Queen Baguette

your lips brush his, just barely, and he kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t keep touching you — warm n tender in a way that contradicts everything he tries to pretend he is. he cups your face with one big hand, thumb tracing your cheek like he’s memorizing you under his palm.

you’re shaking. he feels it.

“baby…” he whispers, and it’s the way he says it low, almost reverent — that pulls the truth out of you.

“jason,” you breathe, nails dragging down his back, “i want your baby.”

he stills. completely. like your words hit some hidden place in him that’s never been touched. his eyes open — slow, stunned — and he searches your face like he needs to see if you’re serious before he lets himself believe it.

you are. he sees it. something in his expression cracks open.

“sweetheart,” he whispers, voice shaking, “don’t… don’t say that unless you mean it. not now.”

you lift your hips into his — tiny, desperate — and that’s all it takes. his control slips like water through his fingers. his mouth drops open in a groan he can’t swallow down, and he pulls you tighter beneath him, chest pressed to yours, like he’s trying to fuse your bodies together.

“fuck,” he mutters against your mouth, “you want that? you want my baby for real?”

“yes,” you breathe, the word trembling out of you, “i want it — want you — please…”

he kisses you again, but it’s different now — deeper, hungrier, full of something you don’t have a name for. his hand slides down your stomach, slow, reverent, settling low where your bodies meet, where he’s stretching you open with every slow thrust.

his voice is barely a whisper. “i could give you one,” he says, breath trembling, “god, you don’t even know what that does to me.”

you tighten around him — involuntary — and he gasps, hips jerking like he’s losing control. his forehead presses to your cheek, lips brushing your ear.

“you’re gonna make me cum,” he rasps. “say it again. tell me you want it.”

you do. you tell him.

you feel him fall apart because of it.

he grabs your thigh, pulling you open under him as he thrusts deeper, faster but not rough — desperate, loving, overwhelmed. his voice breaks, his rhythm falters, and he buries his face in your neck like he can’t handle looking at you while he unravels.

“take it—” he groans, “take all of it—fuck—i want—i want you pregnant with my kid—”

and you feel it — the moment he gives in, the moment he pushes in deep and stays there, shuddering, trembling, filling you with everything he’s been holding back, everything he couldn’t say until now.

his arms wrap around you, pulling you against his chest, holding you through every pulse of it. he doesn’t let go. he doesn’t even try.

when he finally lifts his head, his lips brush yours — soft, slow, intimate.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he whispers as he pressed a gentle kiss to your hairline, “it was a shitty night and things kept coming up.” His voice holds a hint of frustration behind it. 

You look up, resting your chin on his chest. “Bad night?”

“Very.”

You stay quiet as you try to read his expression. He’s always been bad at asking for help from anybody, so you’ve learned to adapt to his needs and figure out what he wants instead. However, it's difficult to do so when his face stays set in the grim expression like he’s holding all his emotions behind that brick wall he's forced around himself. 

“I’m gonna go for a ride.” 

You let your hand run down the length of his arm until your fingers brush his before stepping back from him and nodding. You’ve learned that when nights are really bad, he’ll go for a ride on his motorcycle by himself to clear his thoughts. He never asks you to go and you never push to go either. 

You watch as he walks to the bedroom to grab his helmet and keys before walking back out to where you now stand in the kitchen to make a cup of tea. You feel his gaze burn on your back as you turn on the stove for the kettle to warm before turning to face him again. 

“Come with me?” His voice is so quiet, that you barely hear him.  

“You want me to go with you?”

He nods once, and that's all the confirmation you need to turn off the stove and walk into the bedroom to change into the riding gear Jason bought you–he’s made it very clear from the beginning that you won’t get on the bike without it. He’s never told you how much he spent on all of it, but when you looked up the brand Alpinestars one night, you found it was the most reliable, but expensive gear on the market. 

You walk back out and let him lead you out the door and toward the usual spot where his bike is parked. He helps you into your helmet, like he always does, and then throws on his own with much less care than he did for you. As you throw you leg over the bike and wrap you arms around his chest, you decide to remain quiet for the ride to give him the chance to sort out his own thoughts. 

