Miles Morales

“come over for a sec. needa quick favor.”

“The door is unlocked”

“btw Goodmorning”

Your mix of proper grammar and whatever the fuck that was is always a test Jason’s restraint. Especially at eight o’clock on a Saturday morning. To his detriment, you’re a creature of habit too stubborn to change your archaic ways. You also do it because you think it’s funny to piss him off, which he begrudgingly respects. Spitefully, he pulls on a hoodie and sweatpants in preparation for the perilous journey. Gotham in December is miserable at the best of times and downright lethal at its worst. The four-month kinship you two have fostered proves just enough for him to bear the elements at your request. The blistering winds bite his skin the moment he forces the door open. Trekking through the arctic conditions is nothing short of a Herculean feat- your abode may as well be on the other side of the country. It feels like a lifetime before he finally arrives at your door. Your townhouse is immediately to the left of his. The door slams shut as he brushes snow from his hair.

“You’re worse than the scrubs who don’t use oxford commas, y’know that?”

“It’s part of my charm,” you offer, voice scratchy and sleep ladened.

Tiny paws race across the room. Your pitbull rescue comes skidding around the corner with a dopey grin plastered across her face. Not even the big-bad Red Hood (not that you know about that) can resist how Raven rolls onto her back, begging for belly rubs. She knows she’ll always get them from him. Hunched in the middle of your kitchen you’re fashionably adorned in Jurassic Park pajamas. You wear your bedhead like a crown and your fluffy blanket like a cape.

“Tell me what y’need ‘fore I change my mind,” Jason chides.

“You talk as bad as I text.”

He glares with a scowl, earning him your amused smirk and an eyeroll. Your mismatched socks drag over the carpet with a soft scooching sound. From the shroud of your blanket you present the root of your woes: a fresh carton of coffee creamer. Jason’s eyes narrow and brows raise, making yours scrunch in return. Relenting with a sigh, he twists the cap open without any effort. He holds it out with a bored expression, but you make no move to take it back. Your eyes flick back down to the box. He follows your gaze down to the plastic seal, up to you, back down to the tab, and back up to you. Nothing but raw exasperation staring at you, at which your threatening scowl deepens. Against all odds, his sigh is even more sarcastic the second time. Such a drama-queen. The seal pops open and you finally accept the carton, your enemy having been defeated.

“Pleasure doin’ business with’ya,” you nod curtly.

Jason watches with mild amusement as you indignantly scooch back to the kitchen. The amusement fades as his brows pinch together, watching your hands tremble with effort. Cream splashes onto the counter as the stream wavers from side to side. His growing concern is easily masked under his usual saunter and sarcasm.

“I’ve seen you shoulder two 50-pound bags of dog food in one go, but coffee creamer calls for reinforcements?”

“I pick and choose my battles, Todd.”

That steady shake persists, dusting your counter in sugar as you add an ungodly amount to your coffee. Jason’s detective trained eyes study your wary features: dark circles that could be mistaken for bruises, paper thin skin void of all color, and deep shadows that accentuate your sunken cheekbones. He presents his conclusion with the utmost elegance:

“You look like shit.”

“Wow,” you force a smirk, “you this charming in bed too?”

“Drop the act. Tell me what’s wrong.”

You defiantly stare down one another. Not even a batarang could cut this tension. Your muscles tense on instinct the way Jason does when he’s bracing for a hit. Years of practice have sculpted you into an actor worthy of an Oscar. You deceive and joke your way under the radar before anyone can even think that something might be wrong. Alas, Jason Todd is the man who can correctly guess how many minutes of sleep you got based on a single yawn. Even if you could muster the superhuman effort of lying while your body thrums with pain, you're certain he'd see right through your usual song and dance. Your sigh is that of surrender and pure exhaustion. Your gaze is forced to the ground as you grip your mug with white knuckles.

“I… I’m dealin’ with a flare-up… A bad one… It feels like my muscles are holding a grudge and my bones are made of toothpicks and desperation.”

