Nanananananana BATCHILLA

You're barely holding on, your grip on his neck falling looser only for him to snap at you to wake up whenever your eyelids shut, forcing you out of your stupor. Stay, stay, stay- his voice commands you.

When he reaches the base, he's barking orders and there's a flurry of movement as his militia move aside for him, all eyes on the limp body in his arms. "Get a fucking doctor- or I will make sure everyone in this room pays." His modulator renders his tone cold, but he can hear his desperation echoed back to him. Thankfully, no one notices and someone finally listens and makes a move.

He places you down on a flat surface, heart dropping when he can finally see how much blood you've lost under the fluorescent light. He grips your hand that reaches out for comfort. "You're going to make it." He mutters to himself, because he simply refuses anything other than your survival. "Because you're not someone who gives up. You're a fighter, you can fight this. I won't let you go under, you understand?"

You wince and heave with every breath, but there's confusion etched into your expression when you listen to his words. You try to find familiarity through his altered voice, something of memory to his armour, but you find none.

"Was I someone- were you someone to me?" You finally dared to ask.

There is no sound from his modulator, no flicker in those illuminating eyes, but somehow, you can sense the tension in his shoulders, the way his breath stops at your question.

"No." He answers. Not anymore.

The silence stretches, and footsteps are nearing.

"Then." You struggle through your next words, vision blurred till he leans in. "If I don't make it," You notice his fingers tighten around yours. "Will you bury me near Jason Todd's grave?"

The Arkham Knight is a powerful figure, with connections and a motive no one understands. Yet, if he was willing to put all this effort to save you, maybe he would listen to your final request.

"I promised him." Tears filled your eyes. "I'd always be by his side. I failed to before- Promise me, that you'll let me."

Jason stares at you, and he fights back the urge to scream. Don't you know, that by finding your Jason, you'll be leaving him? He had thought that whoever he became the day he escaped Joker's grasp couldn't possibly be something you could love, so he had left you alone. Or at least, he had convinced himself that it was the right decision. Now, even on your deathbed, your last words are of him, for him. Wrongs after wrongs after wrongs, it seems to be all he's capable of. But not this time.

He's not letting you go.

"I promise."

When you wake, you feel a strong hand covering yours. Your head pounds, and you try to recall what happened. A gunfight, a crossfire, a stranger, a promise-

The Arkham Knight. He saved you, didn't he?

You turn your head to see who was sitting beside the bed, expecting a robotic suit and glowing eyes, only to meet pale blue. Your heart recognises the colour before your mind does, seizing uncontrollably as if possessed.

"Am I dead?" You ask, laughing humourlessly. "Is that why you're here, Jay?"

He gives you a sad smile. Your Jason smiles at you. It's solemn and heartbreakingly haunting, unlike anything you've dreamt of since his death.

His hand moves to rest over your pulse, which beats over his calloused thumb. Life. Then, you're.. alive? You notice then, how he's not really the Jason you remember. There's a deep scar engraved into the skin tissue of his cheek, a crookedness to his nose from a punch gone wrong, and how his eyes hold secrets you can't uncover.

He's not your Jason, but he still looks at you the same way.

It digs into the material shielding his neck, but whether you could actually do it—turn your front into actual bloodshed, you don't know. You force your trembling fingers to stabilise the sharp edge of your blade, barely feeling anything other than your heartbeat hammering through your ribcage.

“How do you know that name?” Your voice comes out louder than intended, vulnerability pitched in all the ways you could not control.

“We all have our secrets.” He twists your old words against you, something you had uttered to him days ago, and not even his moderator can hide the mocking sneer in his voice.

“Willing to die for it?” You grit.

“Already have.” He remarks. Your brows furrow in confusion, and your lapse in focus is enough for him to twist your arm, slamming you against the wall and pinning you with your blade still clenched in your hand, but now out of reach.

“It’ll be in your best interest if we work together.” He squeezes your wrist tighter, jamming your palm from dropping the blade into your teeth. It’s like he knows your every move, and counters it before you can even think of doing it.

It should only reinforce how much of a danger he is, with his skills in combat to disarm you as quickly as he did—but there’s a familiarity in the steps that makes your head spin.

“Nothing good comes out of provoking the Bat alone.” He warns. “What you’ve been doing? You seriously think he wouldn’t notice?”

You scoff. “You don’t know him.”

“Don’t I?” He laughs coldly. “Don't make the mistake of assuming your past with Bruce guarantees you a soft spot, sweetheart."

Your entire body freezes. Nothing would have ever prepared you to hear Bruce's name. To know that he knows the old man's identity and yours—you've severely underestimated him. Jason’s name still repeats like a helpless mantra in the back of your mind, twisted into a robotic slick from the modulator.

He leans in, and even with that stupid helmet on, you can feel his pleasure thrumming at your silence. "Midnight tomorrow, Miller Harbour. I wouldn’t advise you to be late, partner.”

Miller Harbour reeks of strong salt and sewage. Your nose wrinkles, the sour smell somehow reaching your nose even from afar. The murky water barely reflects the intrusive lights that shine on the containers that surround you like a rusted maze.

He never told you how'd you find him, so clearly—your 'partnership' solely depends on his unyielding ability to find you no matter which part you were in the city.

You hear him before you see him, and that's only because he didn't bother hiding. He's on the phone, talking in low hushes, his modulator crackling as he approaches you, one hand shoved into the pocket of his leather jacket.

His casual demeanour pisses you off, like he can't even be bothered to arm his hand because you're no threat.

He stops in front of you, phone still raised to where his ear would be. "It's either your intel is right, or your wife finds a bullet in her head tonight." He says right before he ends the call.

Your eyes widen, disgust rippling through your features. "You'd do that?"

