around his neck purposefully, because this time you were doing this with a purpose, not just some result of your hands slipping on his chest. Jason’s neck was thick and corded with muscles, the neck of someone who had too many thoughts and believed that physical training was the only way to clear one’s mind. 

You proved to him that there was an another way. 

It was to have your girlfriend wrap her slender fingers around the base of your neck and squeeze like she wanted the last breath of air you took to be the air you shared with her. 

The gentle squeeze of your hands made him whimper and buck his hips up impatiently, involuntarily. But he could feel his own pulse hammering against your fingers where they were wrapped around his neck, his breath stuttering at the thought of your hands in such a vulnerable place. 

Reyna would tease him relentlessly if she ever found out about this. 

Jason would die, surely—or maybe shock himself into micro-bits of demigod, blowing up into millions and billions of pieces with his own lightning strike. 

But it was only you in the cabin, only you seeing him like this, only you with your hands around his neck. There was no one else he would rather have holding like this, holding him in a position where you could snap his neck, where you could press down harder to keep him from taking another breath ever again. Hades—you could mumble some sort of spell under your breath that he was none the wiser of because of how enthralled he was by having an absolute lack of control over his own safety at the moment. 

But you would never. You would never hurt Jason—never in a million years. And he knew that. Jason knew that you would never hurt him, that’s why you were allowed to sit on top of him like this with your hands wrapped around his throat, leering in like some sort of predator from one of his teenage wet dreams with magic fluttering around your lashes and hair like some sort of personification of glitter that emoted for you. It danced at your fingertips, tickling his throat and mimicking the little currents of electricity that bounced from fingertip to fingertip where his hands were grabbing onto your hips. 

So Jason nodded at you, a nonverbal “all is well,” and you started to move again. 

It was different now. Your weight shifted as you lifted your hips up and down along Jason, making the pressure on his throat change with each movement. Every time you lifted your hips, the pressure increased; every time you sank back down, the pressure decreased. It was like a game of catch-up for Jason—only feeling you wrapped around his entirety when there was the least amount of pressure on his throat, and then half, if not more, of him left out in the unforgivingly cold air of Cabin 1 when there was the most pressure on his neck.

You could have said that he melted, but that would have been a lie. His body was tense. All the muscles that he had spent years sculpting into a functional tool, into weapons, were tensed, like his body was ready to take a breath and hold it for however long you deemed necessary. Even if it was for minutes, hours, or even days. Jason would try to hold his breath for that long if it were your hands wrapped around his throat, your hands being the ones to keep him from sucking in the much-needed oxygen—oxygen that he could control, winds that he could physically will into his own lungs. 

But he would rather you be the one to decide when his lungs were allowed to fill with air. You were the one who told him which shirts of his looked best with which jeans and which shoes. You were the one who had the stronger opinions on where the two of you went to dinner. You were the one who not-so-subtly informed Jason of what haircut to get by giving him the illusion of choice while holding up three pictures of almost the exact same haircut. You were the one who decided when it was time to fuck, when it was time to just go to sleep. 

It was only fitting that you got to control when he could breathe. 

“Fuck—fuck,” Jason stammered, his breath catching in his throat under your hands, his head pressing further back into the pillows because it was so much more than what he was used to. 

He sounded so ruined. So of course, you sped up. 

Then he started rambling. 

“I’m not—fucking—love, ‘m not gonna—I can’t—please, oh gods, please”

He was going to come. Jason Grace, the son of Jupiter, the Champion of Juno, the demigod who killed a titan with his bare hands, was going to come with his girlfriend's hands wrapped around his neck. 

His hands shot from where they were grasping at your hips to urge you to go faster, to go harder, to your wrists. 

“Please—fucking fuck—please,” Jason whimpered, pressing your hands around his neck harder so that it was harder to breathe instead of that pleasant buzzing pleasure that he had gotten used to before. Each movement of your hips against his was greeted with a breathy little noise, resulting in a constant chorus of little “ah-ah-ah’s" filling the space between you two. 

You obliged Jason, pressing your hands harder, squeezing his neck just a little bit more, just enough for him to jerk inside of you, twitching with overwhelm and impending euphoria. 

“There we go, just let me do what I need to do, Jase—relax,” you purred to him, your own breath catching in your chest when you saw that look in his eyes. 

The way that Jason trusted you so completely with himself, like he knew that you would never do anything to hurt him, anything to break him. He was a version of himself with you that he didn’t let anyone else see. 

You were the one who got to see that version of Jason. Not Reyna, not Leo, not Piper. You. 

The thought of that alone had you shuddering, little draw-out whines escaping your throat as you moved more frantically. Whatever rhythm you thought you had set had dissolved, leaving a frenzied dance of your hips meeting with Jason’s halfway, your hands squeezing around his throat harder like it could anchor you to this mortal plane of existence. 

“Love, fuck—fuck—I can’t—I’m gonna—oh fuck—!”

Jason’s vision was already starting to be spotted with black before he came, his dick lurching and twitching inside of you, spilling into where you welcomed him so warmly, so tightly. His vision completely blacked out when he did. Maybe it was the way that your hands were still squeezing his throat, or maybe it was the fact that this might have been the best orgasm of his entire life… which may or may not have been attributed to your hands around his neck. 

You didn’t stop. Jason didn’t like the idea of him finishing before you, so in rare times like now where he did, he always told you to keep going—to use him until you finished. So you assumed the same protocol applied now. 

You quickened your movements, chasing your own pleasure now, hands loosening around Jason’s neck. Jason took that as his cue to rub his thumb over your clit again, really only brushing it gently before your thighs squeezed around his waist, and gods—you let out a noise that almost made him half-hard again.

“Jason—Jase,” you gasped, your body trembling not only from the effort but also because yeah, you were right there and Jason started to press harder with his thumb and he was murmuring something about how much he loved you, about how pretty you were, about how perfect you were for him, and that was it. 

You fluttered around Jason with a moan that sounded like it was mixed with a squeak while your hips jerked against Jason’s without any discernible pattern and then you came. Jason’s eyes went wide again when you did, taking you in as you shuddered and your breathing came in ragged puffs of air. 

Before you were even finished cumming he was holding you close, pulling your chest flush with his so that the sweat-slicked skin stuck together. He held you while your thighs spasmed, while you clenched and milked Jason for everything he was worth. He petted your hair, pressing kiss after kiss to whatever patch of skin he could reach. 

Your temple. The apple of your cheek. The tip of your nose. 

Then you buried your face in his chest, panting and whining while your shaky hands were clutching Jason’s shoulders. 

He kissed the curve of your neck. The slope of your shoulder. The crown of your head. 

“Love you,” he whispered into your hair like it was a secret that you weren’t supposed to hear. 

You took in a breath, but it caught in your throat. You took another breath. 

“Love you too, you dork.”

It was one of those long, annoying days at Camp Half-Blood. It was humid, and the training drills felt like they would never end. You got assigned to collect all of the weapons and put them away in the weapons shed behind the Ares Cabin with an Aphrodite boy who was no help at all. He spent the whole time watching you and using his dagger to scrape the dirt out from under his nails. 

By the time dinner was over, you didn’t feel like sitting through a campfire where the heat from the fire would mingle with the lingering heat of the day and the smothering humidity in the air. The way that all of the Apollo kids were singing their campfire songs didn’t seem fun at the moment, just grating against your eardrums, like nails on a chalkboard. It wasn’t necessarily their fault that you were having a shitty day, that their singing didn’t help your mood, but in the moment, it was easier to blame them for your headache before shuffling back towards the cabins. 

Your own cabin was too crowded, so you didn’t go back to Cabin 20, where most of your siblings were undoubtedly skipping the campfire to rest on account of the waxing crescent moon. So, you decided to go to your boyfriend’s cabin. 

Cabin 1. The Zeus Cabin. 

Jason wasn’t in the cabin, but you knew he wouldn’t mind if you made yourself at home until he came back. Knowing Jason, he was at the campfire because technically everyone had to go to the campfire every night, and Jason loved being technical about things. 

The Zeus Cabin was cold, like someone had turned the A/C on blast since it was built and never bothered to turn it off, letting the marble interior turn into ice. 

But considering you had spent most of the day in the sun, in 74% humidity, you found it to be rather comforting at the moment. 

Your sneakers stayed at the door, toed off before you could track mud on the marble floors, and you padded over to the bottom drawer of Jason’s dresser. The drawer slid open on its tracks, and you grabbed what you needed. A pair of boxer shorts with the Superman logo on them. You had gotten them for Jason as a joke last year for his birthday, so it only made sense that you changed into them for pajamas. 

You stole one of his LA Dodgers shirts; it was threadbare and stretched out. Jason had told you about how he got it from a street vendor when he was fifteen, and Camp Jupiter let him and Dakota go on a rather extensive scouting mission. He had handed the vendor two leaves that The Mist disguised to look like a ten and a five-dollar bill. 

The clothes you had worn today peeled off your body like a layer of second skin, your Camp Half-Blood t-shirt sticking to your back in a way that made you cringe and flick it into the corner of the cabin. A problem for you later. 

Your shorts, bra, and socks joined the pile of dirty clothes in the corner, and soon you were slipping into the clean, dry, chilled boxer shorts and worn-out t-shirt that technically didn’t belong to you. Jason’s bed was practically calling your name, so of course, you had to crawl in and under the covers. 

His comforter was plain white but soft and plush, his sheets were a light blue that always made his cheeks look flushed when your fingers splayed across his chest, and his breath came in short, ragged bursts. It was a lovely shade of blue that made you whisper into his ear, “nuh-uh, eye’s open, Jase,” so that you could see how thin a ring of matching blue threatened to be swallowed up by the black of his pupils when your thumb pressed down on his bottom lip. 

Jason’s bed welcomed you with a mix of the camp detergent, pine, and ozone. Practically his signature scent. 

You curled up, gathering the blanket to your chest, stuffing it right under your chin, covering the goosebumps that had started to prickle your skin now that you were cooling down from the unbearable heat of the day. 

Above your head, the thunderstorm on the ceiling filled the otherwise empty and quiet cabin. You let your thoughts drift for the next however many minutes until you heard the quiet, familiar, reserved sigh come from the doorway. 

“Hey, Love.”

Jason’s voice traveled from the front of the cabin to where you were curled up in his bed in the corner of the cabin. You could hear the rustle of clothing as he made his way closer to you, his sock-clad feet making muffled, padded noises on the almost sterile, white marble floors. By the time he made it over to the bed, his t-shirt and cargo shorts had been deposited into his dirty clothes hamper, leaving him in just his socks and boxers. 

“You’re lying on top of my pajamas—can I just, like… just scoot over a little bit for like a second so I can grab them?” His voice was tired, and Jason sounded more tired than you felt. Knowing him, he spent the miserably humid day sparring until his arms couldn’t reach above his own shoulders. 

You turned to him, still cocooned in his blankets, and pretended to think about his request, humming as if you were entertaining the idea. 

