Chaotic Fanfic

He told you to keep a gun, and you told him you’d be fine, when really you just didn’t trust yourself with it. You keep your pills in a lockbox and all your sweatpants haven’t have drawstrings since you were a teenager. A gun feels like you’re asking for trouble, and you weren’t brave enough to think about what trouble could look like. 

When you had—in the dark, while Jason was off doing night shifts—it always came in different forms. Gas suddenly filling the halls, the door breaking down, someone pulling you off into a dark alley and not caring for your pleas. You’ve lived in Gotham long enough to know what trouble could be, even if you tried not to dwell on it. 

But this was more than trouble. 

This was danger.

And you aren’t brave. 

“Lock the door,” Jason had said, right before he left for work. “Don’t answer it for anyone but me, and make sure you ask-“

“For the password.” You’d finished for him, giving him a soft smile. “I know, Jay, we do this every night.”

“I know, babe, but-“

“It’s so I’m safe?”

He’d sighed. “I know it’s a lot but-“

“It’s not a lot.” You’d shrugged. “I’m just telling you I know.”

Jason had scanned over you, nodded—mostly to himself—then folded over you in a long hug.

“I’ll be back in the morning.” He’d muttered, face buried in the crook of your neck. “Call me if there’s even just fuckin’ wind you don’t trust, and-“

“You’ll come home.” You’d hummed, tangling your fingers in his hair. “I know. Be safe.”

Jason had grunted, and you’d swallowed it again. The I love you. Don’t be brave and jump in front of a bullet on patrol, because I love you. 

But he doesn’t know. That you know what his night shifts are, and why he’s so paranoid about your safety. 

You’d always hoped that one day, he’d tell you.

You’d never been brave enough to ask.

And he’d been holding you off the ground, before he left. He always held you like that. Like you were going to try and run away from him, or some invisible force would rip you out of his arms. 

He’d left, and you’d listened to him. Blinds closed, lights off, door locked. Watching TV on a laptop, so people didn’t see the glow of the TV. 

But it hadn’t been enough. You don’t think it ever would’ve been, but it had been a nice illusion. Something had smashed, out in the living room. You hadn’t had that gun, and you’d tried to call Jason, but you hadn’t been fast enough. And now you’re in danger, and you’re not fucking brave enough to get yourself out. 

Because Jason taught you how to break out of handcuffs—he’d seemed to think you wouldn’t, for one second, question why he knew that when he allegedly ran an underground chop shop—but if you do, there’s no way you’ll be able to run without being caught. You’re stuck under a dramatic spotlight, with Harley Quinn singing to herself and watching you. 

She keeps trying to make conversation. She even took off your gag, after an hour. 

You’re staying silent. It’s your best bet to make it out of here alive. 

“Did I tell ya you’re pretty?” She leans forward, and you just stare at her. “I don’t know how the bats get all you cuties to work for them. Mr. J offers dental, y’know. And I know you ain’t getting’ paid a you fair fuckin’ salary, cause corporations are a buncha fuck-face ding-dongs. We’d pay you better, if you’d wanna flip.” She traces a hand over your cheek, and you force yourself to stay still. “I bet Batman ain’t even payin’ you at all. You look like a smart gal, though, so you gotta be in it for somethin’.”

Silent. Your best bet is silent-

“Mr. J don’t pay me.” Harley muses, mostly to herself, smushing your cheeks as if you’re a child. “That why you’re with ‘em? For love?”

You don’t move. Or breathe. And Harley sees it. 

“Oh, it is for love! Aw, you’re so cute.” She shakes your face, smile almost manic as she gasps. “Oh, you gotta know his identity, right? You’ve seen under that spooky, sexy cowl-“

You can’t stop the bitter curl of you lip, a little sickness forming at the idea of fucking Bruce, and Harley sees that too. 

“Not the bats, huh? Hm.” She angles your face around, like the answer will be written on your skin. “Then who are you goin’ all puppy on, sugar? You into bendy, brainy, or shooty-“

“Harley.” A mocking voice cuts through the warehouse, and Harley’s smile grows. “Stop playing with our food, we need her alive so Batman can see her die, that’s the whole fuckin’ point-“

“She’s not with the bats, puddin’!” Harley spins away, and a ragged breath escapes your throat. “She’s sweet on one of his associates-“

“Do I look like I care?” Joker snaps, and suddenly he’s right in front of you. Pale and scarred and ugly, something twisted right under his face that makes him so ugly. “Hey there, little girl. They’re gonna come for you, aren’t they. And then,” he laughs, and the sound crawls over your skin. “Well, I got a big show planned, and an even bigger finale! You’re gonna be a star.”

You just stare at him, and he frowns. 

“Harley?”

“Yeah, Mr. J?”

“Has she been this grumpy the whole time?”

“She has.” Harley whines, appearing over the Joker’s shoulder. “Wouldn’t even play with me! It’s the right gal, but maybe she’s sorta dull in the head-“

The Joker laughs. “No, she ain’t. Look at her.” He grabs your face—a little tighter than Harley did—and pulls your lips into a grin. “You’re just afraid, aren’t you doll. You know why you’re here, and it’s so scary.” 

He’s mocking you. You still don’t react.

Something flashes over the Joker’s face, and his words morph to a sneer. 

“You been spending too much time around those bores of vigilantes, don’t know how to have fun? Don’t worry.” He slaps your cheek, and you bite your tongue to fight the sting. “We’re gonna have a good time together. All you gotta do is wait here, and when I’m back, we’ll play.”

You swallow the bile, and remain still. You’re not brave, but you won’t break either. The Joker scoffs, and vanishes back into the shadows, grumbling something about how annoying it is that you won’t just fucking cry. Harley plants a kiss on your cheek, then runs after him, and you’re alone.

Not dead yet. 

Still alone. 

And there’s a lot of time to think in the dark. A lot of time for your life to flash before your eyes, before the gun is even pointed at your temple. 

But you don’t even really think about your life. Not the shadows and hospital and nights behind a locked bathroom door. 

Jason.

All you can think about is Jason. 

———

You don’t know how it happened. 

You keep to yourself. Don’t go out after nightfall, stay away from dark corners and highly populated areas. And lowly populated areas. Mostly you just go to work, then go back to your apartment. It’s safer like that. Lots of people means mass attack. No people means isolation, an easy target. 

But it happened anyway.

And it started with him.

He didn’t even save you. He just appeared in the basement, when you’d been doing laundry. 

“Hey, dollface.” Someone had groaned from the shadows, and you’d frozen. “Can you close the door behind you?”

You’d listened. Kicked it back with your foot, gripping your laundry like it would possibly be able to do anything, if you were attacked. Then he’d emerged from the shadows, and you hadn’t even been able to scream. 

The Red Hood. In your basement. Suit tattered, mask still very much in place, staring at you. Maybe staring at you. 

It was sort of hard to tell.

“You’re not on of Black Mask’s goons.” He’d said slowly, and you’d shaken your head. “You live here?”

“Yes, sir-“

“Don’t call me sir,” he’d muttered. “I’m not- Do you think I’m gonna kill you?”

You’d stared at him for another second, then shaken your head. If he wanted to, he would have. And he was still sticking to the shadow, face tilting up to the door every few seconds, body braced like he was worried you’d attack. But he was huge. You wouldn’t stand a chance, even if he was unarmed.

But he was still tensed. 

And you really didn’t think he’d attack you. 

You’d been right. Red Hood had stepped off to the side, and let you do your laundry. 

“You have a lotta clothing.” He’d said, and you’d shot him a frown. 

“So?”

“Nothin’.” He’d shrugged. “Just, uh- I can’t leave yet. Conversation. Do you wear those skirts?”

“No, they’re decoration.”

He’d stared at you, you’d stared back, and when he’d spoke again you could’ve sworn you heard a smile.

“You use them as hats, sweetheart?”

“Yep.”

“Huh.” He’d fallen silents, and you’d sighed. 

“Can you please stop looking at me?”

“Why? You’re nice to look at.”

You’d shot him a small frown. “Do you break into people’s basements and hit on them a lot?”

He’d shrugged, still hovering in the shadows. “Nah. But I didn’t break into your basement with the goal of hitting on you.”

“So you are hitting on me?”

“I guess. Is it working?”

You’d snorted, and looked back to your clothing. “No.”

“Damn.”

There had been another silence, Red Hood still looking up the stairs every few seconds, and you’d cleared your throat. 

“Do I have to be worried about Black Mask breaking into my basement?” You’d tried—and failed—to hide the quiet fear in your voice, and he’d chuckled. 

“Nah. And if they did, I’d protect you.”

“Oh, would you.”

“Yep.” He’d paused, definitely grinning now. “Is this working?”

You’d ignored him. “Your clothing is ripped.”

“It- Huh. Didn’t notice.” 

“How did you not-“

“Lot was happening, dollface.” He’d waved you off, suddenly no longer in the shadows, but leaning on the washer. “Why’d you notice?”

There was heat radiating from his body. And his arms were big, and his voice—even through a modifier—sounded deep. Rich. 

It wasn’t some misplaced confidence, that let you look up at the blood red, blank mask. 

It was mostly just his voice, and some animalistic part of your brain that wanted to touch him. 

“It’s kind of obvious.” You’d whispered. “I can fix it, if you want.”

There has been a pause, then, “Really?”

You’d nodded, ripping your gaze back to the washer—yep, all the clothing was still in there—and the Red Hood had cleared his throat.

“Do you fix the clothing of random assholes who break into your basement a lot?”

You’d swallowed, and shaken your head. “No.”

“Huh.” He hadn’t moved away. He might have gotten closer. “You got an angle?”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Something I gotta do for you. Nobody just does favors in Gotham, princess-“

“Sorry.”