Four months is long enough to call in favors. It’s long enough to ask Jason to dog sit because Raven always perks up at the sound of his boots. Long enough for you to show up at his door to just sit in silence when you know he’s had a bad week. It also happens to be just long enough for Jason to give a damn about you. It’s the same brand of care that has him carrying his brothers home after a brutal patrol. Most people, however, would agree that four months isn’t quite long enough to pry about private medical information. Not that he hasn't noticed.

The first sign was how good of a liar you are. Last month you covered for Jason when Dick showed up out of the blue, and he believed you. Jason’s never letting his older brother live that down. Normal people don’t develop that skill unless they’re forced to. The second sign was your constant need to prove yourself. You carry all your groceries in one trip and pride yourself in bearing wounds like a champ. Which, naturally, was the third sign: you welcome pain like an old friend that you begrudgingly let crash on your couch every month. Don’t ask Jason just how he knows all the signs.

“Not tryn’ to be a douche about it,” he starts cautiously, “Buuut, you coulda told me. You're always mad at me for hiding injuries.”

Your jaw clenches, but not with anger. “Yeah, cause those are temporary,” you dismiss, “And they hurt more. It’s a big leap from stomach issues to a broken collar bone.”

“Okay, first of all, it was dislocated. Second, that’s such bullshit and y’damn well know it.”

You pin him down with sharp, defiant eyes. “It’s fine. I’ve been dealing with this since I was eight, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

The following silence is far too loud; the kind of silence that follows the violent crack of a whip. It allows the ticking of Jason’s jaw to echo from where he's holding his ground. The labored rise and fall of your chest is a mix of remorse and resentment. Gotham is not a city for the kind. She dulls love into apathy, twists care into extortion, and rots devotion into betrayal. Jason’s fallen for her tricks once and he’ll never make that mistake again. He knows not to approach a cornered dog. He knows when to turn the other cheek, when to back off, and when his help isn't wanted. Those lessons that’ve burned themselves into his bones are challenged by the gnashing of your teeth - a language he knows all too well.

“Was gonna make boiled eggs,” you mumble, “Want some?”

Your voice sounds foreign without your usual spunk. Jason recognizes an olive branch when it's extended, even when his every instinct screams to snap it. Still, he reluctantly accepts with a solemn nod. He wanders to the couch and lets himself fall into the cushions. The light clink of metal and the soft padding of paws eases the tension in his shoulders ever so slightly. The seat beside him dips under Raven's weight, not letting his vacant lap go to waste.

SPLASH!

THUMP!

“AGH!”

CLANG!

Your pained cry has Jason sprinting to the kitchen. He skids to a stop just short of the linoleum where the pot landed. Warm water splashes as you hop on one socked foot while you cradle your freshly bruised one. Your stomach drops and you yelp when your foot slips out from under you. Jason surges forward in time so that you land in warm, solid arms. He protectively tucks you against his side, feeling how your minute tremble has evolved into a full-body quake. Limping to the couch is made easier with his steady arm around your torso. Your breaths come heavy with anger and your jaw trembles with shame.

“I hate it,” you hiss. “I hate being weak and frail and trapped in my own body. I can feel myself withering away, and I can’t do a damn thing about it.”

Jason can’t punch his way through an enemy he can’t see, and oh has he tried. Life would be a whole hell of a lot easier if his empathy died in the pit. To his fatal detriment, somewhere deep down behind well crafted contempt, lies a heart that bleeds far more than a dead man's should. It pounds beneath the floorboards, recognizing the weight on your shoulders that you refuse to share. His knuckles flex at the thought of tending to bruises instead of inflicting them. He rests his calloused hand over yours. His tone is that of tender conviction.

“Lemme be around, ‘kay? I’ll fuck off when ya’tell me, but, lemme be here. Let me make it suck a little less.”

You don’t need kevlar and pistols when stubbornness and pride have worked just fine. They’ve always proven to be the tried and true bricks that make up your stone exterior. It’s a damn shame that even the toughest of walls can be broken down. Maybe, just maybe, the effort it’s taken to repair every chip and crack isn’t worth the denial, the exhaustion, the pain, the fucking loneliness.