Stuffing the phone into his pocket, he carries himself easily despite your tone. "Would it make you feel better if I said I wouldn't?" He mocks.

Your eyes narrow. "I wouldn't believe you."

"How clever." He drawls, his hand beckoning you to follow. "And isn't it hypocritical of you to ask when you had a blade pressed against my neck yesterday?"

Your lips part, conflict jamming your response. He doesn't need to know that you wouldn't have done it, that you lack the guts. It'd only give him a greater advantage over you. He paces on without bothering to hear your response, and you huff, jogging to catch up with him. "What are we doing?"

"There's leaks of Scarecrow's shipment leaving at midnight. Unless you want the entire city on his fear toxin, we're infiltrating before it even gets close to the water supply."

"Sure you don't want it for yourself?" You accuse.

"Not my style." He remarks. "Prefer to deal with my enemies without all the screaming, it gets in the way of the job."

“What is your motive then? Something to prove to yourself?” Even your doubt echoes in your question, obviously expecting him to mock you, toss another vague statement that only proves the power imbalance between the two of you—but he doesn’t.

“Just cleaning up the streets.” He answers briskly. “Permanently.”

The word lingers like a point of difference, a kick at the other caped crusader.

“Have a problem with the Bat?” You dig.

“Don’t you?” There’s a wicked accusation in his voice, and when his helmet shifts to look at you, you feel pressure. An unspoken demand to state which side you stand on.

“What I think about the Bat is none of your concern.” It’s a small win, knowing he doesn’t know everything about you—relief that the fear of him being able to read your mind dampens a little at his question.

He's silent, long enough that you begin to wonder if your answer was the one he expected, or didn’t.

"What does this even have to do with Jason Todd?" You couldn't connect Scarecrow's antics to have anything to do with Jason, much less requiring your help. You couldn't even best him in a one-on-one, much less work alongside him.

He scoffs. "Nothing about tonight has to do with a dead boy buried twelve feet under."

Your frustration ticks, even more so at his brush-off over the mention of Jason. He was the one that used Jason's name against you, and now he's acting as if it didn't matter? Before you can push further, he replaces his focus with a sudden movement—two trucks leaving through the entrance point at the lower levels of the harbour, and his entire demeanour shifts.

“You take the one on the right, I’ll take the one on the left. Stop the truck before it leaves the harbour."

He's gone before you can ask any more questions, his silhouette disappearing down the ledge onto the truck’s roof. You curse, jumping down after him and landing on the second truck. The metal skids against your palms but you steady yourself, gripping onto the raised edge.

The driver's clearly heard the sound of your weight smashing against the truck, evident from the shouting below, and not a second after—bullets ripple through the roof. You curse, one hand letting go so you could move to the side, avoiding the bullets.

Your body topples to the side, and you slam against the driver's door, making direct eye contact with a straw mask. You've got to be kidding, they even bother with the same get-up?

Gritting your teeth, you lift yourself up halfway, and your boots slam against the glass. It shatters from the impact, and you fall roughly into the driver's seat. It's a mess of elbows, and the fumbling of your blade from your holster as you use the back-end, knocking it into the driver's skull.

His head lolls to the side, but you don't have time to think—grabbing onto the wheel and turning it sharply before the truck crashes into a container. Kicking his feet off the pedal, you slam onto the brakes.

The truck's wheels skid to a halt, and you instinctively squeeze your eyes shut when the truck slams into the container. You heave out a breath, shaking slightly as you open your eyes to a mostly in-tact truck, aside from the dent visible in the side of the door. You did it. You actually did it.

A knock at the window makes you flinch, and you snap your neck to see Red Hood waiting outside the door, hands over his hips—impatience brimming in his form. Your fury sparks in your gut again, but you clamp your lips shut as you unbuckle the driver, unlocking the door on the other side, and shoving the driver out.

He falls onto the ground with a loud thump, still unconscious as Hood hoists him up easily, dragging him over to where the other driver was and dropping him.

By the time you managed to shimmy your way out of the truck, Hood's already got a gun pressed over the forehead of the first driver, who looks worse for wear than the other, with sweat pooled at his forehead, blood running down his nose.

"Wait!" It tears out of you, afraid.

A flash of Bruce’s eyes crystalises in your mind, a perfect vision of his morals weighing down on you. Your fingers wrap around his gun, forcing it away. "What are you doing?" You snap.

"My job, sweetheart." He mocks.

"There's no need to—" Kill them. You can barely get it out, and you switch your words. "You haven't even gotten your information, what's the use in putting a bullet through their heads when you don't know where the shipment's supposed to go? You'd just delay Scarecrow's plan, not stop it."

"Oh, and let me guess." His voice hardens. " Once we put these two in jail, they'll break out—rush back to Scarecrow and help out in murdering innocent civilians. Is that your amazing idea?"

You hesitate, and for a moment, you feel like Bruce and—this conversation only makes you ill.

“You don’t have time to hesitate.” His voice grows in impatience, frustration clear over your incompetence. “They’re dirt on the streets, and it’s either you clean it up, or you’ll find someone’s face on the news—someone’s kid murdered, because you couldn’t pull the damn trigger!”

You can’t stop the flinch at his raised voice, even as your own glare hardens. “Then what makes you different from them? Deciding who gets to live and die?”

His cold laugh echoes through the night air. “It doesn’t. I just have the guts to admit that it takes that sacrifice to make the streets safer, to save another life.”

“By deciding to kill another.” You bite back.

“Yeah, cause keeping murderers alive worked out so well before.” He scoffs.

You freeze, cold anger taking over your panic. He didn't need to say who he was taking a dig at, it was enough from the mocking tone in his voice. "Fuck you, Hood."

"Yeah, I'm terrified." He says dryly, tucking his gun back into his holster. "Cause clearly, you're a real big threat, aren't you?"