“Don’t-“ He’d sighed, and you’d kept your gaze fixed on your clothing. “You got nothing you want in return? For real?”

You’d sighed, tapping your fingers on the washer. “I’d like for the Black Mask not to kill me. Please.”

The Red Hood had laughed. A real, deep laugh that—even through the mask—sounded sort of heavenly. And you’d heard all the stories about him and his alternative crime solving. 

But in the basement, he’d mostly just seemed like a man. He had broken gloves you could fix. A way of talking and standing that made you trust him more than the men at work. He was close, but never once touched you. His voice had something to it that made you want him to keep talking. 

“You got a deal,” he’d said, and you’d still been able to hear that smile. “Can I have your name?”

You’d sighed, and told him. He already knew where you lived, and your sense of self-preservation had never been high. And he’d repeated it back, but it hadn’t sounded like your name. He’d said it slowly at the start, and with a slight sort of infliction at the end. As if he was trying to memorize it. Like it could mean something more than just a name. 

“You can call me Red,” he’d offered, and you’d given him a small smile.

“Okay, Red. Are you going to let Black Mask kill me?”

He’d laughed again. It was sort of an addicting sound. “No, sweetheart. I don’t think I will.”

———

So it had started with Hood. After the first suit, you expected to never see him again, but he came back. Appeared in the same corner of the basement, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Could you do me another favor?”

You’d screamed that time. And somehow, even under the mask, you’d seen him pale. 

In the moment, he’d spent about two minutes apologizing for scaring you. Now, he teases you about it. Calls you Frog Princess.

“Cause you’re leapy.” He’d said, and you’d rolled your eyes. 

“It’s Princess and the Frog, Red-“

“Nah, that’s the movie. The fairy tale is frog princess.”

He’d been right. And pretty fucking smug about it, too. Then you’d told him you’d start locking your windows, and he’d scoffed, but stopped gloating. 

Because he came in through your windows, now. All of them did. 

It had started with another favor. Then another. Then he’d started leaving things in the corner of the basement when he didn’t have time to wait for you. And there had been more and more things, and then you’d come down the stairs and Red hadn’t been there, but Nightwing. 

“Hi!” He’d beamed at you, and you’d needed to start carrying a baseball bat or something. “You’re the lady that fixed my pants, right?”

“Your-“ You’d sighed, because you knew those had been too thin for Red. Not his style, either. “Yeah. Why?”

He’d held up a suit with a sheepish expression. “I’ll pay you a hundred American Dollars.”

You’d cross your arms. “Can I make that Ethiopian Birr?”

“Uh, sure?” He’d titled his head. “Are you being serious?”

“No.” You’d extended your hand for the suit. “I don’t need you to pay me, I’ll do it.”

Nightwing had beamed at you, and passed over the clothing. 

After him was Robin. Then Batgirl, then Signal, then Red Robin. They started taking your design inputs. Bringing you things that didn’t need fixing, just so you could look at them. And Black Mask hadn’t killed you yet, but you’d started to dread the moment Batman himself appeared in your basement, so you’d told Red which window led to your apartment.

And you’d become the Bat’s unofficial costume manager. You don’t know why. Maybe it was that you were free, and did good work. None of them ever asked you why you had bullet proof fabric—Gotham flea markets were fascinating places—and you never asked why they didn’t have anyone else to go to for this. 

Most of them would flit in and out. Drop things off, maybe make light conversation, then vanish. 

But Red always stuck around, for maybe longer than he should. 

And you always let him. You liked him too much to kick him out. 

“I like the thing you did with my jacket, sweetheart.” He’d said, sprawled out on your couch like it was nothing. At this point, it kind of was. “Fucking pockets. You’re sorta a genius.”

You’d laughed softy. “Only sorta?”

“Sorry. Total genius.”

You’d flushed. “Thanks.”

“No problem, dollface.”

“Am I dollface, or sweetheart?”

He’d hummed, the sound static through his mask. “Which one do you like?”

You’d shrugged. “I don’t care.”

Lie. 

You like when he said your name. 

And he had to know that—the asshole—because he’d drawled it, watching you move around your kitchen with that audible grin. “I know you care, you’re a shit liar.”

“I don’t-“

“I’ll keep calling you Frog Princess- Fuck-“

You’d thrown a pillow at him. And he’d just laughed it off. 

“You feel strong, princess? Attacking an unarmed man?”

“Yeah,” you’d stuck your tongue out at him. “I do. And you’re not unarmed, Red-“

“Can’t prove that.”

You’d leaned over the back of the couch, reached into his jacket, and pulled out a gun. 

But you’d barely gotten to give him a smug look before you’d frozen. 

You were leaning over him. He was holding you by your arm, to stop you from falling further. And your breath had hitched because he was warm. And strong. And close-

“Careful,” he’d muttered your name. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

Your voice had been breathy. “I am careful.”

He’d sighed. “I know, princess. Still would rather this,” he’d pulled back the gun. “Stays with me.”

“What if I need to shoot someone?”

It had been meant to be a joke. You and Red both knew you couldn’t if you wanted to. 

But his voice had been so serious when he’d said. “Then call me, and I’ll take care of it for you.”

And, more than almost anything else in the world, you’d believed him. 

————

It takes five seconds when you meet Jason. For you to know. 

He stumbles into the connivence store you pull night shifts at, soaking wet from a storm, wearing a red hoodie, and taking up your whole vision. 

It’s not just that he’s built exactly like Red. Same shoulders that you spent far too much time thinking about, same broad chest that—after that first moment on the couch—you’ve kept touching with small shoves and whacks, that Red has crowded all your space with while both of you giggle about something stupid. It’s not just that he walks like Red, with long, loose steps but a tension in his legs. 

It’s his voice. 

“It’s pouring.” He mutters, staring out the windows, and you shrug.

“I’ve seen worse.”

“Yeah,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “Guess I have too.”

You know there. 

The smile in his voice, more casual and prominent without the mask. 

But you don’t react. You can’t. You might be wrong, and then you’ll just be accusing some guy of being the Red Hood-

Then he looks at you, and you’re even more certain. 

He’s—somehow—exactly what you pictured. 

Handsome. 

Dark hair with one white streak. Sharp jawline, almost glowing green eyes, and deep scarring near his neck and on his cheeks. 

But still handsome. Suited to his voice, his everything.

Then he scans over you, extends his hand, and says, “I’m Jason.”

Jason. 

His name is Jason. 

And when you tell him your name, you’re certain. He repeats it back—the exact was Red did—and nobody else has ever said your name like that. Nobody else ever would. 

“If I buy you one of those coffees,” he jerks his head to the shitty machines in the corner. “Are you allowed to drink it?”

“Yeah, but I won’t. They taste like shit.”

He laughs. It’s Red’s laugh. 

And you’d had small conversations, with the other Bats. Where they say that Red doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t smile, either. 

You believe them. Jason sort of smiles at you like he’s forgotten how. 

But he’s smiling at you. 

It feels like it means something. You’d like it to mean something. 

“Can I drink shit coffee and talk to you?” He asks, and you tilt your head.

“Sure.” You pause. “Nothing better to do?”

“Nope.” He shrugs. “I’m exactly where I want to be.”

———

It means something. 

So fast, it means something. 

Jason gets your phone number, then he calls you. Then, like it’s nothing at all, you’re friends.

“What do you do?” You ask, turning a coffee cup in your hands, and Jason leans over the table. 

“You think you can keep a secret?”

You nod, and his lips twitch. 

“I sorta run a chop shop. Lotta late nights, and I know it’s not an honest living, but who gives a fuck about that.”

You let out a slow breath, and shrug. “You could try stripping.”

“I did.” He smirks at you. “My pole dancing was fuckin’ horrible. Got sacked in a day.”

You laugh, he grins at you, and you don’t know what the other Bats were talking about.

Jason smiles all the time. 

Maybe not with his mouth, but to himself. Invisible and dry, but so obvious when you know where to look. And you do.

You know him when the hanging out becomes half of your free time. 

“I like your apartment.” He tells you the first time he comes over—just to watch a movie, because you’re not brave enough to ask if this is more—and you have to force down a laugh. “It’s very you.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, princess,” he bumps his shoulder with yours. “But I sorta don’t hate you.”

You hum, and you’re leaning a little too close to him. But without the suit and mask, he smells like salt and old books, and it’s sort of intoxicating. “Is that good?”

“Yeah.” A shadow flashes over his features. “You’re one of five, if that helps.”

“Oh.” You flush, offering him a soft smile. “Then I sorta don’t hate you either.”

Jason grunts and looks away, but his face is flushed at well.

It matters. 

He wraps his arm around you on the couch—legs spread and head tipped back—and brought you your favorite candy without you asking, so it matters. 

You know him when you say goodnight, and then he’s back at your window—now in the mask—only a few hours later.

“I like my belt.” Red tells you, and you don’t know how he thinks he’s fooling you. Jason does the exact thing, of just telling you that he likes something, as if he’s trying to prove he’s paying attention and cares. “It’s thick.”

“Thanks?”

“You’re welcome.” He drops on your couch, spreading himself the same way as always. The same way he did, only hours ago. “Any big life developments?”

You sigh, and focus on your hands as you choose your words carefully. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“I met a guy.”

“Oh.” He pauses. “You like him?”

“Yeah,” you bite your lower lip. “A lot.”

Red grunts. “But?”

“There’s no but.”

“I know a but when I hear one, dollface-“

“There’s not a but.” You snap, and Red falls silent as you take a steadying breath. 

He’s trying to bait you into saying something bad about him. He hasn’t done it as Jason yet, but he’s done it as the Red Hood. You tell him something good about him, and he tosses it off. He says that whatever hero vigilante thing he did last night wasn’t that good, then look at you like you’re supposed to agree. And doing it here is fucking mean—to both of you—but you can’t tell him you know. He has to tell you first. But you won’t fall for it anyway. 