The word “yes” refuses to leave your throat. Old habits die hard and all that. Jason knows better than to wait for an answer you don’t want to acknowledge. He stands, and Raven huffs at the loss of her pillow. Between your pajamas and the number of times he’s heard it play from your side of the wall he knows to put on Jurassic Park. Dinosaurs are way better than awkward silence. He brings you water, retrieves a dry and warm blanket, mops the water from your kitchen floor, and makes your eggs. Not a single word is spoken. Not even eye contact is made. You both know better than to acknowledge something so soft.

The entire weekend passes just the same, with the tension of two cats tentatively navigating a shared space. Jason steps silently with the full weight of your steady gaze tracking his path. He places a plate of apple slices you didn’t ask for on the table beside you. He watches you stare at it, waiting for the plate to disappear the second you reach it. His chest feels just a little lighter each time you accept the offering. You always do. He smoothly walks past and takes the plate, finishing off the last two slices you pretend you didn’t leave just for him. A glass of water and a bottle of ibuprofen greet you Sunday morning, much how a cat leaves dead critters on their person’s pillows. It’s unsurprising to see Jason already there, lounging on the couch feigning nonchalance. The domesticity of the situation goes decidedly unspoken, but not unwelcomed.

Monday is a whole battle of its own. Jason’s unsurprised at your earnest escape attempt, trying to trudge past him like you’re not dressed in your work clothes. Your withered form is simply no match for his vigilance (and the protective instincts he refuses to acknowledge.) There’s no use in fighting back when he throws you over his shoulder and hauls you back to bed. He even makes sure you change back into pajamas. You’d rather die than admit how safe you feel in Jason’s care. Jason would rather die again than admit how taking care of you makes him feel soft and warm. For the first time since his resurrection, he feels capable of preserving life, not just ending it. He remains stationed on your couch while you begrudgingly sleep in, guarding you from both the world outside and your lack of self-preservation. He perks up when he hears you shuffling around only two hours later.

“Get y’fragile ass back to bed,” he softly chides.

Your retort is no less fond. “I’m taking a shower, you cretin.”

“Y’need help?” The offer is automatic in his loyalty.

You lean through the doorframe with your most shit-eating grin. The opportunity is just too good to pass up.

“Wow Todd, buy me dinner first, y’dirty dog.”

“Shut up,” he scoffs, “I hope you drown in there.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

Jason rolls his eyes so hard that you think he’ll pull a muscle. You both know his irritation is masking amusement. Pleasant silence fills the room. He gently rakes through Raven’s fur, pretending he’s not keeping an ear out for you. The next ten minutes pass so peacefully, so comfortably, that he almost convinces himself that everything will be just fine.

“AH!”

THUMP!

That thought completely evaporates and he sprints to the bathroom door.

“You hurt?! What happened?!”

The locked doorknob rattles tauntingly. He’s pounding his fist against the wood and calling out again. The silence from your side floods him with panic.

“Shit!”

One heavy SLAM with his shoulder and the door splinters open. The running water turns to static at the scene before him. He shuts the shower off and grabs the nearest hand towel, pressing it firmly against your head where he thinks the crack is. There’s too much blood to tell.

“Hey hey hey!” He lightly slaps your cheek. “Wake the fuck up! No more sleeping in!”

You swat his hand away with a groan, your movement making him sigh in slight relief.

“You weren’t supposed to actually drown, fuck-”

You’re hoisted into his arms and he’s sprinting for the front door. Your head throbs, everything hurts, and your vision swims. You have barely enough awareness to realize your decency is nonexistent with only a towel haphazardly thrown over your birthday-suit.

“Jay, wait,” you slur, “I need clothes.”

“Your head is bleeding!”

“I’m fucking naked.”

They way you still manage to be a pain in the ass while bleeding profusely should be clinically studied. He turns around to your room, grumbling the entire time he’s helping you into sweats and an oversized hoodie.