“Hmm, let me think about that for a minute,” you mused, scrunching up your nose and letting your eyes crinkle. 

You paused for a moment longer than what would have been funny, just long enough for Jason to shift his weight from one leg to the other while huffing a breath out through his nose. 

“No, I don’t think that I will,” you told him, a rather menacing smile making the corners of your lips curl upwards, “and besides, you won’t need them for what I’m in the mood for.”

It was almost too easy to make Jason flush. It could have been comedic. Just that snarky little line about him not needing his pajamas had a rush of blood tinging his face pink. The back of his neck, the apples of his cheeks, the tips of his ears. 

All pink because you told him that he wouldn’t need his pajamas. 

You could also see blood rushing elsewhere, a certain appendage making itself known, starting to press against the already-tight fabric of his boxer briefs. 

“Well… I don’t—uhm, it’s been a pretty long day,” Jason mumbled, putting the pieces together in his head as the flush spread further across his cheeks. “It’s not that I don’t want to—gods, of course I want to, but, uh, I don’t know if my arms… they’re kinda jelly-ish from training today.”

He held out his arms, making a point to move them in a wobbly way, as if to demonstrate the fact that he trained too hard and turned his arms into rather useless noodles. Gorgeous, muscular noodles, but still useless nonetheless. 

“Wasn’t planning on you having to use them anyway,” you responded rather quickly, like you already had this response planned out in your head, like you knew that Jason would react like that. 

His eyebrows practically shot up to his hairline. 

“Not enough moon tonight?” He deadpanned, shifting his weight from one side to the other again. “You’re acting kinda punchy.”

You huffed at Jason and rolled your eyes. Sure, maybe you got more irritable than usual with less moon in the sky, but it didn’t make you any less irritated when your boyfriend pointed it out to you. 

“Oh my gods, Jason, just get in bed,” you snarked at him, peeling the comforter off of you like an invitation for him to join you between the sheets. “And don’t worry about your arms.”

Jason finally relented and flopped down in bed. You could see the way that his eyelids started to droop when his head finally hit the pillow. 

You wasted no time, rolling over and swinging a leg over his hips so that you were straddling Jason. 

“Oh.”

“Oh? What? You forgot that your girlfriend likes to touch you? That you’re not the only one who can be touchy?”

His blond lashes stopped fluttering. In fact, his blue eyes widened and practically glazed over. 

“N-no, I didn’t—I could never,” Jason whispered, his breath stuttering in his chest. Your hands pressed into his chest to steady yourself, fingers spreading like a brand over his warm skin.

It made Jason make a noise like a deflating, yet happy, balloon when you shifted your weight onto his dick, only two layers of clothes separating the two of you.

“Love, you look—hmph—” he made a little gasping noise when you shifted your weight yet again on him, interrupting him mid-thought. “I love how you look in my shirts, my boxers, shit—any of my clothes.”

You just smiled at him, toothy and a bit mischievous, while you shimmed off the boxers, shifting your weight from one leg to another as you tugged them off each leg. Jason’s eyes widened with unmistakable boyish joy when he saw that you weren’t wearing any underwear under his underwear that you stole from him. 

“Like what you see, weather boy?”

Despite your rather compromising position, the groan that left Jason was monumental, and the eye roll was practically an insult. It was your favorite way to aggravate him. 

“Love—please don’t—not right now,” he stammered out, squirming under you.

You didn’t even bother to suppress your laughter. You knew he wasn’t serious, or at least he wasn’t serious enough to keep him from getting impossibly harder against your thigh. You leaned down so that your lips brushed the shell of his ear, the way that always made him shudder.

“What? Feeling sensitive?” You giggled into his ear, letting your teeth graze the skin while your smile twisted into something more menacing.

He gasped. 

“Holy fuck,” Jason’s chest heaved, while his hands shot up to the hem of your (his) shirt and tugged at it, like he was asking for permission to take it off. When you smiled at him, he took that as a yes and yanked it off, excited to be graced with the presence of your tits in his face. His wonderfully blue and blown-out eyes went from left to right, and then right to left again, before they went back up to your face, like he was excited to see the same chest he’s been seeing for the past four years. “Please, tell me what you’re going to do that doesn’t involve my arms.”

A golden opportunity presented itself to you on a silver platter.

“Wouldn’t you like to know, weather boy?”

Before Jason could react with a presumably negative retort, you yanked down enough of his boxers for his dick to spring out. The girthy length greeted you with its flushed, already leaking tip, waiting for you—waiting for you to do anything, any sort of relief that you were willing to gift him. He hissed as the cold air touched the hot, sensitive skin. 

“Just relax, Jason,” you told him, pressing your thumb onto his bottom lip, a way to silence any future comments about what you had decided to dub him. 

You grabbed him, wrapping your hand around Jason’s dick—squeezing just enough for him to forget any earlier complaints as you stroked him once, twice, then he whimpered.

That’s when you kneeled up just enough to line him up with your already wet pussy. Just the feeling of the tip of his dick grazing your soft, wet folds was enough to have him jerking his hips up into you. His cockhead caught on your entrance, the leaking warmth of you practically beckoning him inside—calling him home. 

“Uh-uh-uh, Jason,” you chided out at him, pressing your palms to his chest, pushing him back down to the mattress. He let you push him back down into the sheets, into the pillows. The way that the muscles in his chest tensed—tightening, flexing, resisting—and then went lax, told you that he let you push him back into the bed. Jason would let you do anything.

And then you sank down.

Your breath caught in your chest, just because it had been a little bit too long, and he was thicker than you last remembered. Jason whimpered, trying his hardest not to buck up all the way into you. 

“Oh my gods—I missed you—fuck, I missed you,” Jason whined, squeezing his eyes shut as he worked harder than he felt comfortable admitting to not thrusting his hips into the warm, wet, velvety closeness that was you.

The smirk you gave him was rather cruel. It made his eyes glass over. Or maybe that was because you were sinking down further, your hips finally flush with Jason’s. 

You rocked your hips, letting yourself get used to him. He just scrunched up his face, letting a puff of air out from his nose. Jason’s flush started from his shoulders, went up his neck, and all the way to the tips of his ears. His breathing didn’t steady, but his hands found your thighs, giving you a squeeze like he had to convince himself that you were there, that you were real and letting him have you in this way, in a way without armor. 

“Yeah? Yeah, I know you did, Jase,” you murmured, still pressing down on his chest. 

You started slow, raising yourself up on your knees just enough for him to get that close to slipping out before you lowered yourself back down, holding up most of your weight on your hands where they were leaning on his shoulders. Just hard enough to remind Jason that he wasn’t the one making decisions right now. 

You only sped up when he started to fist at the sheets. And because your knees started to disagree with how they were being bent. 

Jason’s hands moved up to your hips. Not to guide—no, he was good at following instructions, even when they weren’t verbal; he knew that he wasn’t in charge right now. No, Jason’s hands moved up to your hips so that he could touch your skin, so that he could feel the heat of your body, the texture of your skin, the movement that was leaving him breathless and biting back whines. 

He was breathless, his face flushed like he just finished climbing Mount Othrys, fingertips pressing into the flesh of your hips, watching as your body yielded to his hands. 

Both of you were tired from the rather long and grueling day, so of course, things got a bit sloppier, as they tended to do. Jason tried to help you move along with him, the best he could with his overused arms, to take some of the strain away from you. You, in turn, migrated your hands to the center of his chest, fingertips resting on his collarbone while you held your weight up with the heels of your hands right on those delicious chest muscles of his—the ones that he’d probably let you bite later, marking him with the unique set of teeth that you possessed like you were branding him as your own with something as individual as your thumbprint. But the indentation of your bite on his flesh was much more intimate than your thumbprint on his glasses; it was something that only you could leave on him in the form of an angry red bruise. Only you were allowed to leave angry red bruises in the shape of teeth on Jason. 

By now, there was a thin sheen of sweat on both of you, making your hands slip down his chest and onto his collarbone. It made you reposition your hands, scrambling back to the center of his chest, away from his neck. 

“Are y’close?” Jason asked you, his voice strained and rather thin. His voice was soft right now, a version of him that only you were allowed to see, allowed to touch and hear like this. 

You didn’t dignify him with an answer, opting to just scrunch your nose and let him deduce in his dazed, hazy little state. 

And he did. He saw how he was shuddering with each movement more than you, how he was getting louder, much louder than you were. So he let one of his hands travel from your hip to between your legs, right above where the two of you joined, and he rubbed with his thumb. His rather large, calloused thumb finding the bundle of nerves—rubbing it expertly as always until your thighs tightened around his waist. 

“Yeah? Like that?” He asked again, the blue of his eyes almost completely swallowed by his dark pupils. His voice went up an octave. 

“Mhm, just like that—keep going,” you cooed at him, your own rhythm faltering before you continued, your motions less smooth and more disjointed now. Jason could see it; he could see that it was better for you now, even while he was a whimpering puddle underneath of you. 

Jason took that as his cue to press harder. For his thumb to slide down a bit farther and then back up again, getting between that swollen bundle of nerves and the flushed flesh that typically covered it. 

It was an onslaught of sensation. Enough to make your face crinkle, your shoulders hunch, your thighs clamp around Jason’s waist—enough for your body to fold in on itself with a squeal that was typically uncharacteristic of yourself. 

That’s when your hands slipped. They slipped from Jason’s collarbone, sliding forward on the glossy surface of his chest. You didn’t mean to grab him like that, but you weren’t thinking quite right with the sensation of feeling so full and so much all at once. So to steady yourself, you grabbed at the closest thing to your hands;

Jason’s neck.

It was harder than it should have been since you were already leaning forward, so half of your weight was transferred from his broad chest to his neck. He reacted before you did. 

The lightbulb in his bedside lamp flared to life and then quickly burst, the glass bulb shattering within a matter of seconds. 

Jason’s eyes went from hooded and dazed to widening in an instant. His hips jerked up like he forgot that you were the one fucking him and not the other way around—like he forgot who was in charge for a moment. 

And Gods, the noise that left his mouth. It was a thin, breathy little whimper. Something that you had never heard from him before. It was a noise that no son of Jupiter should ever be reduced to. But here Jason was, whining and whimpering like he wasn’t Hera’s Champion being ridden into oblivion by a daughter of Hecate choking him on accident. 

You could even feel him jerk inside of you, almost as if Jason liked it.

“Jason—“ your hands quickly scrabbled to leave his neck, planting them next to either side of Jason’s head on the pillows, your hips stilling despite the rhythm that was making the two of you unravel. You felt horrible, like you overstepped, did something that you weren’t supposed to, something that could hurt him, although his forearms were sparkling with electricity. 