You don’t have anything bad to say. 

“I like him a lot.” You mutter, still unable to face him. “I just don’t know if he likes me.”

“What?” You can hear Red’s frown. “Why?”

“Cause he hasn’t asked me out.”

“Ah.” Red lets out a sharp breath, his voice dropping slightly. “Don’t worry. He will.”

You shrug. “I’ll be fine if he doesn’t-“

“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. He’d be a lucky asshole if you said yes, and I bet he knows it.”

 He knows it. 

You know him. 

And the very next day, Jason’s knocking on your door with his hands in his pocket, and clears his throat.

He mutters your name, watching you carefully. “What’s a guy gotta say to have you?”

“That.” You beam at him. “That’ll work.”

———

It gets serious quick, as wll. 

Maybe it’s because you’ve known him a while, and even before that you felt like you knew him forever. But soon Jason has a toothbrush in your bathroom, you wear his shirt to bed, and you have favorite places to go for dinner. If the other bats notice that you clearly have someone half-living with you, they don’t mention it. 

You’d bet that Jason told them. It can’t be a coincidence that the only nights no one shows up are the nights Jason is staying over. 

There will be a time when you have to talk about it. When you have to take his face between your hands and scream that you know. That you’ve always known. That some insane part of you loved him when he appeared in the basement, so there was no way you couldn’t know.

But for now, you let him carry you to bed after you curl up in his arms. Let him do his little patrol of your apartment, then hold you tight to his chest as you both drift off to sleep.

And tonight isn’t the first night you wake up like this.

It won’t be the last. 

At least you know what to do.

Jason’s shoved you away from him, and he’s rolled himself off the bed. Fallen to the floor then shot up, the toy gun you put under the bed in his hands. 

You keep a real gun on your side of the bed. Just in case. Jason says. But he also tried to convince you not to sleep with him because of this, so you compromised for a toy gun. 

In this state, he doesn’t notice the difference. Feral eyed and aiming it around in the dark, breathing ragged and weak noises leaving his throat.

He doesn’t shoot you, as you crawl to the edge of the mattress. He never shoots you. Something flashes over his features, and he mutters you name the same way as always. 

Like you’re holy. 

“It’s me, Jay,” you offer him a soft, sad smile. “Just me, baby. You’re okay.”

He shakes his head, but doesn’t fight it as you slide of the bed and pull him into your arms.

It only takes a second for him to hold you back. To cling to you like you’re going to vanish. Sobs are muffled in your neck, and he’s massive but folded so gently over your body. You trace your fingers through his hair and hum until he comes down, and mutters your name against your skin. 

“You should leave, princess.”

You kiss the top of his head. “I’m good.”

“One day I’m gonna hurt you.”

“So I’ll leave when you hurt me.”

“You shouldn’t let it come to that-“

“Jason.” You mutter. “Do you really think you’re going to hurt me?”

There’s a long silence, then he mumbles.

“No. But I’m not always- Shit, I’m not good for you-“

“Why?”

He sighs, and even though you both know how this ends, he keeps up with the dance. 

“I got issues,” he says your name, and it’s still a prayer. “I’ve done things, that- You deserve better than fuckin’ this-“

“Yeah, but I want you.”

“You shouldn’t. You’d leave me, if you didn’t-“

He doesn’t say it. Neither of you have said it yet, and you don’t know how to be the first. 

But you can hold him a little tighter. And let it hang in the air, before you break the silence.

“Don’t tell me what to do, Jay. I’m here. And I’m not leaving until you tell me and mean it.”

He always holds you back. And you both know.

You might know a little more. 

But it doesn’t matter.

You breathe, when he’s here. Feel more important than you are. 

So you’re not letting him go. 

———

Time flies by. 

Jason doesn’t tell you.

And you should be furious about that, but it’s too fucking easy to love him. 

He makes the bed, when he stays over. He kisses your forehead, whenever he sees you. He keeps saying your name like you’re the only thing in the world and smiling at you. Everyone always tells you he never smiles, but he smiles at you.

Even his father—Bruce Wayne, which Jason decided not to mention until the very last second because he likes surprising you—says he’s never seen Jason this happy. Never had Jason introduce someone to the whole family—now you’ve worked out Batman’s identity too, which is great for you—and never heard him laugh this often, like it’s nothing at all.

You love him more with every single second. 

He’s got scars, but he’s not stuck in them. And when you kiss them, his hand tangles gently in your hair and he lets out a soft, happy sigh. He pays such close attention to you, there’s never again a question of if this is something.

It’s everything. 

You and Jason eating dinners and his hand in yours as you walk down the street. You still scream, when he comes around a corner, but he just laughs and pulls you into his arms. 

Domestic. Peaceful. 

Still haunted by the Red Hood. 

“Look at my goddamn boots.” Jason grumbles—voice static through the mask—and holds them up for you to see the soles and sides torn, almost like-

“Did you step in a bear trap?”

“Yeah. Can you fix it?”

“Red, I- Where even were you-“

“Docks.” He says like it’s obvious. “I’m fine, sweetheart-“

“You’re an idiot.” You snap, grabbing the boots, and he’s still for a second. 

Silent for longer, as you patch up his boots. But he couldn’t gotten hurt. It’s sour in your gut and sore over your ribs, he could’ve gotten seriously fucking hurt-

“Do you worry about me?” He asks suddenly, and you sigh. 

“Yes.”

He grunts. “You don’t have to-“

“But I do. I will.”

There’s a long, heavy silence, and Red coughs. 

“I can take care of myself, y’know-“

“I know. I don’t care.” You shoot him a glare, marching over to drop at his side. “I’m allowed to worry about you, Red. You do worrying things.”

He snorts. “You got no idea-“

“Yeah.” The memory of Jason, shirtless beneath you and littered with scars, flashes through your head. “I do. And I care about you. So I worry.”

“Aw.” He drawls. “You care about me, dollface-“

“Yeah.” You snap, glaring at his mask. “I do.”

Red stares at you, but you don’t waver. Not for this. 

Jason’s there whenever you have a panic attack. He walks you home every night, stress over your safety every moment, and then lets you hold him when he waking up thrashing, on the rare nights he passes out in your bed. He always mutters an apology after, and protests when you turn on the light and tell him to read to you. 

You love him. He’s in pain, and you can see it whenever he stumbles back covered in blood, and it fucking eats at you that he won’t let you love him back, but you love him. He’s not your Jason—hood, whatever—if he’s not a little bit fucked up, but still fighting through it. 

You’re just waiting for him to let you fight with him. And until then—and a long while after—you’re going to just care, and hope he understands.

That you’re here. 

And not going anywhere. 

“How’s your boyfriend?” He mutters, and you want to smack him. 

He sounds so bitter, as if he’s not your fucking boyfriend. 

“He’s perfect.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yep.” You shrug. “Perfect.”

———

And he is perfect.

Jason’s fucking perfect. 

His mouth, brushing softly over yours, always asking a silent permission before he takes more. His kisses, deep and delicate, like he’s worried he’s going to bite you. His teeth when he does bite you, because you lean your neck back and give him a soft, pleading expression that he knows far too well.

“Now?” He mutters your name, holding you naked on his lap. “You were up all night-“

“So were you.” You mumble, trailing your hands down his bare chest. “If you’re too tired, baby-“

Jason cuts you off with another, deep kiss, and you sigh into his mouth.

It took a while for him to get this comfortable with you. Only two months for him to believe you when you told him you’d like him to touch you—taste you, have you, fuck you—and four months together before he took off his shirt during sex. Another two for you to have sex with the lights on. 

But you never mentioned it. Never asked, because you know where that conversation goes, and he’s not ready for it yet. It’s another example of how it’s amazing he doesn’t know you’ve figured it out, though. He’s got an autopsy scar, and Red’s told you about how he died. Jason’s told you his full name, let you meet his family, and somehow thinks that their story of faking his death because stalkers was something you bought. You would’ve been insulted if you didn’t know he was trying to protect you. If he didn’t spend every moment in your presence calling you his smart and pretty girl.

You’d worry he didn’t love and trust you, if you weren’t smart. If he didn’t moan your name like a hymn, when you palmed him over his sweatpants. If he didn’t attach his lips to your neck and suck small, dark spots as you rolled your hips on his thigh, the ache between your legs slowly building with every second. 

When you slowly start to kiss down his chest, Jason grabs your chin and gently tips it up, frowning at your lust blown expression. 

“Princess, you don’t have to-“

“Want to.” You whisper, kissing just under his pec and watching, mesmerized, as his head tips back. “May I?”

He nods, watching you under hooded eyes, and you resume your path. 

Over his abs, along the sharp V of his hips, then slowly pulling his pants down and taking his cock in your hand.

Jason groans as you slowly start to stroke him, and you don’t need to look up to know he’s staring at you. A soft moan leaves him as you press a gentle kiss to the reddened tip, his finger tangling in your hair as to you spit on him and play with your balls. 

His hips jerk, when you take him in your mouth, and you moan as he bumps the back of your throat.

“Fuck,” Jason groans your name, and you set a slow, lazy pace. Jerking off what you can’t get in your mouth, swirling your tongue and sucking him like he’s a lollipop. “Jesus, pretty girl, you’re so fuckin’- God-“

He’s slurring his words already, grip on your hair tightening, and you want him to lose control. It always takes a minute, to get him to snap, but fuck, you love it when he does. When Jason fucks your face until you can feel it, and you know he trusts you because he doesn’t do this with anyone else. Doesn’t want anyone to see that side of him.

But you worship it. 

Just thinking about it makes you press your legs together and take him deeper in your mouth. Move your fingers back down to his balls as you flick your tongue over the slit on the tip of his cock. Whine with pleasure as his hips slam up, and roll your hips against the mattress. 