You're tempted to launch yourself at him, hit him—anything to get him to shut up.

“You should take some time off the field if you think being soft around here works.” He mocks, two hands coming down to drag the two men by their collars. Walking over to the truck he's parked, he tosses them into the back seat. “Come find me when you come around.”

You’re ready to snap, tell him you wanted nothing to do with him in the first place, that he’s deranged for thinking you’d even want to find him and let yourself be dragged into his mess—but he tosses something your way and you instinctively catch it. Opening your palm, it’s a burner phone, identical to the one you saw him use when you arrived at the harbour.

When you look up, he’s gone. Left alone in the streets with shaking adrenaline tremoring through your hands, even if you don't know whether he'll follow through with what he said, the image still makes you feel sick.

Hood disappears from your life for two weeks. Enough for you to dare to try and fall asleep without the image of the two drivers appearing when you shut your eyes. To not smell the harbour, and hear the sound of his mocking tone when he dangled your morals in front of you like life and death is so easily decided.

Tonight's not one of those nights where you think sleep will come find you easily.

Your body's conditioned to almost wait—like he's bound to appear any minute even though he's never visited you at your apartment before. The burner phone is shoved somewhere in your wardrobe so you won't have to see it, even when you instinctively check to see if he's left any messages or missed calls when the thoughts get too loud at night.

You're starting to believe he's actually given up on you, seeing you as a weakling in his eyes. It shouldn't bother you, give you any feeling other than relief that he's potentially out of your life. Yet, somewhere deep inside, the guilt pools at the thought that if it came down to it, you might do the same thing as Bruce. Not pull the trigger, and someone ends up dead.

Like Jason.

A knock rams against your window. It's loud, measured with that same familiar brute force you've come to expect from the only person who'd find you at this hour.

You shouldn't have kicked off your sheets, or rush to the window where your oddly-sized sofa was pushed against. You unlock the window, pushing it up to meet the sight of the helmet that haunts your nightmares.

For a moment, he just stays there, bent over on your fire escape like he's in intense pain. Then, he snaps. "You going to move aside?"

“I thought you said I’d be the one to come find you.” You mock. You shouldn’t, not when he’s clearly pissed with a gun in his hand, but your nerves don’t trigger automatically at the sight of him. He doesn’t scare you, even though he should.

His other hand is gripping his side, blood soaking his glove when he hisses out through gritted teeth. “Toss me attitude later. Emergency kit now.”

You don’t question on how even though he’s known you for such a short time, he's desperate enough to come find your window. You don’t let yourself think about how he’s probably alone in this city, just like you, and bears that weight and who knows what other baggage that’s clearly twisted him into this displaced superiority complex.

You grab your kit, rushing back to see him laying against your brick wall, still near the window, and you hear the shifts of his delayed breathing, like he’s trying to still himself as much as possible to prevent further blood loss.

“An expert in bleeding out?” You taunt, laying the kit beside him as you automatically grab for the alcohol and cloth to clean the wound.

“Should’ve seen the other guy.” He tosses back, teeth clenched through his stubbornness.

It’s almost paradoxical, seeing the Red Hood so strangely human in the dim lighting of your apartment, bleeding out on your wooden floorboards and making jokes. Almost enough to make you forget why you’re pissed to see him, almost.

“How’d you find my apartment?” A silent question echoes your words through the tense atmosphere. How’d you find me every time?

“Tracker in the burner phone.” He answers casually as he pulls up his shirt, one hand outstretched for the alcohol—clearly expecting to do it himself. Not like anything illegal on that extent would phase him.

“And the other times?” You ignore his outstretched hand, dabbing the alcohol on the cloth. To prove that you're capable of something, you don't know. Your stubbornness had always only been rivalled by those worse than you. “Three.. two..”

Your count doesn't finish before you press the cloth onto his wound, and he hisses, a string of curses filling the room. “Every damn time.” He groans.

Your brows furrow, but maybe he’s talking about the pain. It’d be impossible for him to know you trick your counts.

“Like I said before.” He huffs as he adjusts to the sting of the alcohol. “I know your tells.”

“I hide them.” You bristle, offended as you grab for the needle, stringing the thread through.

His laugh echoes harshly against the brick walls, finding your words funny. “Not well enough.”

Your lips purse in displeasure, but he’s obviously right if he’s able to find you so easily. “Just because you can find me doesn’t mean it gives you permission to barge in.”

“Then why let me in?” He challenges.

You pause, hands losing the knot around the eye of the needle and you inhale sharply, trying again. “This is going to hurt.” You warn, one hand placed on his torso to keep him steady.

“You won’t believe how many people say that to me.” He jokes, seemingly amused. He's more talkative when he's injured.

“Given your charming personality, I can’t imagine why.” You mutter dryly.

When the needle point digs into his skin, he goes silent, fists clenching against the window sill. You don’t ask any more questions—you just get it over as quickly as you can.

He doesn’t leave immediately like you expect him to when you’re done. Instead, he lingers—a still statue near the window while you wash your blood-soaked hands. If it weren’t for the controlled breaths that prickled in frequency across the room, you would’ve thought he had passed out from exhaustion.

When you think you’ve let your hands run under the water long enough for it to be obvious you’re avoiding the elephant in the room, you force yourself back to the window and crouch to his eye level. His helmet tilts, analysing you—waiting.

You sigh. “Listen. If we’re really going to be partners, we need to set rules.”

He inhales, settling his head back on the wall, gazing at your ceiling. “Finally came to terms with it then? What crime-fighting actually is.”

“Only on the terms that you treat me as an equal. Not your lackey.” You frown, still recalling the way he tossed orders to you without asking for input.

You expect him to poke fun, mock you for your request. Yet, he doesn’t. He stares at the ceiling, before he grunts. “Alright.”