But Jason just squeezed his eyes shut, turning his head to the side like he couldn’t stand the idea of you seeing him right now, seeing him react so positively, so enthusiastically to the fact that your hands accidentally wrapped around his neck. When Jason felt your hands leave his neck, he had to bite back a whine, a literal whine like he was some unruly puppy being denied table scraps. The only thing that kept him from pouting was the fact that now your tits were right in his face, within kissing distance. 

“I, uhm—wait-wait,” he sputtered out, flushing even more red as his hands scrambled cover his face. His voice was so quiet that if the cabin wasn’t silent, you wouldn’t have heard him. It was like the words were getting pulled out of his mouth involuntarily, stumbling out as if compelled. “You don’t—you don’t have to stop… But that’s—that’s only if, you know—if you… if you want to.”

You settled back on Jason, leaning your weight back just a little bit, enough to take your hands away from where you had accidentally grabbed. Your head tilted to the side, like angling your brain differently would somehow let the pieces click together faster in your head while you were still reeling from the idea of doing something that your boyfriend wasn’t comfortable with. 

“You-you liked that?”

He peeked through where his fingers were splayed over his face with what one might call an embarrassed squeak. Jason nodded. 

Your nervousness dissolved instantly. Your smile turned cruel. Jason’s hands went back to your hips, letting you see his adorably flushed face—his fair skin pinked up like you had slapped him. 

“Then just tell me if it’s too much, Jase,” you told him, the corners of your lips turning up in a way that made Jason’s stomach flip worse than when your hands grabbed his neck for the first time. There was a spark in your eye—not the same kind that appeared when Jason was overwhelmed, not a spark of electricity, but magic. Literal magic. It was a faint purple; it looked like glitter falling from your lashes as you braced yourself to put your hands on the neck of the boy you loved. 

Jason only noticed because he was staring at your face, at your eyes, so that he could see if you were thinking of him differently. Your eyes didn’t change. 

This time, you wrapped your hands around his neck purposefully, because this time you were doing this with a purpose, not just some result of your hands slipping on his chest. Jason’s neck was thick and corded with muscles, the neck of someone who had too many thoughts and believed that physical training was the only way to clear one’s mind. 

You proved to him that there was an another way. 

It was to have your girlfriend wrap her slender fingers around the base of your neck and squeeze like she wanted the last breath of air you took to be the air you shared with her. 

The gentle squeeze of your hands made him whimper and buck his hips up impatiently, involuntarily. But he could feel his own pulse hammering against your fingers where they were wrapped around his neck, his breath stuttering at the thought of your hands in such a vulnerable place. 

Reyna would tease him relentlessly if she ever found out about this. 

Jason would die, surely—or maybe shock himself into micro-bits of demigod, blowing up into millions and billions of pieces with his own lightning strike. 

But it was only you in the cabin, only you seeing him like this, only you with your hands around his neck. There was no one else he would rather have holding like this, holding him in a position where you could snap his neck, where you could press down harder to keep him from taking another breath ever again. Hades—you could mumble some sort of spell under your breath that he was none the wiser of because of how enthralled he was by having an absolute lack of control over his own safety at the moment. 

But you would never. You would never hurt Jason—never in a million years. And he knew that. Jason knew that you would never hurt him, that’s why you were allowed to sit on top of him like this with your hands wrapped around his throat, leering in like some sort of predator from one of his teenage wet dreams with magic fluttering around your lashes and hair like some sort of personification of glitter that emoted for you. It danced at your fingertips, tickling his throat and mimicking the little currents of electricity that bounced from fingertip to fingertip where his hands were grabbing onto your hips. 

So Jason nodded at you, a nonverbal “all is well,” and you started to move again. 

It was different now. Your weight shifted as you lifted your hips up and down along Jason, making the pressure on his throat change with each movement. Every time you lifted your hips, the pressure increased; every time you sank back down, the pressure decreased. It was like a game of catch-up for Jason—only feeling you wrapped around his entirety when there was the least amount of pressure on his throat, and then half, if not more, of him left out in the unforgivingly cold air of Cabin 1 when there was the most pressure on his neck.

You could have said that he melted, but that would have been a lie. His body was tense. All the muscles that he had spent years sculpting into a functional tool, into weapons, were tensed, like his body was ready to take a breath and hold it for however long you deemed necessary. Even if it was for minutes, hours, or even days. Jason would try to hold his breath for that long if it were your hands wrapped around his throat, your hands being the ones to keep him from sucking in the much-needed oxygen—oxygen that he could control, winds that he could physically will into his own lungs. 

But he would rather you be the one to decide when his lungs were allowed to fill with air. You were the one who told him which shirts of his looked best with which jeans and which shoes. You were the one who had the stronger opinions on where the two of you went to dinner. You were the one who not-so-subtly informed Jason of what haircut to get by giving him the illusion of choice while holding up three pictures of almost the exact same haircut. You were the one who decided when it was time to fuck, when it was time to just go to sleep. 

It was only fitting that you got to control when he could breathe. 

“Fuck—fuck,” Jason stammered, his breath catching in his throat under your hands, his head pressing further back into the pillows because it was so much more than what he was used to. 

He sounded so ruined. So of course, you sped up. 

Then he started rambling. 

“I’m not—fucking—love, ‘m not gonna—I can’t—please, oh gods, please”

He was going to come. Jason Grace, the son of Jupiter, the Champion of Juno, the demigod who killed a titan with his bare hands, was going to come with his girlfriend's hands wrapped around his neck. 

His hands shot from where they were grasping at your hips to urge you to go faster, to go harder, to your wrists. 

“Please—fucking fuck—please,” Jason whimpered, pressing your hands around his neck harder so that it was harder to breathe instead of that pleasant buzzing pleasure that he had gotten used to before. Each movement of your hips against his was greeted with a breathy little noise, resulting in a constant chorus of little “ah-ah-ah’s" filling the space between you two. 

You obliged Jason, pressing your hands harder, squeezing his neck just a little bit more, just enough for him to jerk inside of you, twitching with overwhelm and impending euphoria. 

“There we go, just let me do what I need to do, Jase—relax,” you purred to him, your own breath catching in your chest when you saw that look in his eyes. 

The way that Jason trusted you so completely with himself, like he knew that you would never do anything to hurt him, anything to break him. He was a version of himself with you that he didn’t let anyone else see. 

You were the one who got to see that version of Jason. Not Reyna, not Leo, not Piper. You. 

The thought of that alone had you shuddering, little draw-out whines escaping your throat as you moved more frantically. Whatever rhythm you thought you had set had dissolved, leaving a frenzied dance of your hips meeting with Jason’s halfway, your hands squeezing around his throat harder like it could anchor you to this mortal plane of existence. 

“Love, fuck—fuck—I can’t—I’m gonna—oh fuck—!”

Jason’s vision was already starting to be spotted with black before he came, his dick lurching and twitching inside of you, spilling into where you welcomed him so warmly, so tightly. His vision completely blacked out when he did. Maybe it was the way that your hands were still squeezing his throat, or maybe it was the fact that this might have been the best orgasm of his entire life… which may or may not have been attributed to your hands around his neck. 

You didn’t stop. Jason didn’t like the idea of him finishing before you, so in rare times like now where he did, he always told you to keep going—to use him until you finished. So you assumed the same protocol applied now. 

You quickened your movements, chasing your own pleasure now, hands loosening around Jason’s neck. Jason took that as his cue to rub his thumb over your clit again, really only brushing it gently before your thighs squeezed around his waist, and gods—you let out a noise that almost made him half-hard again.

“Jason—Jase,” you gasped, your body trembling not only from the effort but also because yeah, you were right there and Jason started to press harder with his thumb and he was murmuring something about how much he loved you, about how pretty you were, about how perfect you were for him, and that was it. 

You fluttered around Jason with a moan that sounded like it was mixed with a squeak while your hips jerked against Jason’s without any discernible pattern and then you came. Jason’s eyes went wide again when you did, taking you in as you shuddered and your breathing came in ragged puffs of air. 

Before you were even finished cumming he was holding you close, pulling your chest flush with his so that the sweat-slicked skin stuck together. He held you while your thighs spasmed, while you clenched and milked Jason for everything he was worth. He petted your hair, pressing kiss after kiss to whatever patch of skin he could reach. 

Your temple. The apple of your cheek. The tip of your nose. 

Then you buried your face in his chest, panting and whining while your shaky hands were clutching Jason’s shoulders. 

He kissed the curve of your neck. The slope of your shoulder. The crown of your head. 

“Love you,” he whispered into your hair like it was a secret that you weren’t supposed to hear. 

You took in a breath, but it caught in your throat. You took another breath. 

“Love you too, you dork.”

How did you get here?

One minute, you and Percy were sprawled on the worn-out couch in his mom's cramped apartment, arguing over the last slice of pizza like it was the fate of the world, and the next, his hands were everywhere— insistent, pulling you toward the bedroom with a mischievous grin that always meant trouble.

Sally wasn't home, thank fuck, off at some book club meeting that left the place just for you and your boyfriend.

His bedroom was a disaster, posters of surf peeled from the walls, a half-eaten bag of blue candy on the nightstand, and your discarded pants and underwear laying tangled on the floor amid stray socks and his own hoodie.

Percy was beneath you, his black t-shirt rumpled, the sweatpants tented against your thigh. His hands were everywhere they needed to be— strong and calloused from years of sword fights and quests, but gentle in a way that only Percy had.

One of his legs nudged between yours, forcing your thighs apart to give himself good access.

His free hand alternated between gripping the curve of your ass, squeezing the flesh and the other times, when a particularly sharp wave of pleasure hit and your legs jerked, he'd snatch your ankle, holding it firm to stop you from kicking or shoving away.

"Easy there," he'd murmur teasingly, like he was taming you.

And his other hand? Fuck, it was buried deep inside you. Percy's fingers curled soooo good, pressing and rubbing against your g-spot with a rhythm that had you gasping right next to his head, your face buried in the pillow beside him.

The wet sounds, obscene and unrelenting, were mingling with the choked cries that you muffled against his skin.

Percy's head was resting on the pillow, his dark hair tousled, sea-green eyes half-lidded as he watched you unravel. He sighed, a low, content rumble, his gaze fixed on your ass raised high in the air, trembling from the way he worked your cunt.

"Babe, you look good like this," he murmured, thumb brushing your clit in a lazy circle to amp up the torment.

Your body arched as his fingers twisted, the pressure building like a storm in your core.

"Percy— oh god, Perceee," you whimpered, nails digging into his shoulder.

His hand on your ass gave a light smack, not hard to sting, but it made you clench.

"Percy— fuck," you gasped, your hand flying down to grab his wrist, trying to pull him away. You were so close, teetering on the brink, but the intensity was overwhelming, like he was trying to wring you dry.

He didn't stop at first, just chuckled softly, the sound playful. Then, with a gentle but firm tug, he pulled his fingers out, the sudden emptiness making you whine.

Your hand hovered, but he batted it aside easily, his strength no match for your poor trembling grip.

"My gorgeous girl," he shifted, palm pressing flat against your folds, caressing in broad, fast strokes that made your hips buck.