“Shit, sweetheart, you gotta slow down-“

You obey without thought, turning your pace torturously slow, and he groans. 

“Fuck- I- I gotta-“ Another jerk of his hips. This time he tries to take away his hand, but you reach up. Hold it against you, then go a little faster. 

Look up at him with that same pleading expression, and almost cum just from the sight. 

Jason’s always beautiful. But watching you with a starved, desperate expression and blushing at the sight of you sucking his cock, he’s a work of art. 

And he understands in a second. Groans your name and shakes his head, but understands.

“Don’t know what I’m gonna do with you, dollface.” He yanks you off his cock, and a little droll falls out of your mouth as he runs his thumb over your lower lip. “You need me to take care of you?”

You nod, and moan as Jason pushes his thumb into your mouth. Suck him the same way you did his dick, grinding your ass against the sheets for a little bit of friction.

“Shit,” he lets out a ragged breath, eyes never leaving yours. “You want my cock?”

You hum, and his jaw clenches.

“Then take it how I want,” he all but growls your name, and you beam at him. “Think you can do that for me?”

He pulls his thumb out of your mouth, you take a deep breath, nodding like a bobble head. 

“Yes- Please, Jay, touch me-“

You moan as he drags you up his chest, pulling you into another long kiss, and he rolls you over without a single grunt.

“Whatever you want, my love.” He mutters against your lips, and your mouth falls open as a thick finger slide between the folds of your cunt, then pumping slowly in and out of your fluttering pussy. 

“Jason,” you gasp, hips rolling as his palm presses to your clit. “So good, feels so good-“

“Always fuckin’ soaked, sweetheart.” His lips return to your neck, and you whimper. “Never enough for my needy girl, is it. Always ready for my cock, always beggin’ for it-“

“Yes.” Your back arches off the bed as Jason crooks his fingers, then rubs that spot deep inside of you. “Need to feel you, baby, please-“

He cuts you off with another deep kiss, and you melt into the mattress. 

And Jason’s got you. He’s always got you. 

His fingers vanish for a second, then he’s slapping your clit with his dick. Swallowing your whine of protest as he repeats the movement, then pressing his brow to yours and looking down between your bodies. 

He’s lined himself up at your entrance, and he always watched himself slide into you with a moan rumbling in his chest and look of awe on his face. 

And Jason doesn’t talk, when he’s inside you. You’re not sure he can. There always a mumbled so good, takin’ me so good, then his face presses against your neck, and it’s all about feeling. Jason’s cock buried inside you for minutes at time before he starts moving, his arms caging you to his chest, and his lips teasing over the soft crook of your neck. 

It’s only when you start to squirm and whine, that Jason starts to fuck you. 

Sometimes is rough. Hard and fast, with bruising kisses and force. You think he’s always trying to mark you in a way that will last, like you’re not already his. 

Other times, it’s like this. 

Slow. Soft. A little fucking sacred, because Jason’s moaning your name against your skin and touching you like you’re holy, but still dragging so painfully good inside of you, bringing you right up to the edge without ever letting you fall over. The are parts inside of you that you didn’t know existed, until Jason found them and used them to unravel you. Parts that love the slow, lazy attention of his cock, even as the rest of you starts to buzz with electricity. You wiggle in his arms, but he only holds you tighter and kisses you harder. 

A silent message of wait. I’ve got you, pretty girl, but you gotta wait. 

It’s so hard to wait. Jason’s warm around you and in you, the feeling of him splitting you open better than any drug, and the heat in your gut ready to burst the moment he gives you permission. 

But tonight, he wants to touch you slowly. 

So you wait. 

But you still play dirty. 

You squeeze around his cock when he’s pressed against your cervix, then again just the tip is still in you. Then you moan his name as his hips rut forward. 

Jason pushes up on his elbows, giving you a flat expression, and you smile back stupidly. 

He rolls his eyes, and doesn’t pick his pace. 

But he stays hovered over you. 

And that’s how you know you won. 

Jason’s thumb finds your clit as he fucks you. Still pulling out like he as all the time in the world, then slamming home so hard the bed creaks. And you’re right there. So fucking close, unable to get that last push to cum-

“Jay.” You whisper, reaching up to grab his face. “Please.”

His throat bobs, and he nods, his thumb pressing down and rubbing in furious circles, and your orgasm washes over you in an instant. Stars dance behind your eyes and your toes curl, the pleasure dragged out as Jason finally speeds up, chasing his own release as you spasm around him and moan his name. 

He cums inside of you, kissing you like he’s going to war as he paints your cunt white. 

It takes him a moment to pull out, after you both come down. He clings to you, cock twitching as he slowly fucks his cum into you.

You’re not sure he knows he does that. But you don’t mind. 

It makes you feel like his. 

And this is how you know Jason loves you. 

He mutters your name against your lips, the tone alone one of soft praise, then pulls out with a grunt. He cleans you up after, brings you water and guides you into the shower, before wrapping you in a towel and carrying you back to bed.

He holds you to his chest, as you both start to drift off into sleep. 

And for some reason, you have to tell him now. When there’s still water clinging to his eyelashes, and his arms around relaxed around your waist.  

“I love you, Jason.” 

His eyes shoot open, and he looks terrified. Mouth opening and closing, pale faced and holding you tighter. 

But he doesn’t run. 

“It’s okay if you can’t say it back,” you whisper, and Jason’s throat bobs.

He mutters your name, voice hoarse, and you shake your head. 

“I’ll wait.” You kiss his jaw, and he lets out a soft breath. “But I love you.”

He sighs, and nods, kissing the top of your head. 

“You’re amazing.” He mumbles, and when you smile at him, he smiles back.

He won’t say it now.

But you know anyway.

———

He’s going to blame himself, if he doesn’t get here in time. You’ve pieced together bits of his past from news clips and timelines, and you know he’s going to rip himself apart.

You haven’t slept since Harley grabbed you, and you’re starting to feel it in your skull. 

Soon, it’ll be over. You’d rather be asleep when that comes. 

But, as you hold it in the dark, one last time—you love Jason, and it’s more holy than anything else—you know he’s going to blame himself. 

He’s going to take that promise from the basement, and rip himself apart with it. 

He’s strong. Braver than you are. And he’s been through worse. And maybe he’ll look at ruined gloves and tattered jacket and cry. Or maybe he’ll preserve you somewhere.

But he’ll keep loving you. 

That’s never really been a question. 

Mostly, you wish you’d been braver enough to tell him that you knew. That you knew, and you loved him all the same, because he’s not Jason if he’s not a cryptic, dramatic asshole.

But you weren’t.

At least he knows you love him. And you know he loved you. He wouldn’t have risked so much if he didn’t, wouldn’t have stayed when it was easier to cut and run. So all you can pray for, as the exhaustion pulls you under, is that he’ll forgive himself. 

Maybe smile again, sometime after you’re gone.

———

He knew. 

From the goddamn start, Jason knew it would end like this. It always ended like this. Good things didn’t just fucking happen, not to him, not in a way that lasted.

If he was a better man, he would’ve stayed away from Her. She would smiled at him in the basement, he would’ve turned down Her offer to fix his clothing, and She’d be safe. He might have thought about Her for the rest of his life, but he was used to not getting what he wanted. Jason was good at not getting what he wanted. Life was shit, but he did it anyway. 

That didn’t mean he got to live with others. To have something as soft and delicate as love, because he’d always known it would break. It always broke. 

But She was so goddamn stubborn. Beautiful and unwavering, more resilient than he could ever hope to be, telling Jason She loved him when he was made of cracked and sharp, pointed edged. 

She always soothed them. Always spoke in that pretty voice, and made Jason feel like maybe there could be something for him. Something in the future, in the dark, filling up all the cracks of his head he didn’t know how to mend. 

He never thought of Her as a lighthouse, though. He wasn’t a ship lost in the dark, and Gotham was a storm because Storms passed. 

She was a moonbeam. Shimmering in the dark, illumination and gentle and always there, even when he thought She shouldn’t be. It wasn’t up to Jason if the moon glowed. It just did.

She did.

And She loved him. 

Jason. 

She loved Jason. 

But She didn’t love Red Hood. 

And it had killed him at first, to only visit Her in the mask. He couldn’t press Her lips to the soft parts of Her throat through the mask. Couldn’t smile at Her, when she’d become the only thing that made him really, fully smile. There was nothing bitter or mocking or fake about Jason’s smile when it was for Her. It wasn’t a tactic for intimidation or a forced expression to make his family think he didn’t still have a lot of anger, boiling in his gut. Anger at the people in charge, letting everyone hurt and never lifting a finger. Anger at all the people, who made him worry that one day, he’d lose Her.

Anger at the Joker. For everything.

He’d pushed past the anger at Bruce, for not killing the Joker after Jason died. He was just Jason. He could die over and over, and maybe the world would be better for it if he just stayed dead.

But if She didn’t wake, Jason was going to kill Bruce himself.

This was the exact fucking reason the Joker needed to die. The reason Jason should’ve just been content with loving Her silently as Red Hood, instead of pretending to just happen upon Her at work and have her for real. 

Now he was going to lose Her.

And he could die and come back again, kill the Joker a thousand more times, somehow turn Gotham into a paradise, and he’d never be able to repent for losing Her. 

He couldn’t lose Her. 

He’d never even said he loved Her. As Jason, or Red Hood. 

She looked so small, curled on a cot in the Batcave. Alfred said She’d be fine. If Alfred said She’d be fine, She’d have to be fine. There wasn’t another option. 

But She’d wake up here. And She was smart. 

She’d realize why She was here. See Jason—even in his normal clothing, because Dick had made him change out of the Red Hood suit while Alfred looked at Her—and realize that his chop shop job was a lie. Then She’d leave him, and the only truly good thing in his life slip through his fingers. 