“Now shut up and apply pressure.”

His tone leaves no room for argument. His chest tightens at the way you wince as you press the ruined towel to your wound. You pray you won’t get any tickets in the mail given how many traffic laws he’s breaking while driving your car. You’d think you were giving birth from the way Jason burst into the clinic with you cradled in his arms. At this point, you’re less concerned about your cracked skull than you are about him going into cardiac arrest.

“Aw man,” you drawl. “That was a lot of blood. I’m never getting my security deposit back.”

That nearly triggered it. No one would ever fathom the possibility of Jason being Gotham’s most ruthless vigilante if they saw how your casual tone drained all the color from his face. He’s The Red Hood for Christ’s sake - a concussion is a headache and a bullet wound is a tickle. You, a normal person, aren’t supposed to brush-off blows as easily as he does. The pain, the blood, even the six staples the doctor uses to close the gash, none of it phases you. Jason doesn’t experience fear. He is fear. He’s the creature that goes bump in the night and haunts the minds of even the worst criminals. Seeing you now, watching how you face so much trauma like it’s just another Monday, this scares him. He fights the fight and rolls with the punches so no one else has to know pain as intimately he does.

But you do.

Pain isn’t an event. No, for you, pain is existence. It lives in your every breath and follows your every step. It doesn’t discriminate against your best and worst days. Watching you just sit in it with nothing more than boredom, this caves his chest in more than any punch ever could. The click of a pen finally snaps Jason out of his spiral.

“Alright,” the nurse begins, “can you explain to me what happened?”

“I, uh, I’m going through a flare up. I was taking a shower and my knees buckled. I slipped and fell and hit my head.”

He nods and scribbles notes. “What’s causing the flare?”

“The weather mostly,” you shrug dismissively.

  “I understand, it’s quite common this time of year. What about mental strain?”

You absentmindedly wring your hands in your lap, “I… um… seasonal depression gets me this time of year, too…”

“Are you currently taking any medications?”

“I have a few prescriptions.”

Your answer came way too quickly. Jason notices. You were anticipating that question the way he anticipates a threat. The nurse nods and continues, none the wiser.

“Great, everything looks up to date,” he kindly smiles. “You’re good to head out if you’re feeling up for it, but take all the time you need.”

You feel bad dismissing his sweet offer so hastily. You have the common decency to thank the nurse and wait until his footsteps recede down the hall. Jason quietly catalogs the restlessness of your posture, how basic human care makes your skin itch. He pretends not to notice that you pretend not to notice that he notices. Birds of a feather.

You enter your home with the hesitance Jason does when he’s expecting an ambush. He guides you to the couch with his hand at the small of your back. You sit at one end as he settles in the other. 

“I’m impressed,” Jason muses, “that was some Olympic level lying back there.”

“Excuse me?”

He shrugs. “I’m just sayin’, you could go competitive with skills like that.”

“The fuck are you on about?” You bristle.

He talks with lazy air-quotes, “‘I have a few prescriptions.’ First of all, bullshit answer. Completely curved the question, but your coverup was technically honest. Seriously, A+ work right there.”

You scoff and turn away. “You don’t know you’re talking about-”

“I do. Nobody lies that good ‘less they got somethin’ to hide.”

“I…” You squirm like a mouse caught in a trap. Quiet pain hurts less than loud vulnerability. Your gaze is trained on the floor. “I do have prescriptions, but they’re expensive. They cost as much as three weeks of groceries. I barely make enough to pay rent! I’m on the brink of losing my job and if I lose my health insurance I-"

“Why would you lose your job?”

You bark a laugh like an icicle- brittle, cold, and sharp. The kind that’s hard to tell if it’ll pierce the surface, or shatter on impact.

You growl between clenched teeth. “Look, I appreciate the ride, Todd, but this is way above your pay grade, so you can just-”

“Fucking stop that!” He shoots up from the couch. “Stop acting like I don’t give a shit!”

“You shouldn’t give a shit! I’m not your problem to fix!”