The friction was maddening— gentle to ease the immediate peak but insistent, slapping lightly against your wetness every few passes. The slaps stung, your breath hitching as you collapsed forward.

You whined, soft and broken, the overstimulation making your thighs quiver.

"Please... Percy, let me..." Your voice was muffled, body relaxing a fraction as the urgency ebbed, only for him to build it back with those teasing slaps. His hand on your ass kneaded harder, pulling you open wider, exposing you more to the cool air.

He watched it all, transfixed, the tremble in your muscles making his own breath come shorter.

Minutes dragged— maybe five, maybe ten; time blurred in the haze.

Then, without warning, his fingers slid back in, finding your g-spot in no time as if it was mapped in his mind. He attacked it slowly, curling and thrusting, the squelch louder from how turned on you were.

Tears pricked your eyes, not from pain but from the exquisite overload, every nerve of yours was singing.

"Percy, please, I can't—let me come, fuck, I'm begging you."

He laughed softly, turning his head to press a kiss to your temple. "You're so fucking cute when you're desperate like this. Look at you, crying for it."

His free hand caught your ankle again as your leg twitched, holding you steady so you couldn't twist away.

"Stop moving love, I can't finger you properly."

Your pleas grew hoarse as time passed, your body slick with sweat and your pussy throbbing around his fingers.

Then, in a haze of desperation, you turned your head, lips brushing his neck. You kissed him there, amidst the tears and moans, nipping at the skin, your hips rolling uselessly in the air like you could chase the release he was denying.

That did it.

"Alright, baby," he growled, voice thick. "You want it? Take it."

He went all out then, fingers thrusting deep and fast, curling against your g-spot with brutal precision. His thumb found your clit, pushing you over the edge without mercy.

The orgasm exploded in a matter of seconds, but he didn't stop— he just went harder, even, drawing it out until you were screaming into his neck.

"Perce—wait, stop, something—" you gasped, but it was too late.

Your body seized, pussy clenching around his fingers as you squirted, liquid gushing out in forceful spurts that soaked his sweatpants and darkened the sheets beneath his hip.

"Holy shit," Percy breathed, eyes wide with awe as he watched, not pulling back but pushing his fingers deeper (if even possible) to coax every drop, the mess spreading warm and wet across his lap.

It had never happened before, never in all your encounters, and the sight of it— your body convulsing, the dark evidence of your release— had him mesmerized.

"That's fucking magical. Look at you, making such a mess."

Your face was red from the effort and the embarrassment of having squirted as he kept going, fingers pumping to draw out every drop, milking the orgasm as you spasmed wildly.

"Keep going, yeah, like that babe."

You moaned loudly against his neck, the sound echoing off the walls, so he captured your mouth in a messy kiss, swallowing your cries to keep the whole building from hearing.

His tongue tangled with yours, tasting the salt of your tears, while his free hand snatched your ankle once more— your leg kicking from the spasms, your toes curling.

In the end he had to pull out his hand to hold your ass firm, fingers digging into the flesh to stop you from thrashing.

Percy was a sucker for this— he loved making you cry, loved the power of giving you pleasure so intense it broke you open.

He didn't even need to touch himself; the sight of your face when he broke the kiss, the feel of your squirting mess soaking through his sweatpants, pushed him over his own edge.

His hips jerked, a low groan as he came in his pants, the warmth spreading against your thigh.

You didn't need your hands or mouth, just the raw thrill of your pleasure could do it for him.

You collapsed fully onto him, chest heaving, body still twitching with aftershocks. He finally eased his hold, tracing soothing patterns over your thighs as he kissed your forehead, your cheeks, anywhere he could reach.

"That was... fuck, you okay?" he murmured, voice soft, a far cry from the teasing bastard from minutes ago.

You nodded, managing a weak laugh. "Yeah... just... wow. That was intense."

Your body was sensitive and sated, and you nuzzled into his neck, feeling the rapid beat of his heart.

He chuckled, holding you close.

"Understatement of the century. You're incredible, you know that?" His hand stroked your back, as the two of you lay there in the wreckage of his room.

"Mhm.. We should clean up this mess before your mom gets back.

★ eiris 2026. not proofreaded ! ❩

“Do you… have any pets?”

The man across from you blinks slowly, then shakes his head. He hasn’t said much at all, despite this being an interview.

But the last girl had asked some very explicit questions about your sex life. Specifically if you were open to threesomes, and—if not—if you’d be really chill about them happening in the living room. 

Then there has been the guy who told you that you shouldn’t fall in love with him—despite looking and sounding like the human version of Mickey Mouse—the girl who grabbed your palm and started crying because apparently you were going to be in grave danger by the end of the month, and the couple who told you they were professional Youtubers, but when you looked them up after they seemed to be airing on the aspiring side. The guy had made you sit for twenty minutes to listen to his podcast, and the girl had told you she’d leave him for you in a second before they left. 

So quiet isn’t great.

It’s far better than your other options. 

And this guy seems sane enough. He hasn’t tried to sleep with you. He doesn’t look like the type to have a podcast. He’s just been staring at you from the couch, sitting a little straighter than you’ve ever seen, his resting causal on his legs. Jeans, hoodie and leather jacket, boots that he’d wiped on the mat before coming inside. 

Gloves.

It’s not that cold outside, but he’s wearing gloves. And there’s something about his face that seems familiar, but he might just be that kind of pretty. 

He is pretty. 

Which doesn’t matter, because you’re interviewing for a roommate and not a boyfriend, but it’s still nice. Especially if, barring he says something that makes you think he’s a serial killer, he’s probably about to be your new roommate. 

“What do you do for work?” You ask, tapping your pen against your knee, and his eyes flick to the motion before he responds. 

“I clean things up. For people.”

You tilt your head at him. “Like a janitor?” 

He huffs a low laugh, and shrugs. “Sure.”

“Sure? Or you are a janitor?”

“I’m like a janitor.”

“So what are you actually?” You raise your brows, and he sighs. 

“I clean up bigger messes. Me and my… friends. We take care of things that important people fuck up.”

Fucking Christ, he is a murder. “So you’re a hitman.”

He frowns. “I didn’t say that, doll-“

“You’re either a hitman or a janitor…” you glance down at his application. “James. So which is it.”

James stares at you for a long moment, and it feels like he’s seeing into you. It makes your skin buzz and your legs feel kind of soft, and you’re definitely leaning hitman because a janitor would never need to learn how to make you fold with only a look. It could just be that his eyes are a really clear shade of blue, and it reminds you of summertime.  

It’s probably that you’re interviewing a hitman, and you just called him out on being a hitman, and now he’s going to fucking kill you-

“You got my name, on that paper?”

You blink at him. “Yes?”

“Look at it again.”

You hold his gaze, trying to figure out if this is some kind of trick, and he’s going to stab you while you look at the paper. But James just raises his brows and nods to the paper, and you chew on your lower lip, bracing yourself to run, just in case. 

He doesn’t try to kill you, as you scan over his application again. James just waits, patiently and when you glance back up at him, his expression is so neutral you’d think he was a statue. 

You’d read the application before. You don’t know what he’s expecting you to find. James Buchanan Barnes, previous address somewhere a few blocks away, checked the veteran box, born March 10th, 1917, fairly average income but a good credit score when you’d run his social- 

Born in 1917. 

You look up at him, gaping and wide eyed, and there’s a twitch to his lips. You’d think he meant 1971, but even then, he doesn’t really look older than his mid-thirties. And he’s staring at you like he expected that reaction.

“Are you a hundred years old?” 

“Hundred and six.” He shrugs, still looking vaguely amused. “You ever take a history class?”

You scowl. “Of course I’ve taken a history class-“

“They do a unit on world war two?”

“Of course they-“ You cut yourself off, looking back down to the application. James Buchanan Barnes. He’s a veteran. He’s old, but doesn’t look old, and he and his buddy clean up messes. 

You feel like a fucking idiot. You watch the news. You have a subscription to the New York Times that you never fucking read, but you glance at the front page of. It’s not your fault his hair is different, and you also don’t expect superheroes to just walk into your apartment for interviews. You’d always imagined they just had a I’ve saved the world card that they can pull out and flash to get what they need. And-

“Don’t you have a tower?” You blurt, starting to shred the edge of his application paper. “Like, in Manhattan? That’s free?” 

“Yep.” James shrugs, watching you carefully. “But if I keep livin’ with John stealing all the food and Valentina ambushing me for staged dates, I’m gonna jump off the roof.”

You frown. “Staged dates?”

“Apparently I need to be more personable.” He mutters, and you sigh. 

“Okay, well- Would you actually live here-“

“Yes.” 

“And am I going to get a bunch of… super-people trying to get into my apartment. Because I was in the city for the battle of New York, and the Blip, and the Void- Which- Thank you for your service? But I’d really rather just not have that.” You gesture to yourself, and James is looking more amused by the second. “Here.” 

“No super people.” He says. “They don’t know I’m doin’ this yet.”

“And when you move out?”

“I’ll make sure they don’t bother you.”

You swallow, and there’s an option to tell him to look somewhere else. That he seems like an okay guy, and this isn’t about the Winter Solider thing, but that you’d just rather not be anywhere near superheroes and the mess they bring.

But it’s either this, or aspiring Youtubers. 

And he really is pretty. 

It helps. 

“Okay.” You take a deep breath, looking back to your list of questions. “Do you drink, smoke, or use any other narcotic substances?”

James shakes his head, and you can still feel his gaze, searing over your skin. “No. They don’t work on me.”

“Because you’re… old?”

“Because of the serum.”

“Oh. Right.” You kind of feel like you have a fever. He needs to stop looking at you. “Good. That’s it, I think. I’ll call you after I look at all the applicants.”

“Alright.” James pauses. “If the superhero thing is a problem-“

“It’s not. I just, um-“ You clear your throat, and his eyes are really blue. “I need to think about it.”

He nods, pushing off the couch and offering out his hand. “Thank you for your time, even if you decide you don’t want any part of it.” He gives you a tight smile. “Can’t say I’d blame you. There’s a reason I’m tryin’ to get away from it.”

You feel kind of dizzy, so you just nod, and shake his hand. He’s using the normal one—you can feel the soft skin and muscled through the glove—and you can’t stop yourself from glancing at the metal one. 

“It’s safe.” He says, and you flush. 

“I- I know. Sorry-“

“Don’t worry about it.” He takes a step back, and your hand feels like it’s been electrified, but that might just be the nerves. “Have a good day, ma’am.”

“Don’t-“ You wrinkle your nose before you can stop yourself. “You can just use my name.” 

James nods, echoing it back to you. “Have a good day.”

“You as well.” You’re still shredding his application between your fingers. You might be about to throw up. “I- Bye.” 

His lips twitch again, and he dips his head. “Bye.”

James leaves, and you take a deep, long breath. 