It was for the best. 

He’d been a lucky fucking asshole to have Her at all. 

And it was always going to end like this. 

He’d explain, She’d leave, and Jason would be stranded in the dark once more. But he knew the dark. He knew the spaces of it that could be warm enough to keep him alive, and how to navigate the colder parts. He knew that good things didn’t last. 

So when She made a soft sound and Her eyes fluttered open, Jason braced himself for the bullet. He’d take it easy, stitch up after, then keep going. Keep loving Her after she left. Make sure She stayed safe, just like he’d promised. 

Let Her go on.”

“Jason?” She mumbled, blinking up at him with a pretty frown. “Jay, my- my head hurts-“

“I know, princess, it’s okay.” His voice sounded more strained than he’d wanted. He couldn’t stop it. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

She made a muffled, weak noise, and reached for his hand. 

He wasn’t strong enough not to take it. 

“Jay?” She whispered, eyes still clouded with exhaustion. “I- What happened?”

He swallowed, forcing out the words he’d spent the past few hours rehearsing. “We got to you in time. Got you out. Took Harley and Joker in. You’re gonna be okay.”

“Oh. Okay.” She sighed, tugging slightly on his arm. “Can you lie down with me?”

Fuck, he wanted to. There was nothing that sounded better than folding his body over Her’s, feeling the warmth that meant She was still alive. That he hadn’t completely failed. 

But he couldn’t. 

He had to tell Her first, before Steph or Tim wandered in and accidentally snitched about what She seemed to be too tired to put together. 

Jason muttered Her name, staring at the floor, and She hummed. 

“Yeah?”

“I- I gotta tell you something, sweetheart.” He should let go of Her hand. He couldn’t. “’S my fault they took you.”

“Jason-“

“No, I- Just let me say it.” His voice broke slightly, but he couldn’t pussy out now. He’d never say it otherwise. “I’m Red Hood. Harley must’ve seen me leaving your place, in the suit, then gone after you.” He swallowed, unable to look up and see Her expression. It would be over the moment he did. “I’m sorry, princess. I’m so fucking sorry.”

She was silent for a moment, and it was suffocating. Wired and heavy on his shoulder, their hands still connect, the last time he’d be allowed to feel Her- 

“Harley didn’t know we were together, Jay.” She said, voice far too soft for how angry She must be. “She didn’t know who was going to come save me. She just knew I did work for Batman.”

Jason frowned. She didn’t seem to be dwelling on the point. 

“And it wouldn’t be your fault anyway-“

He grunted Her name, shaking his head. “That’s not the fuckin’- I’m trying to tell you that I’m Red-“

“Hood?” She finished for him, and She should be pissed. 

Why the hell didn’t She sound pissed-

“I know, Jay.”

He froze, and looked up. She was looking at him so gently. No hatred etched under Her features, no fear in Her shining eyes, just- 

The same.

Exactly how She’d always looked at him. 

She must not understand. 

“No- You- I’m Red Hood.” He raised his voice slightly, because She had to get it. Jason needed this to be over, now. “I was in the basement with you, I hit on your while you did laundry-“

“You tried to hit on me while I did laundry.” She corrected with a small smile. “I told you it wasn’t working.”

He gaped at Her, then shook his head.

“There’s- Dollface, there’s no way-“

She scowled at that. “Jason, I knew from the first moment I saw you-“

“How-“

“Because I love you.” She said it so simply, but that wasn’t supposed to be the truth anymore. “I just- I knew.”

Jason stared at Her, still frowning slightly, but relaxed. 

Telling the truth. 

She’d known. The whole goddamn time, She’d known. Every time he’d left for “work” She’d known, whenever he crawled into bed with strange bruises She’d known, when he woke up screaming or kissed her or fucked her, She’d known-

“And you stayed?” He rasped, and She looked at him like it was an insane question. 

“Of course I stayed.”

“No- Sweetheart, you should’ve fuckin’ left-“

“Why? Jason, I love you-“

“No.” He repeated it, because it had to be true. Everything Jason knew about the world said that She shouldn’t know and love him. “You’re too good for that-“

She scoffed. “Oh, fuck off-“

“You’re too good for me!” He roared. “Fuck, I- I’ve tried to tell you, but you never fucking got it, you’re too good for me, princess. I kill people-“

“I know-“

“Then you should’ve left-“

“Jason Todd.” She hissed, sitting up on the mattress, still holding his hand. Why wouldn’t She let go of his hand. “I love you because of who you are, not in fucking spite of it. I love you as Red, and I love you as Jason, and I am not too good for you-“

“Yeah, you-“

“Are you going to love me less?” She snapped, Her grip almost strangling. “Just because I know and still love you?”

Jason scowled. “That doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does-“

He muttered Her name, and She shook her head, yanking him forward. He could’ve fought it. He was stronger.

But he never did. Not when it was Her. 

“It matters.” She hissed. “If you love me less, it matters. Because if you do, I’m leaving you. I’ve told you, I only go when you make me.”

Goddamnit, She was stubborn. “You should leave.” He muttered, and She shook her head. 

“I won’t.”

“You-“

“I won’t.” She repeated, holding his gaze. “Not until you say it.”

“Say-“

“Say you don’t love me anymore.”

Fuck. “I never said I love you-“

“Yeah, but I know you do.” Something flashed over Her beautiful features. “Did. Tell me you did love me, and I’ll go. But you have to say it.”

He should.

Jason always should have stayed away.

This wouldn’t last.

But fuck, he wanted it to. And looking at Her, glowing in the dark of the Batcave, still here, still loving him, it wasn’t possible to hate himself enough to make Her leave. 

“I won’t.” He muttered. “I won’t say that, princess. I can’t.”

“Then I’m not leaving. Okay?”

Jason sighed, and—despite all of it—She smiled at him. Rested Her brow against his, and squeezed his hand. 

And Jason still had Her. 

And She was still good.

“I love you, Jay.” She mumbled, holding his gaze. “All of you.”

There was a heavy lump in his throat, and a sting behind his eyes that meant tears were coming. 

But She still loved him. 

So despite all of it, Jason smiled back.

“I love you too.”

End Note: I was born in the right century. I love da internet and Jason Todd.

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“For just a moment,” you huff, “it’s gone very quickly. It’s not as though it troubles me for long. He, on the other hand…well, I wonder what that fool could have gotten himself into this time.”

The first time you feel what he does, you’re ten. It feels like there’s a sharp kick to your ribs, and then your back feels like it’s slammed hard against a surface just a moment later. You remember it vividly—how you cried out and hunched over. How your mother had rushed over to you and whispered words you couldn’t even hear, wiping your tears. All you knew then was that he was in pain, too. Agony. For a blinding second, you felt it with him, before it dissipated like it was nothing. 

At age ten, you learn what it means to worry for someone you’ve never met. To fear for another’s safety more fiercely than a child should be capable of. To wonder about his well-being. His survival. Whatever your soulmate is going through, it can’t be safe. Can’t be the life of a normal child with a normal upbringing or a normal home. You know it’s worse for him, even if you feel it too. Where your aches vanish in seconds, his must linger—throbbing, bruising, weighing down small limbs that have no business carrying so much hurt.

At ten, you learn that not all children are created equal. Some are born to live their lives as children. And others…well, others it seems, are only there to prove how blessed those children truly are.

That is the reality of Fontaine, the nation of justice. 

By the time you’re thirteen, there’s a constant ache in your muscles and your bones that comes and goes. A phantom pain that haunts you in bursts, disappearing as quickly as it comes. You can feel it—the burdens he carries. The constant soreness in his back and the tightness of his shoulder blades. Like he has nowhere proper to rest. No surface that curves along his spine and nurtures his developing body the way it should. 

It isn’t until you’re fourteen that it gets bad. You’ve known for a long time now that he has a habit of getting into fights—the soreness on your knuckles only implies that he can throw a punch or two back at least now and then. But this time, it’s…frightening. Something dark. Something heavy. It’s a long fight. You can tell that much. There’s a hard tug on your hair, then a bruising grip around your throat, then a swift kick to your stomach. Finally, you feel that familiar sting in your fists. And then it stops. For two days after that, you feel nothing. It’s almost as though he’s no longer conscious, as though someone has eased the pain and left no trace of it—and then, suddenly, it returns all at once. Like he’s been thrown back into reality after two days of being blissfully removed. This time, when the pain returns, a rawness to the skin around your wrist joins the list of things that hurt. 

Since the age of ten, you know that he has always been hurting. Always. 

There is always some part of his body that is bruised and battered and tender from cruelty. Even as he gets older, even as the sharp injuries stop along with the fights, the sore muscles never do. The throbbing in your arms and legs, and lower back, never goes away. Like he’s been fighting, even if no one has been there to fight him back. Like he’s been keeping his strength, so no one could knock him off his feet again. 

“How far is this warden’s office, exactly?” you huff, “and how do you even find anything down here? All these halls and tunnels look the same! I’m starting to wonder if agreeing to work down here was a mistake.”

“All you have to do is come down here for official Palais matters twice a week,” Clorinde hums, “and you’ll learn the tunnels just fine.”

“Ah, Miss Clorinde! You say that like you didn’t get lost for three weeks straight,” an unfamiliar voice calls ahead as she twists the door handle to enter a room. 

Clorinde exhales through her nose, unimpressed. “I wasn’t lost. I was exploring alternate routes.”

“You walked into the same dead-end storeroom six times,” a man—you assume to be Wriothesley—says as he comes into view, leaning against the doorway to his office. 

You pause. He’s…handsome. That’s the first thing you can think of. Second, you realize he can’t be much older than you. A lot younger than what you were anticipating for a Duke who runs a prison—a prison that he reformed all on his own, no less, from what you’ve heard. You meet his icy, blue-grey eyes, and it puts a shiver down your spine. There’s something…well, you aren’t quite sure. But there’s something about him. 