Your shoulders loosen in tension, and you settle in sitting properly across him, your elbows resting on your knees as you watch him.

"And you have to tell me why you mentioned Jason Todd." You weren't going down in this mess with him without a fight, not when Jason's name still haunts you through the echo of his moderator.

He laughs dryly. "Haven't catch on? It's not only him—don't you realise? He wasn't the Bat's only failure. The countless murders in the streets, left unpunished, forgotten without a mention in the news because it's expected that they'd have to pay the sacrifice of no one stepping up to do what's needed."

"And you're that person?" The pieces of his motive begin to click together—that he imagines himself as the one destined to wash out the rot in the city, all done by staining his hands with blood.

"Shouldn't only be me." His invitation lays there, and the understanding dawns on you on why he'd pick you. There are far more efficient fighters, cleverer than you and maybe even him. Yet, you sense a familiar bitterness in him you recognise in yourself—that same, quiet rage that drowns him, and chains him to this city.

It's a sinking ship, his mission—but maybe he thinks you'll see it too. Why it's worth trying.

“I know you’ll never tell me your full story.” You say. “But at least tell me what you’re aiming at, what we’re doing.”

He finally looks at you, and you feel it then, that same confidence of a dying man with nothing to lose that settles in his bones. “We’re rebuilding Gotham.”

Red Hood proves to be more brain than brawn, a paradox to your initial impression when he had a gun jammed to the side of your ribs. You knew he was clever, but as you worked side by side, watching first-hand how quickly his mind works is.. fascinating.

He’s been trained, to see not only a few steps ahead, but several. To have contingency plans, to have distrust built into his very veins, and to have his body move before he thinks.

Through his lens, Gotham looks worse than its ever been through your blurred memory. The corruption that simmers below every business, every front plastered on with fake smiles, and the blood that has dried on the steps to build empires.

Worse than that, you begin to see him in a different light too.

He's a brute, that lingers after every walk home from patrol, only leaving when you lock your door and windows.

He tosses you random weapons of a caliber much higher than you'd ever be able to afford, ones you highly suspect he stole or had manufactured for you, because he rarely uses blades in opt for his guns.

He grunts that you're too weak for crime-fighting, then drags you to a stall that sells food to even the most suspicious of individuals, owned by an old man that doesn't blink when Hood hands him cash and gives him plastic bags filled with boxed meals.

Sometimes, during your patrols together, he takes the longer routes from above, stopping on the rooftops of skyscrapers where Gotham shines in its rare beauty, where the lights blend together into its own sea of stars.

“So, why come back?” He asks once, crouched beside you as he eyes for any signs of crime in the Fashion District.

You pretend you don't understand. “To Gotham?”

He nods imperceptibly.

“Rent’s cheaper.” You shrug.

He huffs, amusement crackling even through his modulator. “Now that’s a load of bull.”

You snort, legs dangling over the ledge. Looking down at the city, where the bottom panes of the skyscrapers look more like specks of light than actual windows—you think back on the first day you arrived. So lost, so hungry to feel something again.

“How did you find out about Jason?” You ask instead.

His breath hitches faintly, just for the shortest second. If it had been a few weeks ago, you wouldn't have caught it. “I keep track of all the Bat’s failures.” He answers vaguely.

Your brows furrow. “Jason’s death was documented as a political incident.” Even the words sounded like a disgrace on your tongue. "There was no connections to the Bat."

He scoffs. “There’s nothing he can hide from me.”

“Bruce.” You mutter. “How do you know him?”

“That’s—” His head snaps to where sirens pass by Grant Park. His entire body language shifts, nothing phases him when he’s in work mode. “—for another time.”

He never continued that story. Bruce was a sensitive topic to him, and you could only assume he must’ve been bested by the Bat before, though the mystery of how he knows Bruce's well-hidden identity is another matter.

Instead, he tells you other stories. Of mountains up in the North, where he was trained before he crawled back to Gotham. Of how he had taken all of Black Mask’s physical cash when he took over his territory, but settled on a cheap apartment in the more dangerous parts of Crime Alley because it made it easier for him to hear the sirens.

When the occurrences of him finding himself back in your apartment start to blur into mere days in between, showing up injured from his own self-patrols that you didn’t follow, you let him stay. Small human choices, that you could only hope wouldn’t doom you—tie you to him and his downward spiral.

You begin to tell him stories too.

“Jason is—was my best friend.” You start.

His gaze flicks to you. It’s been two hours since he barged in through your window, one hour and forty-five minutes since you patched him up. He’s been on your couch since, gazing at your ceiling, watching headlights pass by your window, casting shadows of the window bars he installed for you. (“Don’t want to find my partner dead because of some shit windows.” He commented then when he showed up with boxes of equipment.)

“Is this the partner development where we start trauma dumping on each other?” He muses. “I‘m afraid it’ll have to be one-sided because I’m not sharing.”

You hit his shoulder, and he lets out a mock gasp of hurt. “You listening or not?” You scoff.

He settles, neck turned to focus on you. “I’m listening.”

You swallow, averting your gaze. “We were both stupid kids who had the misfortune of being born in Crime Alley. Typical Gotham luck.”

“He was so small then.” It was bittersweet, thinking of Jason's stunted height, how he had nothing much to eat—only inhaling cigarette smoke and finding leftovers to stall the hunger. “Stealing about anything he could so he’d have something to eat. I wasn’t much better, and it added on to his burden—trying to steal enough so we could both survive."

“Idiot went on about how he saw some fancy car, reckoned he’d earn us months worth of food just from the tires alone.” You laugh, but it sounds broken, tired. “Turns out it was the fucking Batmobile.”

“What an idiot.” He comments.