It doesn’t take long to get onto the highway where Jason speeds up to merge on and you keep your arms tightly around his torso as the wind hits your helmet harshly. A quick glance at the speedometer tells you he’s being vigilant about the number and choosing not to speed, likely because of you being on the back of the bike. 

It’s quiet this late at night. You don’t pass many other cars as you drive down the street, most establishments that you can make out don’t have any lights on to invite customers, and you’re left with your thoughts. You think about Jason mostly–about how some nights you selfishly wish he didn’t have a double life to fulfill that leads, more often than not, to danger.

About twenty minutes have passed before he's slowing down to take an exit then turning around to get back on the highway, but this time to go back home. There's a few more cars on the road going this direction, which you only notice because Jason has to weave around them more often than he did previously. 

You were looking up at the sky, when you heard Jason for the first time through the comms set up on the helmets as the bike sharply move to the left. 

“Shit!”

You barely process the car on your right moving into the lane Jason is riding in, before it's too late. Jason tried to avoid the car, but the sharp movement sent the bike out of his control and into the concrete barrier on the side of the road. The bike flips from under both of you, bucking you off and throwing you across the shoulder of the road. You faintly feel your back slam into something painful, but the world quickly falls out of focus and then into nothing.

Jason tried to correct the movement in time, he really did, but the car forced him to turn so sharply that he just couldn’t get the bike to pull away from the barrier. He felt every tumble against the asphalt as he was thrown off. 

He’s disoriented, but that's nothing new for him, so he locks the pain into a different part of his mind, and pushes himself to a kneeling position. The now mutilated bike rests on the side of the road with scraps of the motorcycle trailing from where the first collision had happened. As he looks further, his eyes lock onto you, laying on the asphalt, unmoving. His mind narrows to this moment and for the first time since his death, he feels genuine fear.

He pushes himself up the rest of the way, ignoring the protest of his legs, and runs to you as fast as he can while yanking his helmet off so he can see better. Every step he takes feels like he's trudging through mud and can’t get to you fast enough. He’s begging and praying to every God he doesn’t believe in for you to be breathing. He’d give his life again if it meant you could live right now. 

Please. Not her. Not my world. 

Finally, he's standing before you and dropping unceremoniously onto his knees and pulling your helmet off as quickly as he can while still being gentle. Your eyes are shut, your lips barely parted, and skin indented from the helmet staying securely on you. His fingers make quick work of finding the pulse at your neck, and he could cry at the solid and steady life he feels beating against his fingers. There’s a couple scrapes on your hands, but the gear did good work of keeping you from getting any roadburn like he did. 

You likely blacked out from hitting the concrete barrier harshly and having the breath knocked out of you or maybe a concussion depending on how harshly your head collided with the wall. That doesn’t matter to Jason right now though. All he cares about is the fact you're alive. 

His forehead drops against yours, and he whispers broken apologies that you can’t hear against your skin. He pulls back to adjust you carefully so your head rests on his lap, then he reaches for his helmet he set aside to rip out the comm inside. He changes the channel from the one he uses when biking with you to the private channel the Bats use. 

“Babs?” His voice breaks only slightly as he speaks.

“Red Hood? I thought you were off patrol, what's going on?”

He stares down at your unconscious body, “We got into a wreck on my bike. She's unconscious. She needs medical. Please.” 

“Shit, okay I’m on it.”

The faint sound of steady beeping pulls you from your sleep. Your limbs feel too heavy for your body, your head is fuzzy, and as you slowly push your eyes to blink open, everything is five levels too bright. All you see is a plain ceiling and panic rushes through you at the unfamiliar space, and you move to sit up, but a warm hand lands on your shoulder to keep you down. 

You quickly look to the side, ready to fight the stranger, but instead you catch sight of the familiar white tuft of hair and emerald eyes. Jason. Your body relaxes against what you now realize is plush bedding beneath you as Jason watches your every move.

“You’re safe.”

“Wh– What happened?” your voice is raw from not using it for a while.