And you wonder if he senses it, too, because his brows furrow for a second as he takes you in. 

“I had to be sure you weren’t storing corpses in there,” she replies dryly. You blink out of your trance and look between them—apparently, this is normal. “Anyway,” Clorinde says, gesturing you forward, “this is the warden’s office, and this is Wriothesley. He’s supposed to brief you without embarrassing himself, but I make no promises.”

Wriothesley scoffs. “I’ll have you know I am an excellent host. I even made tea.”

“For your own interest, I presume,” Clorinde shoots back smoothly.

“Okay, so I made some tea for myself,” he huffs, “but I’m more than happy to share.”

He gestures for you both to come in. Clorinde gently nudges you forward once more. “I’ll leave you to it,” she says—and then she throws him a pointed look. “Try not to scare her off, Wriothesley.”

“You’re the scary one,” he calls after her, but she’s already halfway down the hall.

He shakes his head after her before he clears his throat and lets you in, gesturing for you to sit across from him as he settles into his own chair. “Right,” he says. “Formal introductions are probably overdue. I’m Wriothesley—warden of the Fortress, glorified administrator, part-time peacekeeper, full-time babysitter, whatever you would like to call it.” 

Your laugh slips out before you can swallow it, and he grins, pleased. “Rest assured, you won’t have to babysit me,” you hum as you introduce yourself. 

“That’s quite the relief, miss—but not to worry, nothing you’ll do down here is too complicated. Monsieur Neuvillette has given me the rundown of your responsibilities, and I’ll walk you through protocols, safety procedures, all the boring stuff—really, it’s easier than it sounds. Would you like some tea?”

“No, thank you,” you say politely.

“Well, if you don’t want any,” he sighs dramatically, “guess I’ll drink some all alone.” He reaches for his mug mid-sentence, still flipping through a folder with his other hand.

Except his grip on the handle slips. Then the glass tilts. Then—

“Ah, fuck,” he hisses, the scalding liquid burning through his pants and leaving the skin of his thigh raw.

A moment later, you feel a ripple of pain burst through…your thigh? You gasp, letting out a low hiss of, “Shit!” as you grip your upper leg.

His head jerks up, glancing at you with narrowed eyes for a moment at your gasp, seeing you clutching your own leg. He leans over the desk, concerned. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you mumble, “just felt like I got burned….” 

It hits you then. 

It hits you as you notice him watching your expression, still feeling the remnants of the same burn as you on his own thigh. His eyes widen as the realization hits him at the same time as you.

“You felt that?” he gapes.

You blink as your eyes hold his gaze. Could this mean…could he be…? No, you think, perhaps it’s just a freak coincidence and…

“Hang on a second,” Wriothesley murmurs, and then he pinches the skin of his forearm hard. He grimaces at the sting, and not even a moment later, you hiss and clutch your arm as a wave of pain radiates along the perimeter of your own skin.

“What the fuck?” You glare.

He blinks again. Then he whispers, almost shaky, “Well, what do you know…you do exist.”

“Was that really necessary?” you huff.

“Sorry,” he says, rubbing his neck awkwardly. “Just…just testing a theory there.”

“You could have tested your theory without pinching so hard,” you pout, rubbing over your arm as if the pain hadn’t already faded away. The phantom linger of pain is always the worst part—the part where you can’t forget how it felt to be hurt, even if it didn’t last long. The ghost of the injustice of it all. The unfairness that torments you without so much as a bruise as proof. The reality that somewhere, the person you are meant to find is hurt, and there is proof taunting you without making itself known properly.

But now…now he isn’t just somewhere. No—he’s right here. 

It dawns on you just what theory he’s tested and proven. Your head snaps up, getting a good, long look at his face before you stand and walk over, gripping the collar of his shirt and pulling him closer like you’re inspecting him more properly now.

He stares at you in bewilderment. “Um…wha—”

“Oh my god,” you gasp at the mark under his eye, “this scar—I remember this! That one felt awful—oh my god! Wait! I remember this, too,” you point to the one peeking through his collar at his neck. Without thinking, you quickly unbutton his vest and the shirt underneath, making him squawk in protest. But you pay him no mind—your hand delicately, gently, slowly tracing over the years and years and years of evidence of pain.

Pain you felt. Pain you shared. Pain you carried with him, even if only for a moment.

Your hand trembles as you take in the awful, cruel marks scattered across his skin—the raised, discolored grafts melding into the healthier patches. You ignore the way his eyes bore into your face, watching you carefully as every emotion twists across your expression.

“How could anyone…I don’t…I don’t understand,” you whisper, tracing a particularly thick scar across his left pec. You wonder if it narrowly missed his heart. Your eyes well up with tears against your will, much to your disdain.

His own eyes widen with alarm. “It’s not a big deal,” he says quickly. “They’re nothing, really! I’m strong, see?” Wriothesley flexes his arm, showing the bulging muscle of his bicep before he tries—poorly—to lighten the mood with, “Nothing’s beatin’ me down, miss.”

“Are you joking? These hurt,” you hiss. “Don’t pretend they didn’t! I felt them all too, in case you’ve forgotten!”

His face drops at that—guilt sprawling across every feature. (It’s a beautiful, handsome face. He’s gorgeous, and you wonder if he’s ever been made to feel that way. Even if only for a moment.)

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, “I never…if it were up to me, you would’ve never felt—”

“Never mind me,” you sniffle. “What in the Archons’ names have you been dealing with all your life?”

Your hands gently pull off his vest and the shirt underneath fully, giving you a proper look at the full map of suffering carved into him. It should be a bit unprofessional, really, to undress your new colleague the moment you meet—but, well, the circumstances are a bit unique here. And he just sort of lets you without protesting, this time. 

Your breath hitches as soon as you see his bare upper body. His torso is a constellation of old wounds—some thin and faded with age, others thicker, more jagged, warped in ways that make your stomach twist. Every scar is proof that this nation does not serve justice the way its divine nature intends. No one, especially not a child of his age when these injuries had marked him, should have endured such cruelty under the Hydro Archon’s watch.

You lift trembling fingers to his arm, tracing a long, uneven scar that snakes along the front. “This one,” you whisper, voice cracking, “I remember waking up in the middle of the night because of this. I thought—Archons, I thought someone had sliced me open.”

Wriothesley winces—not from your touch, but from the look on your face. His hands hover like he wants to steady you, but he doesn’t have the courage to fully reach.

“Ah, that,” he mumbles. “It…it wasn’t that deep. Just…caught a knife the wrong way, that’s all.”

You give him a watery, withering look. “Don’t you dare lie to me.”

“That was years ago,” he insists. “It’s over now! I’m…we’re okay.”

“I was always okay,” you bury your face in your hands. “All this time, I was okay, and you weren’t. If we’d…found each other sooner…or if—if maybe we’d tried to communicate somehow…perhaps if we’d even tried to—”

His hands gently wrap around your wrists, tugging them away from your face before pulling your hunched figure forward so you’re no longer bending awkwardly over him. Instead…you’re on his lap.

His lap.

Sure, he’s your soulmate, and of course, you’ve always felt a great deal of care for this stranger you’ve been bound to for years, but never really known, but you only met him not too long ago. And now you’re sitting on his lap.

You gasp, flustered as you stammer, “W-what are y-you—”

“Hey,” he hums softly, tilting your face to look at him. His hand cradles your jaw—gentle, delicate, impossibly careful from someone who’s known nothing but hardship at the hands of others. Your eyes lock with his as he murmurs, “I’m okay, sweetheart. See? I’m sitting here in the flesh right in front of you…if that’s proof.”

“Guess…guess it is,” you swallow thickly. 

“Y’know? It’s strange,” he admits, voice low. 

“What is?”

“Finally having you here. And not just some weird temporary feeling every now and then.”

You hum, studying his face. He really is young for a Duke. Handsome, sure, but too young to carry the burdens that he does. Then again, you think that might have been true all his life. “Strange as in good?”

He huffs a quiet laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Yes. Very good.”

Your fingers have begun tracing along a scar on his shoulder slowly, without even realizing it. He glances down at your hand, then back to you, lips curling into a loose, amused grin. You quickly stop the movement, clearing your throat as you mumble, “This is not professional work behavior, you know.”

“You took my shirt off,” he points out. 

“And you pulled me onto your lap!”

He tactfully ignores that part and hums, “You know…I think you should come by outside of official business. That way we’re not interrupted by duties and all.”

Your heart thumps hard enough that you’re sure he feels it. “Is this your way of asking me on a date? Because then it’s a little lackluster.”

He shrugs, giving you a boyishly charming smile. “Are you gonna turn me down? After I waited this long to find you?”

“Guess not,” you sigh dramatically, “perhaps I can spare some time here and there. In these…dark, dingy halls.”

“Your kindness moves me, miss soulmate,” he beams. 

You stare for a moment. (You should be embarrassed that you do, but he stares right back, and he doesn’t seem to be complaining about the circumstances. You can’t help but get lost in him—it’s almost a force that’s beyond your control. Perhaps beyond his, too.)

Finally, you blink and force yourself out of whatever trance he has you in. “I should get up…” you say, mildly embarrassed. You try to move—but he has one arm around your waist, keeping you in place as he gives you an unhappy frown. 

“What’s the rush? Not like either of us has to be anywhere.”

“This is unprofessional! And entirely not the sort of position anyone should see the warden of this place in if they walk—” 

“Well, that’s the fun part,” he gives you a confident, wolfish little grin, “no one walks into a warden’s office without knocking.”

“I’m gonna write that in my report,” you warn, “that you use unlawful tactics for intimidation and control.”

“The fortress is an autonomous region,” he shoots back. 

“It’s still a partnership!”