“Yeah.” Your eyes glaze over, and you blink quickly, clearing the moisture. “He was right though. When the Bat took us in—well, more the Bat wanted him and he demanded we were a package deal—we had more food than we could have ever dreamed of.”

“Then, the training started.” You recall, fists clenching. “I wasn’t as fast or strong, so he mostly taught me the ropes for self-defense, but Jason? He was good. Better than good, you’d think he was born for it. Had dreams of doing more, and the Bat saw that.”

“So—" Hood's voice drawls. "—he became the Bat’s next pawn.”

You shook your head. “They couldn’t have had more different dreams. Bruce—the Bat never lived on the streets. He knew of crime, he saw it happen. He didn’t live it.”

“He could only ever see it from the outside. He kept it that way, putting people in jail over and over again, not knowing—or refusing to see that the system was already broken from the inside.”

“He never had the guts.” He scoffs.

“Yeah, but Jason did.” You mutter. “He always did. Too much of it, and I guess you know how the rest of the story goes.”

“Went and got himself killed.” He finishes.

You hesitate, feeling your heart palpitating against your rib cage before you couldn't stand it any longer. “And I wasn’t there.”

When you turn to look at him, it feels like tearing open a healing wound. You feel the wetness pool at your lashes, threatening to fall. “What kind of shitty person lounges around in a billionaire’s mansion while their best friend was dying alone, scared? Calling for someone to save him?”

Whatever his viper tongue was made of, he gave you none of it. He watches, waits as you blink, looking away harshly when the tears start to fall.

He doesn’t speak, and you think he’s out of words when you feel his hand on your jaw. He grips it gently, forcing you to turn your head back to look at him. His gloves are off, had been since he came in, and the warmth of his fingers, the rough, scarred edges make him feel real.

“It’s not your fault.” His voice takes a stern hold over you, only reinforced by his grip.

You shake your head, but he holds you steady. His thumb comes up to wipe away a tear stain. “What could you have done?” He challenges. “You said it yourself. You barely knew self-defense, much less going against the bastard that killed him. You would’ve just gotten yourself killed.”

“Is it selfish?” You ask. “That I wanted to? That I’d prefer if I had been there? Knowing I wouldn’t be able to change his death.”

He’s silent, and you can only hear the soft cracks in his modulator from his breathing.

“When you had nothing but each other, of course you’d be selfish.” He answers. “Doesn’t mean it’s wrong just because others tell you it is.”

Somehow, he gets it. Gets you better than Bruce had when the two of you fought after it had happened. He’s a stranger, but you foolishly think he might mean more than that.

You swallow, and his head tilts slightly, watching the motion.

"Do you think he might've known?" Your voice trembles. "That I was thinking of him even in his last moments. That his memory still hasn't faded from this world because I would never let that happen?"

His hand still on your face, an anchor grounding you when it shouldn't give you that comforting weight—falters, but he doesn't let go. "You read like an open book." He says. "Your heart's easy to spot. If I could see that, then he would've known what he'd mattered to you. He would've thought of you in his last moments, and fought his best to get back to you."

In the cracks of everything that’s wrong with this, it feels oddly comforting to let him see you. To fall deeper into the unknown, to hope that laying your wounds right in the open doesn't trigger him to bite. Tears fall at the edges, and you don't blink this time—don't try to hide it.

"Why did you come back?" He asks again.

You look at him, seeing your own broken reflection reflected in his helmet. "Maybe I wanted to feel something again. To be selfish."

You feel his fingers tighten imperceptibly, a slight twitch at your words. His body leans almost instinctively, closer to you, shifting the weight of the moment—drumming a rush of blood through your veins in anticipation, and there’s a brief moment where you think he might actually take that damn helmet off, when a siren echoes from the outside. The moment shatters, and his hand freezes.

In a blink, he drops his hand as if the touch of your skin burnt him, and stands abruptly from the couch. “I have to go.” He rushes it out through his teeth, tugging at his jacket and grabbing his grappling gun.

You stare, feeling your heart go numb. Of course. You’re a fool, laying yourself vulnerable like that. Careless, just like he said when he first met you.

”Right.” You mutter weakly.

He looks back at you, hesitating. Whatever he thought, it wasn’t worth knowing because he was out of your window before you could even say goodbye.

The next visit, you feel his distance.

He doesn't toss you a lame joke, call you that dreaded, mocking 'sweetheart' you've come to expect, and maybe detest less over time. No, he's cold—professional.

"Penguin's set a trap." Straight to the point, it shouldn't gut you as much as it did. "We'll use Plan B." He continues on. "Come in from the third floor, it'll give us the advantage since he's barred the entrance and rooftop. He clearly expects us to choose the highest floor, so that's where he'll have the most of his henchman."

You nod briskly, your own guard built back up at the sight of his. "Anything else?"

He looks at you, and your question sours with every passing second of silence, like a plea for him to address the screaming issue laying underneath. "No." He breaks eye contact first, getting on his bike. "Let's not waste any more time."

You don't remember when Plan B obviously turned out to be the wrong choice. Only the adrenaline rush of actually making it out of this death trap kept your feet moving, hands fumbling for every door in the hopes that one would open and get the both of you out of gunfire range.

One finally works, and the door nearly topples with how both you and Hood's weight slams into it. He locks the door, but when you look around the room, there's no other exit. You'll have to go back out the way you came, which means running into all those henchmen.

“What the hell was that, Hood?” You snarl, barely able to see him through the dark, confined space. “I thought being partners meant giving a basic level of trust.”

He’s pacing, not even listening to a word you're saying, fury coiling his tense form as he strikes each step with a lack of precision that he always has, staggering, impulsive—angry. It was a complete shit-show, all because he didn’t let you take the shot at Penguin.

”Hood!” Finally, he stops.