Maybe you can sneak in a clause that any superhero stuff means the lease is broken, so you don’t get pulled into all that. But it’s not like you’re rich in alternatives anyway, and he seems like the kind of guy to clean up after himself, and he didn’t try to hit on you once.

You can have him as a roommate.

It’s not the stupidest thing you’ve ever done. You’ll probably never really see him, because he’ll still work at the Watchtower.

It’ll be a nice story, when you’re seventy and have grandchildren, asking if you knew any superheroes. And you’re not prime kidnapping material, because you’d just start crying and you don’t know anything.

You really don’t have that many other options. 

So James Barnes is going to be your roommate. 

———

He moves in fast. About ten boxes that he carries up himself, one delivery of an Ikea bed frame and dresser that he somehow builds by himself in a single afternoon, and a rug that he carries up by himself. He doesn’t even really speak to you, he doesn’t keep that much food in the fridge, and he shower really fast in the morning, so you still get hot water. 

You don’t see him that much, either. After about three days, you realize he’s pretty much always gone before you get up, and back after you go to bed. It’s like you’re still living by yourself, only there’s now a vague smell of leather and pine trees in the living room, a motorcycle parked next to your car, and your rent is cut in half. You see him maybe two times in the first week overall. Once when you get up extra early, and once when he comes home suddenly around four pm, grabs something from his room, and leaves with barely a glance in your direction.  

At first, it’s perfect. 

Then the second week hits. And James is still never home. 

But his presence is everywhere.

You’re not the neatest person. Clothing ends up on the floor of your room, and dishes can pile in the sink. There’s no obvious method to the madness of your fridge or living room, but you understand it. Everything is in its place, and its place may seem insane to anyone else, but it makes perfect sense to you. Nothing ever gets lost, because you know exactly where to find it.

Your keys go under the same jacket every morning. You always pick it up, shove them in your pocket, and shrug the jacket on as you walk out the door. 

But you go to grab them, and they’re gone. 

The jacket, and your keys. 

A lump quickly builds in your throat. You could take a bus to work, but then you’d have to leave the apartment unlocked. Plus your keyring has the keys to your office, and if you don’t have those you’re going to have to beg for a copy from admin, and they’ll yell at you for losing them in the first place. You work for a non-profit, and you really doubt anyone is going to try and steal soup receipts, but they’re still going to yell at you, and you’ll start crying, and it’s going to fucking suck. 

You need your keys. 

And you rip up half the apartment before you find them. 

Your jacket had been hung on the wall, and there’s a new little shelf that has a tiny bowl. A key bowl. It’s cute. 

You’re going to be fifteen minutes late for work. 

It will be fine. You’ll tell your boss that you just ran into worse traffic than usual, and you’re almost always early, so she’ll let it slide. You’ll ask James not to move things without telling you, the next time you see him, or just text him if he keeps barely actually living in the apartment.

Overall, it’s not even the worst thing about the day, because you go out on a date with a guy your friend introduced you to, and he tries to get you to chain smoke with him. 

But it only gets worse from there. 

You forget to text James. Between the date, being overflowed with work, and putting back everything you’d torn apart in your frantic search, it just slips through the cracks.

So it doesn’t stop. 

The cleaning.  

Something is in a new spot, every time you step into the living room. You’re not sure he ever sleeps, because if he did there’s no fucking way he’d have the time to do all this. The dishes are all cleaned and in a neat order. The fridge has been classified by food group. He got coasters instead of napkins, and he fixed the broken cabinet hinge, and there’s no more dust on the floor, and all the towels in the bathroom are color-coded. You feel like you’re living in a fucking hotel. 

It needs to stop.

You keep forgetting to text him. The only time you see him is after you get back from another failed date, and you’re too tired to yell at him, so you just stumble past him with a grumble and slam the door to your room. When you wake up in the morning, coffee is already waiting for you, and this feels like a waking nightmare. 

James must think you’re a fucking mess. A disaster of a woman, who can’t clean, can’t organize, can’t take care of herself enough to make her own coffee. You’d seen the frown on his face when you’d kicked off your heels and tossed your jacket onto the couch. You know you hadn’t looked your best—you’d walked home in the rain, and your hair was stuck to your face and lipstick smeared with your too-small dress clinging to your body—but it had been a shit date. The guy had asked how many kids you wanted, and when you said you weren’t sure, he’d told you that you’d have six. 

“Six?” You’d laughed, swirling the wine in your glass. It was easier to play that type of comment as a joke. “That’s gonna hurt.”

“You’ll get through it.” He’d shrugged, winking at you. “You’ve got birthing hips.”

You’d left early. He’d tried to stop you, and you’d punched him in the face because you can take care of yourself. 

So this cleaning you up shit is going to end, now. You’re not a pet project. And James doesn’t get to just barrel into your life, move everything around, and then never even fucking talk to you. 

You stay up, tonight. It’s a Saturday, and you’re talking to him, whether he likes it or not. 

The door clicks open after midnight, and you stand up, rubbing your eyes. You’d only managed not to fall asleep with coffee and a lot of alarms, and every nerve in your body feels wired to snap. You don’t know why the fuck he’d been out so late—it’s Saturday, and if it’s superhero stuff he should have just stayed with the other New Avenger’s—but you just want to go to sleep. 

If you go to sleep, you’ll forget to have the conversation again. You’re barely going to be able to keep it together as it is, to not scream at him and do this like an adult.  

So you take a deep breath, cross your arms over your chest, and clear your throat as he kicks off his shoes. 

“I see you.” He drawls, and you dig your nails into your arm. “What’re you still doing up?”

You raise your chin, keeping your voice level. “We need to talk.”

James glances at you, features impossibly neutral. “Do we?”

“Yes.” It might be an intimidation tactic. You won’t let it get to you. “Stop moving all my shit around.”

“Your… what?”

“My stuff.” You snap. “My jacket and my key and- Everything. Stop changing everything without asking me.”

He frowns at you. “I’ve been cleaning up.”

“You did ask me to clean up.”

“I didn’t think I had to,” he says slowly, still watching you carefully. “I live here as well, and this place was a fuckin’ mess-“

“It wasn’t a mess!” Your voice is rising. You push it back down with a deep breath. “I had a system, and I- I was late to work because of you moving my fucking keys-“

“The keys that were under the jacket? They were about to fall on the floor-“

“And I would have known they were on the floor! You don’t just get to come in and change my whole life-“

James snorts, shaking his head. “I’m not changing your life. I’m barely even here-“

“So you have no right to move everything around.” You hiss, and he blinks at you. “If you wanted to live somewhere neat and perfect or whatever, you should have chosen that. You saw my place before you moved in, and it’s still my place. Touch my stuff again, and I cut off your other hand.”

He stares at you for a second. “You’re a lot more than you want people to think, huh.” 

It’s like he’s punched you right in the gut. Knocked your right in the windpipe, make you choke on your own words and stare at him, your head grabbing his words and grounding them into a toxin for your blood. He’s still looking at you. It’s still burning all over your skin. There’s a lump forming in your throat, and your nails are going to leave little indents on your arms, and he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about so why is it burning in your gut-

“I’ll stop moving your shit.” He says, walking right past you with a bored tone, and his eyes are still a pretty, clear shade of blue that seems to shine in the dark.  

White-hot. Sparking through you in a hot, furious way that makes your head spin and fingers curl into fists. 

“Good.” You manage to mutter, and he snorts. 

“Yeah, well, if you start makin’ a big mess again, I’m cleaning it. My ma raised me better than that.”

Before his words can sink in, he’s gone, the door to his room closing behind him. 

His mother raised him better than that. 

Than you. 

You whip around, ready to bang your fists on his door and snap that your mother raised you just fine, you just have bigger things to worry about than installing fucking shelves. The only thing that stops you is another alarm, going off on your phone and snapping you out of your thoughts. 

Even if he’s a shit roommate and you should have gone with the sex-life girl—at least you might be getting laid—he still signed the lease, and is at least pretending he wants to be here. 

You still don’t understand why the fuck he’d do this at all, if it’s so disgusting for him. The New Avengers have to have a cleaning crew.

Hopefully, by the end of the month, he’ll give up on you and return to the watchtower. 

Until then, you’ll just pretend he doesn’t exist. 

It won’t be that hard. He’s barely around anyway. 

——

You need to stop making predictions. You’re really fucking bad at them.

He’s around. A week passes, and you don’t see him at all, then suddenly you go out into the living room and he’s there. Sitting on the couch and reading a book, a mug of coffee on a the side table. 

He’s wearing a long sleeve shirt, sweatpants, and the gloves. It’s the closest you’ve seen to him looking normal, and it feels wrong. Even when he’d just been interviewing, there had been a rigid, careful aura around him of someone more than a man. But there’s a half-eaten apple in his hand, and his hair is still mussed from sleep, and he’s so settled into the couch it’s clear he’s not moving any time soon. 

You don’t know what you’re supposed to do with that. 

For today, you settle on ignoring him. Pouring the coffee—already made again, but maybe he’s just really bad at estimating proportions—and pulling on your shoes, walking out the door without a glance back. You’ve got work, and if he wants to sit on the couch, he does technically live here. He’ll probably be gone when you get back, anyway. 

But he’s not. 

You’re home around six, and James has moved to the kitchen. He’s making dinner, like he’s a person. Who eats. 

It feels like you’re intruding on something. Like you’re watching Thor take a shit. 

You elect to keep pretending he isn’t there. He probably just had a day off, and tomorrow will be back to normal. You close yourself in your room for the rest of the night, watching TV on your laptop and messaging with a few friends about going out this weekend. It might be a trap to make you go on another date, but you don’t really care. 

All your friends are married, and they really do mean well. They want you to have what they found. One of them just had a baby, and she’s been sending you the least photos because she feels bad. You’ve stopped complaining to them about not having a partner. It’s not that you don’t want one. 

You’re just really really bad at dating. At going out and meeting people, showing them all the best angles of you to adore, then holding onto them. It might just be something you can’t do. That you’re not meant for, no matter how bad you want it.

And you want it. You want it when you watch stupid romcoms, and when you walk your friends dance around with their partners, and when you think about your future there’s always someone there. A faceless silhouette, who may never get to have a name. 

If they do, you doubt it will be Keith, the blond-haired guy who’s had a suspicious amount of his photos texted to the group chat. You’ll give him a shot, just to say you missed. If nothing, it can be a good night at his place. 

Not your place. 

Not with James changing all his habits, and actually living with you. He’s even more inescapable, now. He’d stopped touching your things, but the little bowl on the shelf now holds his keys, and you feel like a bitch if you don’t put yours in as well. Your clutter stays organized, because it would be petty to scatter it everywhere just to get back at him. Petty and childish. 

And you’re not petty and childish. You’re a grown woman, and you’re going to force yourself to behave as one. Even if it would be satisfying to keep your shoes just off the mat he bought, and put your food wherever you’d like in the fridge, instead of according to James’ system. But you’re going to be mature. You’re going to follow the vegetable and fruit drawer designations, and you’re going to put the dishes on the stupid drying rack. 