“Jesus Christ-” he runs a hand down his face, “Is that what you think this is!? Fuckin’ charity!? Throwin’ you pity so I can feel like a good person for once!?”

“That’s why everyone else pretends to care!”

“Well I actually fucking care, dumbass!”

“I deal with this every fucking day!”

“THAT’S THE FUCKING POINT!”

You flinch. The volatile silence is only broken by your collective labored breaths. He runs his hand through his hair and paces like a caged lion. His knuckles ache in denial knowing this is a fight he can’t punch his way out. The air is thick and resistant, but he swallows down his rage and finally faces you. He waits for you to fight back. It’s unsettling that you don’t. You don’t yell or you don’t gnash your teeth. You don’t even meet his eyes. Your words sound like lava bubbling beneath the earth: quite, barely restrained, but seething.

“My symptoms started when I was eight. Took me three years to even get tested, ‘cause what doctor would believe a damn eight year old? When I was twelve, I begged my teachers to excuse me from P.E. But that required parent permissions, and they still didn’t believe anything was actually wrong with me. Last week at work, I got my second warning for ‘not meeting the standards of productivity’ and ‘persistent superfluous absences.’”

The moment your eyes finally meet Jason’s feels like physical weight crushing his chest. Your usual fire has been snuffed out, leaving behind unadulterated defeat. Watching as you attempt to force out syllables that your body violently rejects is nothing short of agony. Tears sizzle down your iron hot cheeks. The words sting like bile at the back of your throat.

“I’ve been burned enough times to know it’s best to avoid the stove altogether. The pain I can handle, but people calling you a fraud? A burden? The same people who’re supposed to protect you- friends, coworkers, bosses, your own parents?”

You squeeze your eyes closed, whincing. Jason knows this pain has nothing to do with your injury.

“I gave up on empathy a long time ago. I’m done getting burned.”

It always pissed off Jason to hear people balk and pretend that they can fathom the sheer amount of bullshit he’s been dealt. It’s an anger that flows through his veins like blood. No one ever warned him how much rage would burn behind his ribs to hear someone actually understand him. The best excuse is to claim it as a righteous anger: pain that infects the bloodstream and hollows out the marrow of your bones is not a pain any man should know. The truth of his rage, however, is far more selfish and human in nature: Jason can’t hide from you. You look at each other like looking in a mirror. His jaw works against itself and his shoulders shudder with each breath.

Jason stands and turns away from you. He flinches when you bark that same humorless laugh again. Everyone always turns their backs, the pain taunts, it was only a matter of time. You don’t turn to watch him, you know everyone always walks away. 

But Jason Todd doesn’t.

He just stands there, making time hold its breath. You don’t know what you’re expecting as he shucks off his jacket, but you definitely weren’t expecting his shirt to follow. He feels your eyes study his scars how a sailor studies the stars after a storm. You know these constellations by heart. Afternoon light filters through Gotham’s winter haze; it paints him in diffused grey light that softens all his sharp edges. The raised skin and deep carves ebb and flow, united in carnage and chaos reminiscent of a Jackson Pollock.

Seconds become minutes before enough courage finds him to finally turn and face you. His body is stiff and resistant against the very notion of being seen. He can’t hide from you - you look at each other like looking in a mirror - which means you can’t hide from him, either. Even if Jason weren’t trained by Vengeance himself, he’s bled enough to be fluent in the language of your discomfort. He tracks your pupils, reading the grooves of his “Y” shaped scar like reading your own diary. It’s commonly said that the best way to combat stage fright is by imagining the audience naked. It doesn’t work the same, however, when you’re naked on stage yourself. Perhaps there’s a difference here: neither of you have to imagine. There’s no more stage, no audience to fool, and no song and dance needed anymore. You’re backstage - together - looking eye to eye, finally shedding the costumes you wear like skin.