“Trust.” He mutters, a deranged crack in his voice when he turns to you. “Was that what it was when you refused to listen to me when I told you to bail?”

“No, you thought I was tricking you.” A cold anger slithers its way into every accusation used against you, cornering you as he threads his heavy steps closer to you. “You thought I was making you leave so I could bargain with Penguin, force him to do my bidding, steal more territory for myself.”

“Tell me, partner.” He mocks. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

You grit your teeth, looking away from him. “You’ve given me no reason to trust you.” Every time you’ve given a piece of yourself to him, extended your vulnerability—he’s never given anything back.

“I saved your life.”

“Because there’s something you need from me.” You snap. “From the start, you knew who I was and my connections to the Bat. You used Jason's name to lure me into working for you. You have some twisted game you’re playing that I’m a fucking pawn in!”

“You think that’s what this is?” He growls, gripping you by your collar. Your hands come up to push his fingers off, but he only leans in closer till you can hear the heavy breathing beneath his helmet, the frustration radiating off of him.

“If I wanted you for your connections to Bruce.” He laughs coldly. “I would’ve strung you up a building from the first day to get him where I needed him.”

“I don’t need you.” He snarls, letting go of your collar, making you stumble in your step. “I have other ways of getting to the Bat that doesn’t require the trouble I get from you.”

”Then why make me your partner?”

He’s silent, even as you hear his modulator crack with every breath. He can’t answer you.

“I don’t know what you want from me.” You continue on, refusing to let him ice you out. “You don’t need me. Yet, you insist on digging your way into my life like you want to be in it. You can’t fool me.”

“You don’t linger in the home of someone you don’t need, long after the bleeding has stopped.” You accuse, stepping closer to him. “You don’t save someone you don’t need at the expense of the mission.”

Your fist comes up to dig into his chest, cementing your words with every push. “You let me in. That’s why you’re angry, and that’s why you keep me close even when you know you shouldn’t.”

Heavy breathing echoes through the abandoned room, only the slight cracks of his modulator distorting the tension stretched between. You see his fists clench, and you have half a mind to back off, realise it’s dangerous to provoke him when you still have no idea what he’s truly capable of, when you feel something shift.

His body stills, and even through the helmet, you feel his gaze pinned on you.

“Close your eyes.” He orders.

Your brows furrow.

“Just do it.” He snaps, impatient.

You close your eyes, brows clenched together—in fear, anticipation, and something you don’t dare name. Darkness envelops you and you hear the faint sound of a click. His hand comes up to cover your eyes, a safety measure.

“Still can’t trust me, huh?” You mock.

“Shut up.” His voice breaks, raw and un-filtered.

The sound of his voice breaks through all your defenses, leaving you paralysed—realisation kicking in that he’s taken off his helmet only when his lips crash into yours.

Hood's taken off his helmet.. and he’s kissing you.

You shouldn't let him, but none of your rational thoughts ever made sense when it came to him. He dug himself into your life, and somewhere through it all, you found yourself wanting him to show up. Again and again.

You kiss him back, and that only fuels him further, his lips claiming you as he grips the back your head with one hand, man-handling you in a way that empties your mind of anything but his touch.

There's a banging of doors, voices echoing louder and closer—and you hear his grunt of frustration when he pulls back, fingers still over your eyes as he grabs for his helmet. You hear a click, and when you open your eyes, your vision clears back onto his helmet.

"Did you just—" You stammer.

"And I really want to do it again." He breathes out, gaze still locked onto you. "Let's get the hell out of here. Together. We'll figure out Penguin's schemes when we're not in the center of his traps."

You nod hurriedly, almost in a daze, forcing yourself to snap out of it when he grabs for your hand, pulling you along to the exit.

When the door shoves open, all hell breaks loose.

There's firing of guns, and Hood practically uses himself as a shield as he pulls you behind him, running with one hand holding yours as fast as he can, past the firearms and henchman, towards where a window was at the end of the hallway. Plan E or F, you recall vaguely, but it definitely involved jumping out of a high window.

Your eyes flick behind—and you see it then, the new weapon Penguin's gotten a hold of, that has clearly pierced through tanks thicker than Hood's helmet, aimed at his back, right where his heart would be. The shot fires, and you don't think.

Pushing him to the side, the side of your stomach ripples in pain, and you scream. The blow sends you toppling to the ground. The pain is enough to make your vision flash white. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts.

Before you can process how bad the injury was, Hood's already gripping your fallen body, hoisting you into his arms. You grip onto his neck, eyes fluttering as he runs, colliding your body painfully against his hard chest plate when he crashes through the window.

You hear a crack, and your vision topples to the side when your head lolls and you see his helmet, cracked in the center. He curses, voice modulator distorted as one of his hands comes up quickly to detach the helmet. He shifts you up to avoid seeing his vulnerable face, and you see his helmet topple to the pavement as he runs, lost with the shattered glass.

Your head is pressed into the crook of his neck, preventing you from seeing what he looked like. Still, you can feel the press of his tousled hair against your cheek, the texture of it against your weakening fingers.

For a moment, in your delusion, it reminds you of when you used to caress Jason’s hair on the nights where he couldn’t sleep after a bad patrol or a fight with Bruce. You mumble something, incoherent syllables but it forms itself like a comforting mantra, muttering Jason’s name in a whisper.

You doubt he’d hear it, but you feel him tense against your body, the rigid push of his muscles as he passes another obstacle, nudging you closer to him in his movement.

”Stay awake, bird.” He orders, his real voice barking harshly against your skin. It’s rough, weathered from exhaustion and pain.

“Don’t-“ Your eyelids clamp shut from exhaustion, or blood loss—you can’t differentiate the nauseous pressure enveloping your senses, but you manage to get your words out. “Don’t call me that.”