“Yes,” he grins, eyeing you softly, “I suppose it is.”

────────────────────────

Wriothesley knows he’s not very lucky in most departments. The soulmate one, however? He likes to think he got pretty damn lucky. 

You’re pretty and funny, and you have a good head on your shoulders. That much is evident, and most people would be thrilled just by that. But you have other endearing things about you—things he tallies up over the weeks as he gets to know you and keeps locked away in his memories. 

You can’t drink liquids if they’re piping hot, but somehow, food is not a problem. You like flowers even if you’re allergic to half of them. You’re passionate about how much you dislike Fontaine’s silly, unnecessary laws. You work at the Palais because it makes you feel useful. You insist you can’t decide what your favorite color is, but you unknowingly always seem to favor a certain one. You always insist you don’t want anything when he offers to pay, but you’re very bad at hiding your excitement when he buys you a pastry anyway. 

He could keep a list. He doesn’t need to write them down because his mind could not forget these little things even if he wanted, but he could keep a list. A list of everything he learns day by day, week by week, month by month. 

“I thought you hated bananas,” he raises an amused brow. You sit across from him in the bakery, happily slicing through the banana bread he bought on his mora. 

“I do,” you argue, “but banana bread doesn’t count. It makes the banana work—and there are chocolate chips, see?”

He doesn’t say anything—just stares and takes in the sight of you. All of you. You. 

“Want another slice?”

“Oh no, thank you,” you shake your head, “I’m good, really.”

(In the end, he gets you another. You pretend like he’s gone out of his way for nothing, but you eat it with no complaints, a happy gleam in your eye. He wonders if he’ll be blessed by the Gods enough to buy you sweets until all of his hair turns grey.)

────────────────────────

It takes a few months before Wriothesley talks about his past. You work at the Palais and sift through legal documents often enough that coming across his trial’s records is not difficult business. But you wait for him to tell you on his own terms. 

The first time he brings it up is also the first time you fuck him. It’s been a long time coming—you want him so badly, it almost hurts. You think about him all the time, and you’ve seen him in enough instances without a shirt that your imagination has begun to run a little wild. You want Wriothesley, and if you can just find out if he wants you too, you can have him, you’re sure. 

So you set out to find out. 

“You wanna make out?” you ask from the couch in his office as he does paperwork. 

He pauses, doing a double-take. “Sorry?”

“You and me,” you gesture between the two of you with a finger, “do you wanna make out? Like kiss and stuff with our tongues and—”

“I know what making out is, thank you!” he interjects, neck flushing a little, faint trace of red, “We’ve done it before, I’m not clueless. I’m just astounded by your forthcomingness, is all.”

You pout. “Well, I’m bored. And you look very handsome right now. So? Making out—yes or no?”

He drops his pen as he stares at you. It rolls off the desk. He makes no move to retrieve it. “Sweetheart,” he says slowly, like he’s talking to a toddler, “you can’t just look at a guy while he’s trying to finish disciplinary reports and ask if he wants to swap spit.”

“Why not? If you don’t want to, you can just say so.”

“I—” He blinks. Once. Twice. His ears are also red now. “I didn’t say I didn't want to.”

You grin excitedly, walking over to him with a little bounce in your step as you lean your hip against his desk, arms crossed in victory. “So you do want to.”

“I didn’t say that either.” He rubs a hand down his face. “We’re in my office.”

“So?” You shrug. “We’ve made out here before—you didn’t care then. Why start now?”

He glares, but it’s the useless kind—more fluster than defiance. “W-well, that was…after everyone was in their bunks for curfew!”

“Mhm.” You take a slow step closer. “So what about that time we made out behind some pipes in the middle of the day? Curfew only matters selectively, huh?” His breath stutters. Very slightly. But you notice. You push a finger under his chin, tilting his head up so he has to look at you. His pupils are blown—just a little, but it’s enough to knock a spark of heat straight into your spine. “You can tell me no,” you murmur. “Just say the word.”

“M’not ever going to say no to kissing you,” he mumbles, pulling you onto his lap, “you know that good and well, you little troublemaker.”

“Troublemaker?” you gasp, “I’ve no criminal history, your grace!”

“For now,” he snorts, “may have to take you into court myself for the damages you do down here.”

Before you can protest, he leans in and closes the gap, kissing you soft and sweet with a little edge of desperation. You gasp, and his lips move against yours again—harder this time, as if the first kiss has cracked open some dam to his self-control, and everything he’s been holding back is now spilling over at once. His hands slide to your waist, fingers digging in just enough to make your breath hitch. He pulls you flush against him, swallowing the small sound you make as he kisses you deeper, fuller, like he’s been starved for this—starved for you.

You fist the front of his shirt, dragging him closer, and he groans into your mouth, low and rough. The sound shoots straight through you and goes straight to your core. He tilts your head back, cradling it as his mouth slots against yours impatiently. When his tongue grazes yours, you answer him with a low moan, wrapping your arms around his neck and tugging at his hair.

He makes a sharp, pleased noise at that. You feel his smile against your lips—brief and crooked, making something between your legs ache. “Like that, huh?”

“Be quiet,” you huff. He only laughs before deepening the kiss again, his mouth claiming yours with an amused smile. 

Suddenly, an arm wraps tightly around your waist and hoists you closer—you can’t focus on it too much with the way he’s nipping at your bottom lip. It’s not until your back hits the wall that you even realize that he’s been moving you, walking to the short distance to the wall behind his desk with his arm curled around you, holding your weight like it’s nothing. One of his hands fiddles with something behind you—a click later, and you realize it’s a doorknob.

The door opens, and he quickly strides in with you in his grip. You pull away, panting, glancing around as you take in this new room. A bedroom, you realize—his bedroom. His gauntlets are there, in a corner, tools sprawled around them from the last time he spent tinkering away at them. You take in the simplicity of it, how there isn’t anything in here apart from his essentials. The bare necessities. 

“Is this your room?” you whisper. 

“Didn’t think I slept in the bunks with the inmates, did you?” he murmurs, gently setting you down on his bed as he hovers over you. “What’s the point of being a duke if I don’t get at least a few perks?”

“You should decorate the place more,” you murmur, “I’ll help.”

“Yeah?” he pecks your lips, “awfully nice of you, sweetheart.”

You tug him down by the collar, chasing his mouth when he breaks away to speak. He huffs a laugh, breath warm against your lips, and then he’s kissing you again—messy, hungry, more unrestrained now, like he’s finally given himself permission to want this as badly as you do.

His teeth catch your lower lip.

Your answering gasp is all the invitation he needs to bring his hand to your thigh, rubbing up and down the side of it as he groans into your mouth roughly when you tug at his hair some more. “Was this your plan all along?” he rasps, “get me in your bed?”

“This is your bed,” you point out, “and you brought me here.”

“You have a smart little mouth,” he grunts, angling your jaw up as he fixes you with a playfully stern look, “that’s insubordination, miss.”

“I think I need to be disciplined, your grace,” you say, giving him a cheeky little wink. 

He huffs out a disbelieving laugh, looking at you in awe and wonder before he shakes his head and brings your arms up, pinning them over your head as he presses kisses along your jaw. “You,” he murmurs between kisses, “are a handful.”

The moment he pulls back enough actually to look at you, though, something shifts. His breath hitches, barely perceptible, but there. His eyes glaze over with something as they take in the sight of you under him—you can’t quite make out what it is, but you know it makes you feel important. Special. Some sort of feeling that no one has quite made you feel before. Then his hands, firm a moment ago, loosen just slightly around your wrists, as if the reality of holding you like this suddenly hits him all at once.

You watch him swallow. His gaze flickers from your eyes to your mouth, then lower, before he willfully forces him to look up and direct his gaze to your forehead so he’s not looking into your eyes or downwards along your body. 

“What?” you whisper, a small smile curling at your lips.

“Nothing.” He clears his throat, though it comes out rougher than he means it to. “Just… you’re—” he cuts himself off abruptly, the unfinished thought hanging between you. He releases your wrists, carefully, like you’re something fragile that he’s only just realized he’s strong enough to break. His palms settle instead at your waist, hesitant in a way they weren’t before.

You tilt your head, watching him with growing curiosity. “You okay?”

“Course I am,” he huffs. “Just noticed you’re…very pretty. That’s all.”

“Only now?” you pout—but your lips are already curled into a cocky little grin. 

“Stop that,” he grumbles.

“Stop what?”

“You know what,” he huffs. 

You giggle, tugging him down by his stupidly loose tie and bringing his forehead against yours. His eyes are always icy blue, but they’re the brightest pools of warmth you’ve ever swam in, all the same. “You’re getting shy on me, you know.”

“Am not,” he argues.

“Are too,” you grin.

“Nope,” he all but pouts. His breath hitches as you untie his tie and fling it somewhere, slowly working at the buttons of his vest while he lets out a shaky breath over you. “You’re…sure about this?”

“I’m always sure about you,” you smile softly. He closes his eyes, breath stuttering for a moment as you pull off his shirt and vest, admiring the hard planes of muscle and the broadness of his physique. “You’re pretty, too, by the way.”

“You’re killing me,” he rasps. 

Undressing is an awkward ordeal. But endearing. Wriothesley struggles to kick off his boots, and unclasping your bra takes him a moment before he can tug it off—but finally, in between kisses and soft, amused giggles and breathy, embarrassed chuckles, you’re both bare and tangled in his sheets. 

He’s hard—his cock is thick and curved, and the tip leaks with the evidence of his arousal in the form of pre cum. You bring a hand between your bodies, gently smearing it with your thumb like a lubricant while he shivers and lets out a soft groan. 

“Fuck,” he hisses out, breathing harder as you wrap your hand around his girth. He stares down at where your touch meets him—and he’s more than a little dizzy by the way your hand can barely wrap around the full width of his thickness. 