His eyes harden slightly as he blows out a harsh breath through his nose, “I swerved to avoid a car about to hit us, but I lost control of the bike and we crashed.” His voice is gentle as he asks, “Do you remember that?”

Pieces fall into place in your memory as everything comes back to you. The quiet. The car. Swerving. Being thrown off. Hitting the barrier. You nod carefully.

“Good. That's good.”

“It’s bright in here.” You mumble quietly as you blink against the harsh light hitting your eyes.

He lifts his hand to run it across your brow carefully, “You got a concussion. The helmet did what it could, but with the speed you took that hit…,” he trails off. “You’re lucky to have worn the helmet.” 

He steps away from you and walks to the light switch, flipping off the light. You're left with the much more tolerable glow of the moon shining through the window to illuminate the room. “Thank you.”

He takes the seat next to the bed you're laying on and you take a moment to glance around the room. There's a desk pushed against the window that's piled high with books that look well loved and some other clutter. A dresser across the other wall with two picture frames: one of Jason, his brothers, and Bruce while the other is a photo of you and Jason. Then as you look to your right, against the bed is a machine that was making the rhythmic beeping–you now realize as your pulse–that pulled you from your sleep. 

It slowly hits you that you’re in Jason’s room at Wayne Manor, which is why it wasn’t instantly familiar, because you don’t stay here very often. You turn back to Jason and he's staring at you with watery eyes.

“Jay?”

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out. “I– I couldn’t protect you. I should’ve done something different. Should’ve tried harder.”

You quickly shake your head, but stop when it makes you feel a little dizzy. “No. Jason this wasn’t your fault. You did what you could.”

“I thought you were dead,” his voice is barely a whisper, almost haunted by the memory. 

“But I’m not.” 

His forehead drops to where your hands are intertwined. “I’m sorry.”

“Jay, honey.” You lift your free hand to run through his soft waves. “It’s not your fault.”

He just clings onto your hand more desperately. 

“If it weren't for the gear you bought me, I wouldn’t be here. If you didn’t notice the car coming toward us, this would’ve been worse. You can’t change other people's actions, only how they affect you. You did that for me. I’m here because of you, okay?”

He nods ever so slightly against your arm. 

“Thank you for keeping me safe.” 

He lifts his head and rests his chin on your arm. A lone tear falls down his cheek and you quickly wipe it away. 

“Come here,” you whisper, “the bed’s cold without you.” 

He stands up and slides under the covers to wrap his arms around you gently, not wanting to hurt you where you might have bruises. His warmth soothes you immediately as you curl against his side. 

“What happened to the driver?” 

“Tim’s working on it.”

“Don’t do anything too severe.”

“No promises.” He leans down to press another kiss to your brow as a laugh bubbles from you, even though you know he’s likely not joking. 

He holds you through the night and doesn’t let himself fall asleep until you do, wanting to ensure you really are here, alive, in his arms. Once he felt your breathing even out against his chest, he brushed some of the stray hairs from your cheek to gaze at you. He leans in, pressing a feather light kiss to your brow as he whispers, “I won’t fail you again.”

On one of your many adventures in the winter months, the two of you had found a used bookstore that Jason had come to love, both for the books but also for the hours he could spent with you more or less uninterrupted. It was rundown and smelt heavily of dust and old paper, owned by a little old widow named Mrs. Ruth who liked to pinch his cheeks when saw him. And while Jason thought the location was significantly less important than the company he kept, the rusty shop walls had quickly grown on him, much like the mold near the windows kept growing on the drywall.

It had become something of a secret, one made more special from sharing it with you.

You both hung out there so often lately that Mrs. Ruth had come to expect you, smiling cheerfully when she saw her favorite pair enter the shop. She was nice enough to let you both come in and stay as long as you wanted, just so long as you promised to help her unload new donations whenever they got dropped off, to which you both happily agreed to. A small price to pay for a guaranteed respite from Gotham rain.

“Horror is overrated,” he scoffs on that faithful day, careful hands skimming through the bundles of donated books at his feet.

He was quietly impressed; it was a good haul this week. 15 boxes, each one overfilled with decent quality paperbacks. Must of been a charity thing.