It sounds strange on his tongue, like it came to him so easily, the same way it used to for Jason. The line keeps blurring, and you don't know why Hood reminds you of him. Maybe it's because of your love for Jason, bleeding into whatever you felt for Hood—it all clicks and fades together as your thoughts grow more sparse, the feeling of the cold sweat against your temple taking your attention instead.

“Hey—” His voice breaks when he calls you by your real name, softer than you’ve ever heard it. You like it, the deep, uneven edges that was muffled by the modulator, wishing you could listen to it over and over. “Don’t you die on me. You can’t. I won’t allow it.”

“Why?” You mutter, the word falling off your tongue loosely. “You said you didn’t need me, remember? You could find a better partner. One that doesn’t-”

You cough, feeling a splutter of iron cover the back of your teeth. You feel the frantic shake of his head, and you dig closer into the crook of his neck, finding comfort in his scent.

“I don’t want another partner.” His voice begs, uncontrollably raw. “Do you seriously think I can ever consider anyone else—it's always been you. I need you—so please.”

"Tell me I'm an idiot." He demands. "Fight with me. Just—don't you dare close your eyes."

His pleas grow more desperate when your eyelids fall shut but eventually, even his voice and the sound of his boots slamming into the ground fades—till nothing from the world reaches you.

"Hey, bird."

Jason's always been a blur in your dreams, and this one is no different. The green in his eyes are hazy, your faded memory obscuring the once clear spark he used to have.

"Hey, Jay." You can't bring yourself to look at him. Not when having to face him meant seeing his youthful face, trapped in the confinements of time, distilled and frozen while your own features are sunken, age and stress wearing out your own expression.

"You really out-did yourself this time, huh?" He mutters, glancing at your blood-soaked hands.

"Thought I'd give your method an approach." You joke, smile growing wry. "Still think it's more a 'you' thing than me. This vigilante work is tiring."

"I can tell." His voice echoes. "You look tired."

Your smile fades, and you don't dare look up from your hands, folded over your knees. "I'm sorry, Jay."

"What for?"

"I don't know." Your shoulders sag, feeling like you're forgetting something important. "I just miss you. I feel like I'm dragging your memory down with me when I should let you rest."

"You know you'd never drag me down, bird." He says, one hand coming around your shoulder, pulling you into his embrace. "I'm always here for you."

"Yeah?" Your voice cracks. "I miss my partner. The one who always knew what to say when things get scary. I—I think I'm really coming to see you this time."

"You've got a long way to go." He says knowingly. "You have a partner who's looking out for you."

Your brows furrow. "Hood." You realise.

He nods, and you feel his chin brush your shoulder. "You promised me you'd do whatever it takes to survive, remember?"

Right, that silly pinky promise made over stale sandwiches near the dumpsters in Crime Alley, before Bruce—when the world seemed much smaller and the tomorrow's mattered.

You swallow. "What if I'm not ready to do that? If it means letting you go?"

He laughs, reassuring even in his faint memory. "I'm not going anywhere. Just stay on the living side, bird. I'll protect you. Anywhere you go."

When your heavy eyelids force themselves open, a hazy vision of your apartment ceiling greets you. Your side greets you second with a painful soreness and a slight itch, making you hiss through your teeth when you sober up through the pain. “Hood?” You call out, hating how desperate you sound.

There’s no sound for a moment, and you’re terrified that you won’t be able to lift yourself out from bed to assess the damage done to your own body, when you hear the sound of boots thumping against the floorboards.

The door slams open and—Jason comes through.

Not Hood. Jason.

“Holy shit. I’m dead.” You gasp, even as your wound screams for you to not raise your voice. “I’m definitely dead—Jason.”

An intense amount of relief surges through his expression at the sight of you awake, but it quickly wipes off when you try to lift yourself from the bed.

“Stay down.” He orders, pushing your shoulders back down onto the pillows.

One of your hands reach out to grab onto his fingers, staring at him unblinkingly. You’ve never dreamt of him this clearly.

“I must be dead.” You repeat. “Or else you wouldn’t be here.”

“You’re alive.” He reassures you, his expression growing serious. “No thanks to yourself. What kind of idiot jumps in front of a gun?”

Your brows furrow. “But why—where’s Hood?”

He’s silent for a few seconds. “I thought—you called my name. When I was carrying you.”

You stare at him. At his face that’s lost its youth, bearing more scars than you remember. You replay the deeper timbre in his voice, how it differs to the cracks he used to have.

He’s right. You are an idiot.

“You’re Hood.” You whisper, and the fact only cements itself deeper at his expression paling.

“I thought you knew.” He says, pulling away slightly. “You called out to me. I thought you saw my face—that it was over.”

“You’re alive.” Your voice raises, almost hysterical. “You’ve been beside me this entire time, and you hid.”

He flinches at your accusation, but there’s nothing he can say to defend that. His eyes grow cold, and he looks away. “You’re wrong.”

“Jason.” You should feel happy that he’s alive but the disbelief that your best friend hid himself from you, let you believe he was truly gone carried a new sense of betrayal. “I mourned. You sat beside me and watched as I cried over you, the guilt I felt—and you said nothing. You let me believe you were gone while you re-entered my life as if it didn’t matter.”

“Because it’s the truth!” He snaps. “Your Jason is gone.”

You freeze, staring at him. “What?”

“He died under the rubble, when the bomb went off.” Jason continues. “His heart stopped. When I was reborn, I was barely myself. My mind was split and re-pieced together and nothing—nothing existed except for the feeling of death in every part of my body.”

”When I finally managed to remember who I was, what happened to me—” He rasps. “I crawled back to Gotham and found Bruce got a shiny, new replacement. And the Joker? Alive.”