Jason unceremoniously flops back into the couch cushions, landing in the center. Not yet encroaching on your territory, but no longer so guarded himself. You recognize an olive branch when you see one, even when you’ve learned to always expect thorns. Jason leans his head back and lets his eyes flutter shut. It’s reminiscent of a cat’s slow blink. Weight slowly drags across the couch until the cushion dips beside him. That weight reluctantly eases into his side, anticipating the trap being sprung. God, he’s so warm and solid in a way that almost makes you believe that kindness is real. Being sober of empathy is no different from being sober of water. The press of skin against skin - the sheer camaraderie of physical reassurance - is refreshing in a way neither you or Jason realized you were parched of.

Trust is the antithesis of every brick you’ve both built your strongholds on. Clever words, practiced gestures, and rehearsed nonchalance have long hid the cracks in the stone. Silence is raw. Lies can’t thrive where they aren’t given breath. Silence is vulnerability and the sinew beneath the skin.

You sink against Jason’s side, and lay your head against his shoulder. The air exhales, no longer needing to hold its breath. Words don’t come easy when they aren’t in script, but in this moment of silence where your hearts can finally hear each other beat, perhaps you and Jason don’t need any.

bonus:

“Jason, what the fuck is a ‘gabelle?’”

“Salt tax,” he offers over his shoulder like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Jason stands at the stove sauteeing onions, humming like the cheeky bastard he is. You sit behind him, hunched at the kitchen island, pressing your fingers to your temples trying to access the knowledge of scholars passed. Raven lies contentedly in the living room tearing her newest stuffie to shreds, utterly oblivious to intellectual battle commencing between her coparents.

Four and a half months have flown by since you moved from the townhouse next door into the bedroom down the hall. The back-and-forth process of convincing each other that it wasn’t a catastrophic idea was a Herculean feat in and of itself. It was a fierce battle that turned weeks into months. Where stubborn pride is an effective armor against the unsuspecting eye, neither of you could hide the cracks in between, not when you wear matching sets. It is, quite frankly if you’re being honest, insulting how transparent each of you are to the other; neither of you being used to anyone else speaking the same language of hurt.

Housing two solitary creatures in one habitat has festered a healthy amount of deadly glares, petty gestures, and passive-aggressive silence. You’d both be concerned if it didn’t. The conflict isn’t the scary part, however. The scary part is that anger always passes, and it never lingers. It remains decidedly unspoken that you care for each other more than you each despise being seen. The vulnerability of it all became inexplicably, impossibly easier somewhere between the early morning smokes and late night baking disasters. Amidst all of the uncomfortable truths making themselves law in your shared home, there is one you remain absolutely defiant about accepting. Just one that gnaws at your insides and burns behind your ribs:

Jason Todd is infuriatingly good at Scrabble.

“Quit pouting, you’re doin’ fine.”

He knows you are not doing fine. He’s reveling in it. It makes you want to simultaneously laugh and projectile vomit. Your tone is dry and venomous, “Dude, you turned my ‘rat’ into ‘defenestration!’ The hell does that word even mean?!”

“Throwin’ someone outta window.”

The soft thud that sounds from behind him is more than enough context to know you just faceplanted into the counter. “Of course Red Hood would know there’s a word for that,” you mumble against the marble.

“Why wouldn’t there be?” you can hear the smirk in the words.

Being roommates has proven more comfortable than either of you care to admit. You keep up with each other, both of you speaking in dry sarcasm and taking no shit from the other.

“Boom,” you feign confidence with each tile you place on the board, “‘action’ for eight points. Eat your heart out, Todd.”

“Damn, well played.”

The smug bastard doesn’t even pretend to be impressed. It takes him no time at all to begin placing his own tiles. The pit in your stomach fills with the raging fires of Hell as all seven of his letters turn your “action” into “fractionalism” for 20 points. A long moment of volatile silence passes as you all but dissociate at those 13 letter tiles. Jason starts tasting his own blood with how hard he’s the inside of his own cheek, holding on for dear life trying not to laugh in your face. You blink several times before finally managing a dignified response:

“Listen here you Charles Dickens ass motherfucker-”

HUGE shoutout to @batwngs for beta reading and providing the most delicious existential introspection inducing insight oh mY LORD-🚬