The banter between you both was effortless, but the bickering came just as easily; just as craved. “So’s being a vigilante… yet here we are.” you fire back, making sure your voice was low enough for only him to hear.

Not that you thought Mrs. Ruth’s 80-year-old ears were perky enough to pick up on your words- often you had to yell while right in front of her- but there was something undeniably more playful about whispering an insult than yelling it.

“I think,” he interjects as he takes a few books out, “you’re just jealous.”

“I think, you’re a dork,” you correct, focusing on sorting the chaos of your own pile, momentarily distracted by the embroidery on an artsy cover.

“And I think I love y-” and he catches himself. 

Thank fuck he catches himself. 

The words had come too easily. Being with you lately had become way too easy. You didn’t seem to notice his grave slip up- too preoccupied with appreciating the covers of a fresh pile of dramas- and thank fuck for that too, because he wouldn’t have known what to do if you had.

Jason Todd liked you, and it was far past the point of friendly. But he wasn’t ready to accept what that meant. Not yet. 

He goes back into digging in his own box, hoping his ears stop burning by time you look back up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The second time, it happens in the quiet sanctuary of the Belfry, and you had been the one to make the first step. 

Well, kind of.

That night, you had heard through the grapevine, also known as Barbara Gordon, that one Helena Bertinelli had come to visit Gotham. Her visit (or more accurately, her mission) had been a short and successful one, but she apparently had one more goal in mind before disappearing again.

And that goal had been to ask out the infamous Red Hood to a night out and dinner. 

It was the kind of gossip that would have left you sick to the stomach and with a broken heart if not for the smug update Barbara had been quick to bestow to you—while yes the Huntress had asked, the Hood had said no. 

And just like that, the huge weight in your stomach had turned to featherlight butterflies. Those pesky bugs had yet to leave, even as you found yourself in his presence hours later.

He had said no.

You weren’t sure when exactly your feelings for him had evolved, but with each passing day it was becoming more and more of a chore to lie to yourself. To lie to him. The only thing keeping your silly crush at bay had been the fear of rejection and potentially ruining your friendship, refusing to ever bring up your feelings for him until you knew with utmost certainty that he felt the same.

Was this it? What this that moment?

He had said no.

Jason’s working on his bike when you enter the tower, his brow furred in the way it always was when he was focused on something.

“So…” you hum in a singsong voice, pretending to look over his handiwork as if you knew what he was doing. As if it actually interested you right now.

Amused, he raises an eyebrow as his eyes follow you, your suspicious behavior not going unnoticed.

Not that you were genuinely trying to hide it.

“I heard through the grapevine that Huntress asked you out on a date.” You smile at him impishly, and he rolls his eyes and turns away.

“By grapevine,” he scoffs, moving back to the machinery, “I take it you mean Barbara?”

You shrug, still playing the part of pure innocence.

“…Well?” You ask, and he just shakes his head.

“Well what, sweetheart?”

The name makes your heart do flips in your chest. It wasn’t the first time he called you a pet name, but it had always seemed platonic in the past. It didn’t feel that way anymore.

“Did you say yes?” You urge despite knowing the answer already, finding yourself needing that confirmation.

You needed to hear it from him. Needed it, like your lungs needed air. Like your life needed Jason. And with the way his shoulders suddenly tensed up, he must have sensed your feelings too.

He takes a deep breath before turning to look out you. His eyes are warm in a way that was different then how he usually looked at you. It was almost foreign. He looked vulnerable— scared.

“No. I told her no.” He murmurs, and the butterflies multiply.

“Is she not your type?” You ask just a breath too eager, inching into a territory you knew you wouldn’t be able to get back from.

Judging by the subtle blush that now dusted his cheeks, Jason felt it as well. He makes no effort to stop it.

“…No. She isn’t.” He breathes out, eyes scanning over the fuel system of his bike so he wouldn’t have to look at you in that moment.

You knew what he was doing. You push anyways, and he’s so thankful that you do.

“Who is your type?” You murmur, and take another step towards him.