“I buried everything in the past where it belonged.” He spits. “I started out as I always had, with nothing. I promised myself that at the very least, if Bruce had failed me—I wouldn't repeat his mistakes. I'd make the sacrifices he never dared to do."

Realisation settles like a slow poison. “So you erased it all, including me.”

You can barely process it, the thought of him nearly letting you believe he was dead for the rest of your life, while he remained in Gotham with a new identity, leaving you clueless.

His jaw clenches, and he looks away. “I was relieved when I heard you had left Gotham. I didn’t need distractions—to see your disappointment when you realised you’d never truly get me back.”

"Then why?" You move again, but he's near you in a flash, hands pushing you back down again before you hurt yourself. It kills you that he clearly still cares. "Why did you find me in that alleyway? Why did you force yourself back into my life if you didn't want to be near me?"

His eyes flicker, and for a moment—you see that fierce, little boy you knew. The one who was afraid you'd go hungry, who refused to rip his grip away from your wrist when he had forced Bruce to take you too. "You were careless." He utters, an echo into the past where he had run into you for the first time as Red Hood. When you had wondered why a stranger, a vigilante you'd never met before sounded so pissed about your skills.

"There was no one to tell you that. Bruce wouldn't be able to save you—not when he couldn't even protect me. You decided to come back, and take on crime like you knew how it worked, and I couldn't-"

You watch, wait as he struggles with his words. "I won't be like Bruce." He answers, a hardened resolve taking over as he looks at you with a vehement expression. "Never. I'd die before I let you fall to the same fate."

There it was. His deepest fear, still selflessly putting himself in danger even though he couldn't see it. Not being able to pull away even when he should, carrying that same beating heart under the new walls he's built. He was still your Jason, but if he wanted to believe it differently, you'd play along.

"So, you're not my Jason." You agree.

There's a flicker of relief, and hurt too that pools in his gaze. As if he wanted you to say it, but wasn't prepare to hear it from you.

"You're a jerk now, who decides what's best for other people." You continue on. "That has horrible fashion taste because a faceless helmet is obviously the best way to intimidate people."

He bristles. "Worked on you just fine."

Your fingers find his across the sheets, and he falls silent.

"So whether you're the Hood, or a new Jason." You pause. "What if I say I want you either way?"

His breathing stops. It's like you found that festering wound inside of him, and tore it straight out of his chest.

"That's what you're afraid of, isn't it?" You challenge. "That I'd be repulsed by you, and say I want nothing to do with you anymore. So you came back into my life—hiding behind a mask, thinking I would never figure it out. That you could have me without ruining my memories about you."

He swallows, averting your gaze—but you were having none of that. Not when you finally have him again.

"Look at me." You demand.

He inhales, lashes fluttering close as he prepares himself before looking at you openly. Broken. That's what you see first, your vision of him completely disheveled, with no armour, no biting remarks to protect him.

Yet, looking at him, you only saw the same boy you loved before he was torn out of your life. The same man you fell in love with all over again. Your Jason, the one you always ran back to no matter what.

"You're never allowed to leave me again." You start, your voice almost breaking. "I won't lose you, whichever version of you, I want it all. I don't care what you think, because you're mine and I'm yours so you can't leave-"

His expression hardens, and before you can think—fear that he'll pull away—he leans in and kisses you. It's rough, unsteady, but your hands wrap around him and pull him closer. You couldn't dare to let him go ever again.

"I'm not leaving." He rasps against your lips. "Not when I felt your blood on my hands, when I nearly lost you."

You shudder, a soft nod at his words as he kisses you again, softer but with a new form of desperation, and a hidden, quiet plea that you truly mean your words.

You pull away, stopping for breath when your wound starts to ache, hands coming up to lift your shirt, assessing the damage. It's heavily bandaged over a large part of your side, which should've hurt worse than it feels right now. "How—my emergency kit wouldn't fix an injury like this." You point out.

His expression darkens, and he sighs, looking at your wound with guilt swarming his pupils. "I contacted Bruce."

Your head snaps up. "You did what?"

He nods, his lips settling into a thin line. "I wasn't losing you. Not to something stupid like my pride. If I had to get down on my knees to the old man, I'd do it in a heartbeat."

"Jason." Your shock renders you incapable of doing anything else. Your eyes soften, and your hand lets the fabric go, letting your shirt hide the wound. "Thank you."

"You should be yelling at me." He muses, a heartbreaking expression displayed on his face. "I've been a shit partner. Put you in danger's way, and I couldn't even get you out unscathed."

"Hey." You stop him. "I told you that I—I hated myself for not being there, when the Joker killed you. I'd rather be with you in danger's way than anywhere else. I won’t go through that again. Even if it kills me.”

His expression falters, and he sighs, leaning in with his forehead pressed against yours. "Survival skills of a newborn. You're the worst partner I've ever had, bird."

Your lips quirk up. "Yeah, but you wouldn't want anybody else."

"Damn right." He shifts, placing a kiss over your nose. "Don't know what I was thinking, hiding from you like a coward. Not when I could have this instead."

"Between the two of us, I always felt you took the 'idiot' title more." You tease. “I’m still pissed you said you didn’t need me, you jerk. Tell me you regret it. Beg for my forgiveness—I might consider letting you off if you do it nicely.”

He rolls his eyes, a smile caught between his teeth before his gaze shifts again to your lips, swallowing. “You’re right. I’m the jerk, and the bastard that needs you more than air.” He murmurs, eyes flickering back up to you—and his gaze nearly consumes you whole. "I regret being a horrible liar, but I've always been your idiot, haven't I?"

Your lips quirk up into a smile. "Damn right."

At the echo of his words right back at him, his lips seal over yours again, a resolute sigh rumbling through his throat, and you think that finally—your partner has come back to you.