And you will not admit to him that it all makes your apartment feel nicer.

James can just silently be smug about that himself. With his stupid books and gloves and thick thighs on your couch. He’s still pretty. 

You still want to strangle him. 

“I like the candles.” You mutter a few nights later—well into the sudden shift into him being a person instead of a ghost—and you’re trying to be sweet. You can be sweet. That’s a gear you can have. “Apple cinnamon is nice.”

“They’re your candles.” James doesn’t look up from his book. “You’d left them in the closet, figured you weren’t touchin’ them anymore.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. It’s not bait. You won’t take it. “Oh? How’s that?”

“They were covered in dust, doll. Like half the shit in-“ James’ cuts himself off, and you turn with a small frown. 

He’s staring at you. Scanning over your body in a way that makes you think you’re covered in some kind of fucking goo. Your legs, your arms, your dress- 

Oh. 

Your dress. 

Somehow, in just two sentences with James, you’d forgotten that you were out in the living area for a reason. To get the heels, and test if they went with the outfit. You’re about to head out, to meet Blond Keith and hopefully at least get laid. So you’d dressed like you’re trying to get laid. 

James’ eyes are pushing a little out of his head, his jaw is clenched, and his fist is curled on his leg. He’s acting like you’re a 14th century noblewoman who just showed her ankle. 

To a hundred-year-old, you might be.  

It’s the biggest reaction you’ve gotten out of him yet.

“You’re going to get cold.” He mutters, voice stuttering slightly, and you smile at him. 

This kind of sweet you can actually do. Full lips and batting eyelashes and a crude, mocking tone under all the sugary fluff. “Really? Why do you think so?”

His jaw ticks. “No jacket.”

“I have a jacket, though.” You shrug, turning around to walk back into your room. “And I’ll be getting a ride home tomorrow.”

You can hear the frown in his voice. “Tomorrow.”

“Yep.” You grab your jacket, and—even though you weren’t going to leave for ten more minutes—shrug it on. “Bye, James.”

He doesn’t respond. Just watches you walk out the door, all the way until it slams closed behind you. He hadn’t snapped and told you to change, but he had stared. Had acted like more than the tauntingly neutral statue that’s been sitting in your living room all week.

You’re not childish. 

As long as he keeps acting like he knows what’s best for you, you’re going to milk this for all its fucking worth. 

——

“Where are you going?”

You hum, focusing on your mascara in the mirror. 

You could be doing it in the bathroom. But James isn’t in the bathroom. And half of this is just doing a show to get a rise out of him. 

So you’re doing it in the living room. 

“Out.”

“Out.” He repeats, voice low. “You just got back.”

“That was from work, it doesn’t count.”

He grunts, and you can feel him staring. “Last night count, as well?”

You just shrug, running your tongue over your lips to test the lipstick. He doesn’t need to know that this is most you’ve gone out, ever, in your life. That most of the nights are just spent with your friends, and only one or two have been with Blond Keith. Then you’d met Dan the bodyguard, who you never managed to sleep with, and Miles who wore a thousand-dollar watch, and tried to fuck you in the bathroom after the second date.

But those are all just normal date failures. The hanging out with friends all the time is getting exhausting, and they do keep trying to set you up with people, but you’ll eat glass before you hang out with Thousand Dollar Miles again. 

It’s all exhausting. 

Work is exhausting. Putting so much effort into pissing James off is exhausting. Dating is exhausting. 

You still give him another sweet smile, before you walk out the door for your next date. It should be casual, with a guy from a dating app who had a nice face and fairly normal opinions about things. James doesn’t say anything, but—just like every night before—you can feel him watching you leave. It makes you stand a little taller, sway your hips a little more. Rushes a hot, sparkling feeling through your veins before you close the door. 

It’s the high point of the night. 

Dating App Henry does have a nice face. His opinions are normal.

He also won’t stop asking you for your opinions about things, then cutting you off before you can actually give them. 

“Can you see yourself having kids?”

You almost choke on your shitty wine. Not again. “I-“

“I’ve thought about having, four or five? You seem like you’d be a good mother, like you organize your cabinet by colors or whatever.” Dating App Henry laughs to himself. “That’s good, because I can’t clean at all. I don’t even know how to do laundry.”

You blink at him. “You don’t know how to do laundry?”

Dating App Henry shakes his head, grinning at you like that’s supposed to be cute, and you shake your head. 

“Then… I’m sorry, who does your laundry?”

“My ex did it for a while.” He shrugs. “Lately I’ve just been buying new stuff, whenever I run out. I got another raise at work, so I can afford it.”

Later, you learn that Dating App Henry is a lobbyist for AI companies.  

He asks if you want dessert. 

You shake your head politely, and call a cab. 

Maybe it’s you, is all you can think as the dark of the city rushes by. Maybe you really can’t date, or there’s something about you that screams weirdos only. You might have to be one of those women who really focuses on their career, and retries early to paint birds. 

You press your brow against the glass and squeeze your eyes shut. You already really focused on your career. 

You’re going to die, and nobody’s going to come to your funeral. Sure you’ll have friends who will attend, but no one who’s going to talk about how they love loved you. Work is going to name a conference room after you, and in twenty years you’ll be nothing more than that room on the third floor, where the boss boned her secretary, because it’s being rubbed in your face from beyond the fucking grave. 

James is still up, when you shove the door open and kick off your shoes. 

“How was going out.” He drawls, and you shoot him a glare.

“Dogshit.”

He chuckles to himself. “Sorry, doll.”

“Shut the fuck up.” You shuffle across the room, and he looks up with raised brows.

“She bites back.”

“I’ll bite your fucking cock off.” You mutter, and it’s probably too far, but you’re so tired. “I know you’re on superheroing sabbatical or whatever, but I’ve got some work due tomorrow, and if you do anything to distract me, I’m going to put shit in your shampoo.”

James stares at you for a second, then says, “How do I distract you?”

You flip him off, and slam your door behind you. 

You’re not going to die alone. 

Fucking James Barnes is going to die right next to you, in this stupid apartment, and you’re going to turn into soil that shoves his further down because you hate him. And his stupid small grin, and jawline, and smooth voice, and pretty blue eyes that light your skin on fire. 

And it’s not anyone’s business how—after a long day of pure frustration, working until three in the morning, and his handsome face being the last one you saw before bed—you fall into bed with your hand between your thighs and his name in tiny moans on your lips. 

He’d be rough. Or soft. And he’d wrap fully around you, and only look at you. Never cut off any of your moans. He’d tease and pry them out you, and kiss your neck with slight scruff brushing sensitive skin, and a deep drawl in your ears, and everything in a neat, easy place. 

You cover your mouth with a pillow, as your body shakes through your orgasm.

He’s still pretty. 

A hate fuck might you. The idea of having him sneer and tease you until you cum in his big arms is a good one.

But you’re tired of just sex.

So you fall asleep, and dream of that faceless man, dancing you around in the kitchen.

———

You finished all your work. Your feet hurt from standing and giving the same presentation, over and over and over, to different rich people who still only might give you money. But you did it. 

And now you get to shuffle home, order food because you don’t want to talk to James, and sleep for a hundred million years. 

You push open the door, keeping your attention away from his spot on the couch—you really don’t want to see him, don’t have the energy to fight—and kick off your shoes. They land off the mat. 

With a soft groan, you lean down, pick them up, and place them on the mat.

You draw back up, ready to walk right into your room, but there’s a chest blocking your path. A chest with legs, and arms, and gloves, and- 

“Are you hungry?”

You slowly drag your gaze up to James’ and he’s staring at you in the way you can feel again. You swallow, and shake your head.

“No-“ Your stomach cuts you off with a deep grumble, and James huffs softly. 

“No, huh.”

You scowl. “I’m not going out, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m not worried about it.” His brow draws, and that’s a point for you. “I just think- Shit-“ He runs a hand over his face, and you frown. 

“What-“

“I made food.” His words are fast, but strained. Like he’s trying to push them out as fast as possible. “You are welcome to it, if you want.”

He must have fallen and hit his head. There’s no possible reason for him to be making you food. You didn’t even know he could cook, and honestly, smelling the air, you’re still not sure. 

“What did you make?” You ask wearily, and he shrugs. 

“Tortellini.”

“And it’s… good?”

His lips twitch. “I’ll let you be the judge of that, doll.”

You could tell him no. Could shove past him and storm into your room, and just keep fighting forever. 

But he’s trying. 

He made you dinner. You’ve been ordering out too much this week, solely to avoid him.

You really are far too tired to fight. Even if it is some kind of trap, at least you’ll get food out of it. 

“Fine.” You mumble, crossing your arm over your chest. “Where is it.”

He tilts his head to the kitchen. “C’mon. Should still be warm.”

It is still warm. More than warm. James pushes the bowl towards you, and steam is rising from the pasta. 

“Are you not going to eat?” You ask as he passes you the fork, and he shakes his head. 

“Ate at the Watchtower.”

“Oh.” You pause. “Then why did you make this-“

“Just eat it,” he drawls your name, and you roll your eyes, but listen. There’s something in his voice that makes you want to poke at it, to see it snap, but not now. Not when you can feel the weight of your eyelids, and the pressure of James’ stare. 

You hold his gaze, taking the slowest, most dramatic bite you can manage.

It tastes like salt. Salt and slightly burnt vegetables. You don’t spit it out—you’re stronger than that—but you lean back slightly, wrinkling your nose. 

“Have you ever made tortellini before?”

“No.” He grunts. “Followed the instructions on the packet thingy. Is it-“

“It’s shit.” You shrug, and go for a second bite.

James frowns. “You don’t gotta eat it-“

“I’m hungry.”

He nods slowly, and there’s about a minute before he clears his throat, and his gaze somehow burns deeper into your skin. 

“There’s no superhero sabbatical.” 

You glance up from the bowl, mouth full, and all you can make is a hurh? sound in response. James’ sighs, looking up to the ceiling before continuing. 

“You said I was on superhero sabbatical. I’m not. Right now there are just no imminent threats, so I only have to work normal hours. That’s why I’m home.”

Home. 

You don’t love how he says that so casually. Or how it makes your skin buzz a little, because home is the same place for you both. Even if you’re trapping yourself in your room, and he still won’t take off his gloves. 

It’s even worse how that makes you feel sore, something twisting in your gut. 

It’s easier to pretend you don’t feel any of it, and swallow your pasta. 

“Okay.” You tap your fork on the edge of the bowl. “What are normal New Avengers hours?”

“Changes every day.” He mutters, words slow. “I’m doin’ whatever Yelena tells me to, and she’s trying to help, so it’s not much. Paperwork. Saved a cat from a tree a few days ago. Busted into a nightclub that was dealing some heavy drugs. Nothing important.”