He looks up at you again, and there is a rawness in his eyes you hadn’t ever seen before. Not fear, not anymore. It was yearning. It makes you take another step closer. And then another one. He takes one too.

He reaches a tentative hand toward you like he can’t decide if he should pull you close, and you reach out to entwine your fingers through his. He shudders; It was a perfect a fit, like his flesh had been molded with the sole purpose of holding yours. Jason looks you over with a desperation that matched yours, his mouth opening to say the words you waited months to hear.

…What you hear instead is the hooting and hollering coming from a discarded intercom, the dramatic voice recognizable even through the static.

“Hello? Hello? Belfry don’t ignore me, I know you’re listening.” Dick’s voice warbles through. 

You both pull back, startled. The moment was gone. 

“Anyone have any updates on the Croc situation? Or just want some company? I’m lonely. Over.” Dick continues, completely oblivious to what he just interrupted.

Jason hisses at the sound and glares dagger towards it, running a hand through his hair as he curses his brother out with passion and vocabulary only an expert booklover could have possessed. It shouldn’t be funny- you should be fuming that the moment was ripped from the both of you- but when you hear him mutter the term “plague sore” all you can do is laugh. 

The sound catches him off guard from his Shakespearean rant, but after a few seconds of basking in the sound of your cackles, Jason tries to laugh too, mostly to diffuse the thickness still in the air.

The smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

This was the second time he had almost told you he liked you, and he while he had escaped from facing the repercussions once again, he knew in his gut that next time he wouldn’t be spared, and he would have to face you and tell you what he’s wanted to for months. 

The prospect frightened him, but with the way your laughter was making his heart beat, he knew it was inevitable. 

After all…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Third time’s the charm. 

It had been almost a week since the almost confession. The almost kiss.

It was also almost his birthday, and you were clinging to the haphazardly wrapped gift in your hands like your life depended on it. Well… maybe life was too far a stretch, but your breathing certainly depended on the feeling of the crinkly plastic beneath your fingers.

You had wanted to wait for the actual day to give it to him, really you did. But there was a new sense of impatience in the air as of recently, and it seemed it would not be so kind as to spare his birthday.

Especially with what the gift was, and what it meant once you gave it to him.

After the incident at the Belfry, and the almost success of you making the first move, you were only inspired to try once again. Jason wasn’t shy by any means; at least he hadn’t seemed to be in the time you had known him, but he was frustratingly very good at hiding what he really felt when the situation hinted towards romance.

Being the good friend that you were (and hopefully after today, something more), you had decided for him. Enough was enough.

So here you were, knocking on his apartment at 8:16 in the morning.

Immediately you can hear the frantic, panicked thumps of his feet through the door- surely you wouldn’t be here so early if you weren’t okay?- and you felt bad for not feeling bad at all. He opens its and instantly looks you over, his hair disheveled and eyes red with exhaustion.

You had woken him up, that much was obvious, but instead of anger all he had for you was concern.

“What’s wrong? Are you okay? What happened?”

Your heart flutters as you take him in. Woken up in a start and the first thing he had been was worried about you. You take a deep breath to steady yourself. You hadn’t heard the peephole move either. He had recognized you by the sound of your knock.

The butterflies were quick to come back.

“Nothing, I just wanted to see you.”

“W-what?” He rubs his eyes like he didn’t hear you properly.

“I just wanted to see you.” You repeat, fidgeting with the gift you were still hiding behind your back, “I have your birthday gift and I wanted to give it to you.”

You move around him to get out of the doorway, walking into his living room while offering him a sheepish smile. The alertness in his posture slowly fades as he registers your words.

He looks at you bewildered, more tired than ever.

“But… my birthday’s not until next week,” he says sleepy and exasperated, and you can’t help but laugh.

“I know that, I’m here to give it to you early! What kind of friend do you think I am, I have your birthday memorized.”

“Oh.” He says, and he offers you a small smile back. “Can I have it, then?”

“Tsk. Patience is a virtue, you know.” you chide, but there’s no real bite behind it. You don’t think you would be able to wait another minute either to be honest. His gift is still tucked away behind your back, but it wouldn’t have take a masterclass detective to figure out you were hiding it back there. You’re looking at him with a giddy smile, practically bouncing with excitement.