You hum, taking another stab of your pasta, and James braces his hands on the table, leaning over you with that intense, impossible to ignore gaze. 

You don’t flinch, or move back, but you don’t think he’s trying to be intimidating. So just tilt your head at him, keeping your voice semi-sweet and casual. “Do you want me to say something?”

“No.” James grunts, letting out a long, slow exhale. “I’m just- I think we got off on the wrong foot or something.”

“Did we?”

His nostrils flare slightly. “Yes, we did.”

“Okay.” You look back down to your pasta. “Are you asking to start over?”

“Uh-“ He coughs, and you focus on keeping your foot from bouncing under the table. You’re really not sure what’s happening, if he’s being serious, or if this is going to be some kind of trick. “Yeah?”

“Why?”

He pauses. “Because we live together.”

“People live together and hate each other all the time.”

“Well, do you hate me?” 

You let out a slow breath, and look up at him. He’s still pretty. His face is still that almost unreadable mask. 

But his words sound sincere. 

And not fighting anymore sounds okay. He doesn’t have to be your best friend. But if you decided to ignore him, then you’re certainly being a petty bitch, and that’s too exhausting to keep up. 

“No.” You sigh, and his eyes flash slightly. “I don’t.” 

“Good.” His tongue flicks over his lips, and he leans a little further forward. “I don’t hate you either.”

You hum, and whatever evergreen shampoo or cologne he uses is starting to invade your sense, making you feel a little drunk. If he kisses you, you’re not going to have the willpower to shove him away. He’s too pretty, and there’s a lot of heat radiating from him body, and it won’t be a hate-fuck or making love or whatever, but a stress-fuck also sounds pretty fucking nice- 

“My therapist tells me I can be off-putting and controlling.” He mutters, and you blink. No kiss. 

You don’t know why the fuck you thought he would. 

You take a large bite of the pasta as he continues, before you can say something stupid. 

“I’ve been focusing on interpersonal skills. I used to be pretty damn good at them, but- Things change.”

You mumble an agreement through your food, not really sure what you’re supposed to be contributing to the conversation here.

“I am going to ask you a question.” He keeps staring at you, and you swallow your bite.

“Oh- Okay.”

He nods, jaw clenching slightly before he speaks. “Why do you call me James.”

You blink at him. “Because it’s your name?”

“Most people call me Bucky.”

“How am I supposed to know that?”

“Yeah. Alright.” He sighs, giving you a weak, slightly strained smile. “If we’re startin’ over, you should mostly call me Bucky.”

“Mostly?” You frown at him. “When would I call you James?”

He shrugs. “I dunno. You’re smart. You’ll find it.”

A softer heat rises in your cheeks. “I’m smart?”

“Yeah. You are.” He runs his hand over his face, jaw ticking as his voice drops. “Might have Googled that place you work at. They do good work. Not for stupid people.”

That’s making your chest glow. You try to push it down, and keep your voice even. “What jobs are for stupid people?”

He snorts. “My job. Jumpin’ on bullets and saving the world when it keeps trying to kill itself.”

“Do you not like your job?”

“It’s complicated.” Bucky mutters, something like caution crossing his features. “Am I allowed to ask you another question?”

“Is it something stupid?”

“Nah.” He huffs a low laugh. “But it might piss you off.”

You hum, and give him a small smile. It’s not forced. 

None of this is forced. 

And it’s a little terrifying, how quickly you went from ready to mock and shove him to eating a little slower in order to keep talking to him. 

It probably doesn’t mean anything. Bucky is just easy to talk to, when you’re not trying to think of insults or picking apart how he might be calling you a mess. And he really is nice to look at. 

So this is easy.

“I think you should ask me anyway.” You hum. “Just to see what happens.”

Bucky nods, he does the tongue thing again. You don’t know if he’s been doing the whole time you’ve known him and you just never noticed, but you can’t stop noticing now. His lips are full and pink. They move so smoothly when he talks. 

You might be losing your mind. 

“When you go out.” He says slowly, and you raise your brows. “Where are you actually going?”

He doesn’t sound as if he’s judging you. Just that he’s curious. 

And you refuse to be ashamed about it, even if you’re still feeling like there’s grime growing over your heart, and there’s a tiny voice in the back of your head reminding you that you’re unlovable. That’s not Bucky’s problem. 

So he gets the simple, bored, casual answer, and he can do whatever the fuck he wants with it. You don’t care.

“Mostly out with friends. But sometimes dates.”

“Dates,” he echoes, frowning at the air—most with what seems to be confusion—and you give him an amused look. 

“Yeah. Like, we get dinner or a drink and talk. See if we’re compatible. Learn about each other, then maybe have sex-“

“You’re havin’ sex on dates?” 

He seems shocked, and you snort. It’s not judgment. Bucky just seems truly baffled by the concept, and you have bite your cheek to stop yourself from laughing more. 

“Yeah. Casual sex. Don’t tell me you’ve never had sex, dude, I know you’re from the 40s or whatever, but-“

“I’ve had sex.” He mutters. “But it was with girls I liked. Knew for a while.” 

“What, all two of them?”

He shoots you a dry look. “You got a mouth on you, you know that?”

You give him a sweet smile. “I’ve been told it’s one of my best qualities.”

Bucky’s hand curls on the table as he snorts, and his gaze is going to brand you. “Could say that, yeah.”

Before you can ask what that means, he’s pushing on. 

“Stevie called me a ladies man. But that just meant I got dates easy. Never really just fucked in a backroom. Not my style.”

“Yeah?” You’re saying it before you can stop yourself. “What is your style?”  

He chuckles, and it’s a deep, rich sound that makes your head spin slightly. He’s smiling. At you. And laughing, and this is so much fucking better than fighting with him. You don’t even know why you were so determined to fight with him to start, when it could have been like this. 

And he’s still pretty. In the soft-edged light of the kitchen, every shadow is gentle on his face, and it makes his jaw seem sharper, the pace of his face more rugged, and you want to trace your hand over his jaw. 

That might be too far. 

You just started liking him. 

You’re not going to turn this into something it’s not. He can be your friend. 

But he’s so handsome. And you think you could live in his face, frozen in time under his gaze and small grin. 

Shit.

You’re just horny. You’re thinking like this because you’re horny, and nothing else. It has nothing to do with how he leans closer when he speaks, and lets you speak, and made you food to try and talk something out. Like an adult, instead of two bitter teenagers. 

You’re just horny.

“I’m an old man,” he drawls your name, and it makes that glow in your chest bloom, but you’re just horny. “I don’t think people my age do casual.”

“Old people fuck.” Your voice is more breathless than you want it to be. “And- I don’t think there are people your age.”

He snorts. “Fair point. You like casual?”

You shrug, looking back to your bowl, because you can’t look at him while you say this. “I don’t know.”

Bucky just makes a low sound of agreement. “Well, you at least bring pepper spray, right? Men can be creeps.”

“Okay, dad.” You roll your eyes, kicking his shin under the table. “I bring pepper spray and a pocketknife. I’m not dumb.”

“I didn’t say you were dumb. Just want to make sure you’re being safe.”

“Thanks.” You mumble, and he said that like it was obvious. As if you should have assumed that he’s worried about your safety. 

As if you’re something that matters. 

It feels nice. The glow in your chest is moving over your ribs, and it makes you sit a little taller, all while making it harder to look him in the eyes. If you do, you’re certain you’ll get trapped in them. 

That wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. 

“No problem, doll.” You can hear the small grin in his voice, and the heat rises again. “We good?”

“Yeah, Bucky.” You poke at your tortellini. It really does taste like shit. 

But he made it for you. 

“We’re good.” 

———

It’s happening so fast. 

You stop fighting with Bucky—not James anymore, Bucky—and everything falls into an odd, perfect place. 

He still can’t cook, but he cleans the apartment, and it doesn’t feel like he’s trying to invade anymore. He knows with things to leave in their strange places because you tell him to, and you follow all the new, small rules without thinking about it. In exchange, you make him food, and you take turns doing each other’s laundry. 

Which means you’ve touched his boxers. 

And maybe you’d stared at them for a few minutes, trying to not think about the part of Bucky the fabric had touched. If the size of the boxers in any inditement of the size of… other things. 

You won’t think about it. That would be a violation of his privacy, and he is now your friend. You don’t think about your other friends underwear, of it they think you’re cute when you shuffle around in too-big shirts and smaller shorts. 

You’ve got something good here. Something easy. If you ruin it, you’re going to have to reach out to orgy girl and see if she’s still in the market, and you really don’t want to do that when you can have Bucky. 

Because you do have Bucky. You’ve learned all his favorite foods. You watch TV together, at the end of the night, and you’ve started exchanging book recommendations.  He even showed you his motorcycle. 

“You can ride it, if you want.” He’d nodded to the seat, giving you the half grin that sort of set you on fire, and you’d flushed, shaking your head. 

“Pass. I’m not trying to die, Buck.”

“I wouldn’t let you die,” he’d drawled your name back in a teasing tone. “I need you. Without you here, I’d starve to death.”

You’d rolled your eyes. “Well if that’s your only reason for keeping me around-“

“It’s not and you know it.” He’d held out his hand, the metal glinting into the flickering garage lights. 

He’d taken off the glove a couple of weeks ago. Walked into the living area wearing a t-shirt, the black and gold vibranium on full display, and you hadn’t said a word. There wasn’t anything to be said. He was comfortable enough around you to show his arm. That made you feel like you were floating up, up, up into the sky.

You’d smiled at him, passed him a bowl of cereal, and that had been it. 

In the garage you’d backed away, shaking your head, spinning around what other reasons he might want to keep you around. 

And you really hadn’t wanted to get on that motorcycle. 

“Well, what if- The engine could blow up-“

“No, it couldn’t.” He’d flexed his hand, giving you a firm look. “You’ll like it, doll, promise.”

“Maybe, but I think I’ll like it, and then I’ll die when the engine blows up-“

Bucky had grabbed your hand, his mouth curved into a small, gentle grin, and you’d swallowed. He’s always so fucking handsome. You might have been about to drool. 

“We don’t gotta do it today.” He’d said. “But I do think you’d like it. Offer stays on the table.”

You’d nodded, voice breathy again. “Okay.”

“Okay.” He’d pulled you forward slightly, and suddenly you were holding his hand as you walked out of the garage. 

And it just kept escalating. Higher and higher. Bucky stands with you while you cook every night, and touches your lower back whenever he has to reach over you to grab something from the top shelf. You stop going on all the dates, because so, so fast, you don’t want to do anything but hang out with Bucky. 

But your friends don’t about that. They know you’re complaining about your roommate less, but you never told them it was the Winter Solider. Or anything about him as a person. 

You’re keeping it like that. If not for yourself, and all the millions of questions you’ll have to endure, for Bucky. 

He doesn’t love being a public person. It’s easy to tell whenever you’re reading the news and he leans over your shoulder, seeing a New Avengers photo where he looks like he’s trying to figure out the best way to kill the person behind the camera. 

“What’re they sayin’ now.” He’d asked this morning, putting on the coffee, and you’d made a dramatic look of mock thought. 

“That you’re a hero. A god among men. That we should elect you king, and every street in Brooklyn should be called Saint Barnes road.”

Bucky had rolled his eyes, but his glare had been soft. “I’m not a saint, doll.”

It’s not fair how deep and smooth his voice always is, when he says that. It makes you feel fuzzy. 

“You’re not.” You’d hummed, giving him a small grin. “They just misprinted Sargent.”

Bucky had snorted. “Alright. What are they actually sayin’?”

“About you?” You pretend to check the article, even though it’s the first thing you’d looked for. “The hair again.”

He’d groaned, voice dropping under his breath. “Always the fuckin’ hair.”

You’d shrugged, but you understood it. He has really nice hair. You’ve been having fantasies about running your fingers through it, or petting his head, or yanking on it as his face dove between your legs- 

Not going to ruin it. 

This is a good thing, so you’d taken a deep breath and dug your nails into your wrist, because you wouldn’t fucking ruin this. 

That’s why you agreed to go out at all. Bucky isn’t really an option on the table, and you still want to have that. The love. The faceless man, spinning you around and around, kissing your neck and holding your hand and whispering with you in the dead of night. 

You’ve been whispering with Bucky. He sits with you on the couch until the silent hours of the morning, sometimes just to be there while you work. 

He’s not an option. 

So you took a date with Polo-Shirt Michael, and really, really tried. 

But he keeps telling you about his gains. And how many female friends he has, and how they all want him but he’s looking for true love. 

“They’re going to try and scare you off, ‘cause I gave them one hit and they got addicted.” He winks at you, and you swallow a little bile. “You the tough kind of woman? You gonna be able to take it, babygirl?”

You gave him a sweet smile, folding the napkin in your lap, and stand up. “I need to shit.”

It’s not worth seeing his reaction. You head straight for the bathroom and pull out your phone, scrolling for who can pick you up. You could call an Uber, but you don’t get paid until next week, and you’re not sure getting away from Polo Michael will be that easy without backup. All your friends have date nights or vacations. 

Your thumb hovers over Bucky’s contact for a minute before you bite your thumb, and call him. 

He picks up in two rings. 

“Hey,” he says your name and you swallow, pressing your back against the wall. “What’s up?”

“I need your help.” You mumble, playing with your skirt. “If I send you an address, can you pick me up?”

“Yeah, of course.” There’s some shuffling on the other end of the line. “What’s goin’ on, doll, are you-“

“I’m safe.” You sigh. “Bad date.”

He grunts. “Pepper spray bad?”

“Not yet. I just really want to go home.”

“Alright. I’ve got you. Be there in,” there’s a pause, then, “ten.”

You nod, the line drops, and you start to pace. You should go out and say goodnight to Polo Michael. Lie that something came up, and you’ll text him to reschedule. But he also said his girlfriend was a crazy bitch. 

That’s enough of a reason to slip out without any words. You hadn’t ordered yet, so you’re not leaving him with a bill. You’d even only gotten water, so at worst he’s paying for his $90 wine. 

You glance over your shoulder as you stand on the curb, to check if he’s still waiting at the table. Bucky should be here soon, and as long as you’re not spotted, everything will be-

Michael looks at you. Right at you, as Bucky’s headlights appear down the street. He stands as Buck pulls up to your side. 

“Hey, what-“

“Drive.” You climb on the bike without a thought. “Fucking drive, Bucky, go-“

Bucky turns, drops an oversized helmet onto your head, and buckles it. His knuckles brush over your chin, you mouth falls open with a soft breath. By some miracle, you don’t think he hears it. 

He turns back around, speeds off without anything else, and you let out an exhale of relief. 

Then it hits you. 

You’re on the motorcycle. The world is rushing past you and you’re on the motorcycle and you’re going to die-

Bucky pulls off to the side and you squeak at the movement, pressing your face into his back. 

“It’s fine, doll.” His voice is clear as the engine turns off, but you don’t let go. “You’re gonna strangle me, you know.”

“No, I’m not.” You don’t let go. “Thank you, Bucky, I- I can walk home-“

“You are not walking.” He grabs your wrist, keeping you against his chest, and you shake your head. 

“I’m okay-“

“You get dinner?”

“I-“ You lean back. “What?”

“Look like you were gettin’ dinner.” He mutters, turning to look at you. “You eat?”

You shake your head, and somehow, let Bucky talk you into one of those 24-hour diners. Your date outfit and makeup a little messed up from the motorcycle, his shoes slip-ons that make him look like an actual old man. 

Bucky glances at you across the booth, and you give him a weak smile, playing with some of your jewelry. 

“You wanna take this home and eat there?”

You let out a soft breath. “Yes, please. My feet feel like they’re being stabbed and vomited on.”

He snorts. “Gross, doll.”

You shrug, and your smile feels a little more real. 

Then you’re at home. Bucky somehow talks you into taking the motorcycle back, and he gives you a few minutes to change and clean while he put out the food. You join him on the couch, kicking up your feet with a dramatic moan, and Bucky rolls his eyes. 

“So what was wrong with him?”

You turn to look at him with a frown. “What?”

“The date.” Bucky shrugs. “What was wrong with him. He not up to your standard.”

“I guess, yeah. But my standard isn’t really that high.”

He raises his brows, and you sigh. 

“I just want someone that doesn’t, like, hate me.”

“That’s it?”

You nod, and Bucky snorts. 

“Jesus, that is a low bar. This guy-“

“He didn’t hate me. But he seemed to not love women in general.”

“Ah.” Bucky pauses, looking down to his food. “Don’t know how you could hate women. All the women I know are the best.”

You nudge his calf with your foot. “Even me?”

“Yeah, doll, even you.” He gives you a small, real smile. 

He’s being serious. 

So you smile back. “Thanks, Buck.”

“No problem.” He pokes your food with his fork. “Eat, doll. I didn’t spend twenty dollars for nothing.”

You focus on your food, but your fingers are shaking a little. You rode on Bucky’s motorcycle and didn’t die. But you’re also sitting still on the couch, and you can feel your heart at the top of your chest, hear it in your head. 

It’s a bigger rush, just sitting with Bucky and eating. 

And maybe it’s how Polo Michael looked like he was going to strangle you, or how busy you are with work, but you might be done with dates for a while. 

It’s not a hard choice to make, when Bucky starts to tell you about how he worked on the shower while you were gone, and laughs at all your pipe jokes. Or Bucky’s low, rough version of a laugh, which you like better. 

Not one date has ever even gotten to hear a sex joke. 

So you’d really rather stay here. 

———

You’re wasted.

It was a celebration. Someone just got engaged. Or broke up. Or had a baby. Or broke up and had a baby. 

You’re not sure anymore. And you don’t really care. Someone had something good happen to them, and you’d wanted a reason to drink. 

So you drank. 

And now your head is spinning, and all your effort goes into swallowing down the vomit rising up your throat. Your skin feels like it’s lighting on fire, but it’s also freezing cold, and there’s a harsh wind but it’s not enough to shock you out of the colorful hazy lights dancing over your vision. 

The hallway is spinning, and you giggle as you walk, arms out like you’re on a tightrope. 

Bucky sighs from behind you. 

You don’t remember calling him. 

It’s making you feel bubbly, that he’s here at all. 

“James.” You sing, spinning around to smile at him. “You have a funny face.”

Bucky raises his brows, catching you easily. Grounding you down to the earth, because you might have been about to float away. “Do I.”

“Uh huh.” You keep walking as he moves you, moving your fingers to trace over his features. “It’s all serious and pretty. Like a magnetic painting of a handsome person.”

His voice remains flat. “You mean majestic?”

“I dunno.” You turn again, but Bucky keeps holding you, keeping your back to his chest. “Like a… wolf.”

He hums. “I was called White Wolf in Wakanda.”

“In…” You trail off, squinting at the wall, then gasp as the word reach through the fog. “You went to Wakanda?”

“Yeah, for about two years.”

“Were there stars?”

Bucky sighs, kicking the door shut behind you. “There- Shit-“

A rush of nausea sweeps through you, and you double over, covering your hand to stop the vomit. 

Big, strong arms wrap around you, and one of them is nice and cold. You hold that one, as you’re carried through the air and into the bathroom. The world spins as a toilet comes into your vision, and you let your dinner spill out into the bowl.

Your hair is somehow moved from your face, and you groan, slumping to the ground. The cold hand tries to leave, but you grab it. Press it against your brow as you take a ragged breath. 

Bucky mutters your name. “I need my hand-“

“No.” You mumble, moving it to press on your cheek. “’S nice.”

He sighs, but doesn’t argue with you. Keeps sitting with you, when you surge back up for another round with the toilet. Bucky rubs your back with that cool hand, then let you nuzzle into it when you get a break. He hums, deep and smooth, and the sound is easy to hold onto, keeping you from flying out of your skin as it prickles. When you’re finally run out, he gets you water. Helps you move against the wall, and stays at your side. 

Your voice slowly comes back, and you turn to look at him, only one thought managing to stay in your head. 

“Were they pretty?”

“What?”

“The stars?”

He blinks, then lets out a long, slow sigh, turning back to look at the wall. “Yeah. They were beautiful.”

That’s the answer you wanted. And you’re sort of done for the night. 

You let your eyes flutter shut and tip your head back, making a soft noise of content. 

Everything drifts in and out, morphing between Bucky, carrying you to bed, and that dream. The one where you have someone, and it’s easy. 

The light leaks through your blinds in the morning, but you don’t remember falling asleep. There’s a glass of water on your nightstand, but you didn’t put it there. 

You know Bucky did. 

And when you close your eyes again, you can see it again.

The faceless man isn’t faceless anymore. 

You giggle in the fantasy, spinning around and around and around, only coming back down when a smooth voice hums your name. 

Blue eyes watch you with a look that you might have seen before, but can’t remember. 

Bucky sways you back and forth in his arms, but only in your head. 

And you never want to do anything but sleep again. 

———

You did something stupid. 

You offered to teach Bucky how to cook. Not told him about a video or blog or book to teach him. Offered yourself. Because you like being around him too much. And when he focuses you’ve noticed he gets an adorable expression on his face, and you want to see it more. 

Tonight you could have gone out on one last date, because your friend had practically begged you to. This one had a six-pack and knew three languages. 

All you could think what that Bucky knows at least five. 

And that’s how you ended up here. 

“I know you don’t want any part of the superhero shit.” Bucky says as you ride up the elevator. “But it’s the weekend. None of the idiots are working, which means they’re all doin’ their own thing. No one will even know you’re here.”

You swallow, but nod. “I still think we could’ve done this at home-“

“We got more options here.” He bumps your shoulder, and it makes your body rush with heat. “Plus if I fuck up, nothing important gets burned.”