Jason isn’t able to stop the growing smile that spreads across his sleepy face. Patience is absolutely not his virtue. But your excitement is just so damn infectious, so damn sweet, standing there with your mysterious little gift behind your back and that soft goddamn smile on your face... God, he's smitten. Yeah, he could be patient for you, even at 8am in the morning. If that’s what you wanted him to be.

“Are you ready?” You ask, butterflies swarming.

"Yeah, yeah. Ready.” he laughs, eyes fixed on you in intense anticipation.

Taking a deep breath to steady yourself, you slowly move the gift from behind your back and hand it to him. You bite your lip nervously, watching as he takes the colorful thing and begins to gently rip off the wrapping paper.

It was now or never.

He’s quick with his fingers, the wrapping paper falling away to reveal an old, lovingly torn book that has been clearly reread a hundred times, littered with multiple sticky tabs and annotations all around the edges. The spine was breaking and the pages smelled like dust. To anyone else, it wouldn’t have meant anything, maybe even have been junk. But Jason wasn’t just anybody, and he recognizes what it was immediately. He freezes.

You begin to fidget. You know that he knows what it is, but you can’t help but want to explain yourself anyways.

“It’s…it’s the first book you ever recommended to me. The one you bought for me back at our bookstore? I wrote all my thoughts and annotations in it since then; shit, I must of read it a dozen times. I also got Mrs. Ruth to sign it inside and write a few things on her favorite parts, since she had been so stoked that I was reading it… You know, just to make it more special…” and your voice fades away.

His fingers, rough and calloused, pause over the book’s worn cover. He remembers every damn detail about giving you this book like it had been yesterday. And now here it was, returned with your touch all over every page.

Your face is warm, and you’re glad he’s too busy staring at the gift to notice how utterly dorky you look right now. You continue to speak to fill up the quiet room.

“I know I don’t share my feelings with you all the time. Or I guess, I don’t say what I feel, even when I feel it for you. And feel it bad. When I know you feel it too.” Tentatively you beckon to the book.

“I found it easier to write out my thoughts than just deal with them silently, and I figured you would appreciate that, especially with this book. I know you mentioned being super curious on what I thought about it, so I wrote everything. Thoughts, feelings, plot guesses, who I liked… all that. Just… Everything.”

Jason stares down at the book in his hands, completely stunned. His jaw clenches, like he's having to physically keep himself from getting too emotional. No one has...no one's done anything even remotely close to this for him before. No one has put this much goddamn thought, this much care, into a gift. He feels his chest tighten, a lump starting to form in his throat as he gently opens the book to a random page. He immediately sees the first annotation and it's like a hit straight to the goddamn chest.

You look over and see what he’s looking at, a cheesy smile taking over when you recognize the page. It was at a section where the main character finally confronts her soulmate to tell him she loved him, after finally having the courage to do so. On the page, you had made a note: ‘I hope to be this brave for you too, one day’.

He doesn’t move, just stares down at the silly gift that looks much smaller in his large hands. You gulp, slightly nervous that this gift was stupid, or too much, or too clear, but it was done. The ball was in his court now.

There was no words that could be taken back. No Nightwing’s to ruin the moment. Just you, him, and a gift that could change everything. One you hoped would.

His voice comes out rough when he finally speaks again.

"Honey..." And he sounds completely fucking wrecked.

Your heart beats frantically in your chest.

Jason can’t help the way his fingers tremble ever so slightly as they trace over the words you wrote. Your hope, your vulnerability, your fucking heart, splayed out in ink for him to see. He had spent countless nights worried you would never know of his love for you due to his own cowardice, and yet here it is, returned right back to him, written down in a way that he can hold onto forever.

He looks back at you, his expression completely raw. You look back at him, with a burning that is just as bright.

He slowly puts the book down, and walks over to you like he’s being pulled by an invisible leash. He wraps his arms around your waist to pull you in, and does what he should of done about two incidents ago.

“I love you,” he says, and he’s ready this time.