“It’s…so big,” you murmur, staring in awe and disbelief. 

“You can’t just say that,” he groans. 

“Sorry,” you giggle, biting your lip as you give him an innocent smile.

“You’re not sorry even a little,” he huffs. Then his eyes flutter closed and his lips part in a low, shaky moan as you slowly move your hand and drag your palm along his length, stroking languidly while he buries his head into your neck. 

“I am,” you insist, kissing the side of his head sweetly, “here, I’ll even make it up to you.”

“Ngh—fuck,” he curses as your pace quickens, the friction of your hand gliding over the sensitive skin of his erection making his breaths come out unevenly. He’s pretty when he feels good—and Wriothesley is pretty and easy on the eye any time, of course, but when he’s bare and vulnerable and trusts you to witness him at his rawest, he is particularly beautiful. 

Your eyes can’t help but keep themselves glued on him—and he can’t help but notice and get more flustered. 

“Stop staring,” he grunts.

“What am I meant to look at then?” you huff, “the wall?”

“Close your eyes.”

“You’re unbelievable,” you shake your head with a snort. 

There’s a building ache between your bare legs, a wetness leaking and spreading down your inner thighs as you watch pleasure sprawl over his features and hear the sweet, delicate sounds of approval he makes when you touch him particularly right. 

Finally, his hand gently grasps onto your wrist as he stops you, panting and gritting his jaw as he murmurs, “O-okay—think…think we should get to…you know.”

“What?” you tease.

“The main part,” he glares weakly—and then, he spreads your legs and takes a closer look at your wet, needy cunt. “You want this just as badly—I can literally see it. Don’t be so smug, sweetheart.”

“Of course I want you,” you hum, “why wouldn’t I?” He shivers at that. Gives you a dazed look before he leans in and kisses you—almost like it’s more to distract himself than it is to distract you. 

(Wriothesley is endearing when he’s flustered. This is the conclusion that sex with him draws you to. When he fumbles through his side drawer to pull out a condom, and when he struggles to open the package, you are hopelessly endeared. And when he gives you a half-hearted glare as you giggle, you realize how endearing he also is when he is grumpy.)

“Ready?” he whispers, eyeing you good and hard once he finally lines up with your entrance. You nod, and he mumbles, “I need words, please, sweetness.”

“Ready,” you sigh fondly, “I want you. M’not backing out.” He takes a moment to look at you properly. Like he has to be sure you’re here and want this. With him. Wriothesley has brought you pain before—against his will, he’s made you ache and throb with soreness and harsh stings. He makes you ache again—this time, though, it’s a little different. It’s not because you carry his pain with him. It’s because that look he gives you makes your chest tighten and your heart ache all on its own accord. “I want you, Wrio,” you breathe, cupping his cheeks, “swear I do.”

Only then does he close his eyes, smiling softly as he nods and murmurs, “Lucky me. Got you all to myself—the universe said so. You’re all mine.”

“All yours,” you breathe. 

He presses the thick tip of his cock along your entrance, rubbing along your folds and collecting your wetness as you shiver. You gasp, and he chuckles softly at the fragile sound, pecking your lips as he murmurs, “Barely even done anything yet, sweetheart.”

“Then do something,” you click your teeth, wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him closer, pressing his pelvis closer. 

He swallows, whispering, “You’ll tell me if I hurt you, yeah?”

“You’ll feel it anyway,” you murmur, “quit your worry-warting and move.”

“So demanding, miss soulmate,” he chuckles. 

And then—finally—he pushes past your folds, pressing into you slowly, carefully, delicately. Wriothesley has a reputation. It’s a bit out of his control—people tend to see a prison warden as rough and strict, and people often mistake him for a brute with just a glance. You know better. You know him to be soft and sensitive and so caring, it’s almost unfair that he spends his time under waves of the ocean instead of up in the real world, where he can share his warmth. You know him as the kind man who feeds squirrels in Fontaine and pets stray cats in the alleyways. You know him as the gentle guy who holds doors open for children and lets them cut in line at the ice cream shop. You know him as the delicate boy who never wants to hurt you with his strength when he already feels waves of guilt for having brought you so much hurt all these years without meaning to. 

When he sinks into your tight, welcoming cunt, and stretches you open, you wonder how you went this long without him. How you survived without knowing him. How you lived this long without being tangled in his arms and being connected to him deep and close. 

He feels so right—so good. He curves into you so perfectly, stretches you apart, opens you up with his thickness, and presses the blunt head of his against a delicate, sensitive spot in your walls that makes your head spin. 

“W-wrio…” your breath hitches, “f-fuck—so deep,” you whine. 

“And you’re…so tight,” he groans, “shit, sweetheart—never felt so good before.”

You never dwelled on the reality of soulmates. Your mother and father were lucky enough to meet each other—you know that soulmates are real before Wriothesley’s pain is ever yours because you watch them love. You watch them nurture you, the byproduct of that love, with so much care and diligence. You don’t need the proof of your own soulmate to know that they are real and they exist. 

For the longest time, you know nothing about Wriothesley apart from the fact that he exists. You’ve only ever known that he was yours. That one day, if you were lucky, you’d find him. It never occurred to you that once you did find him, you’d realize how incomplete you’ve always been. How everything was there, but there was no one to share it with. Now that he’s here, pressed into you deep into you, you wonder how you’ll ever disconnect. How you’ll ever part from feeling so whole and complete. 

His hips move—he pulls almost all the way out before slamming back into you, hard and rough but still careful enough that it doesn’t hurt you. It blinds you with a pleasure that burns through your spine and finds every nerve. It makes a soft, pleasant ache start to form at the pit of your stomach, building up stronger and stronger with every roll of his hips and every drag of his cock along your walls. 

The friction makes you sob, curling your nails into his shoulders as you whimper, “S’good, Wrio—so…so good, please don’t stop.”

“Now why would I do that?” he grunts, moaning when your walls flutter around him and squeeze tight. “Why would I stop feeling my precious girl?”

Your head spins more at that—precious girl. Wriothesley is smooth about calling you things like that. He calls you something affectionate so casually that sometimes you almost mistake your own name for a sweet, loving pet name. Sweetheart. Sweetness. Precious girl. Sometimes, when he’s feeling particularly sentimental, he calls you honey. When he’s in a playful mood, he likes to say miss soulmate. (You ask him why he says it once, and he tells you, it’s because I like reminding you you’re my soulmate. And I like saying it out loud, too. Makes it more real.)

You like it when he calls you things that remind you that you’re his. You like being his. It’s your favorite thing to be—the thing that takes burdens off your shoulder and lets you simply exist without having something to prove. Something to offer. You like being so easy for someone to care about you, it feels like it happens for no other reason than just because it’s natural to do so. 

“Faster,” you plead. 

“Anything you want, precious,” he breathes. “You—hah—you are so beautiful. You know that?”

A hand moves up your thigh and travels to that delicate spot between your legs—and then you throw your head back and mewl as he finds your clit and rubs circles with that rough, calloused pad of his thumb. You’re sensitive—every brush against the bundle of nerves sends a jolt of pleasure that has you hurdling towards your end. 

“Close,” you rasp, “Wrio…m’so c-close.”

“Yeah, sweetheart? Is that right?” he asks, his own voice shaky enough that you gather it must be the case for him, too. His pace has become sloppy enough that he must be near the edge himself, as well.

“Mhm,” you nod, biting your lip and letting out a soft, drawn-out moan as he sinks deeper into you and presses right against your sweet spot. 

“Me…me too—come with me, okay? Want…want you to finish with me,” he pleads. His thumb is merciless against your clit—it rubs smooth, unpausing circles and builds you up to your release with one, then two, and then a third thrust of his hips. 

Your vision all but goes white as you fall apart. Your back arches, and he curls an arm around you and brings you flush against him, kissing you rough and hard and needy. You swallow each other’s sounds as your walls flutter around him and his cock twitches inside of you, letting warm rope after rope of thick seed spill into the plastic that separates you. 

“Fuck,” you both hiss. 

“Sweetheart,” he breathes, “you…you’re so perfect. Know that? Huh?” He kisses along your jaw. They’re wet, messy kisses, pressed into your skin with a drunken, hazy sense of control as you milk his cock for every last drop of his release. 

“C’mere,” you beg, “closer.”

“M’right here,” he murmurs, “fuck, m’not going anywhere. Ever.”

And then he collapses beside you once he’s fucked you both through the last few waves of your orgasms. He pulls you against him, wrapping two strong, muscled arms around you and tangling your body with his. 

“That was nice,” you whisper. 

“That was your plan all along,” he accuses, “you never wanted to just make out.”

You giggle, beaming up at him. “Guilty. Will I serve a sentence, your grace?”

“Life in prison,” he gives you a faux stern look, “directly under my supervision.”

“Doesn’t sound so bad,” you hum, “serving down here with you. I think I’d live.” 

For a while, it’s quiet. You bask in the afterglow of him and you and the skin that melts you both together. And then, his voice carries through the space that hardly exists between you both. 

“I served down here,” he mumbles. “Bet you already knew that—you probably have better access to legal documents than me.”

“I’ve seen a paper or two,” you admit. 

“You’re rather calm regarding my history,” he says carefully.

“I guess I just…always had a feeling things played out the way they did. I remember it,” you whisper, tracing the skin of his chest, feeling the scars from memory. “The night you killed your parents. I felt it, y’know?”

His breath stills. You’re sure he’s not surprised—it was nothing short of vicious, the fight he’d put up. You’re sure he remembers better than you how it felt in every nerve ending. You don’t think anyone could ever forget. 

The truth is that you’d known about his court case long before you pieced together he was your soulmate. It’s a case most people in your line of work know about. A popular case that opened up a popular investigation into chains of corrupted institutions for children. Places led and controlled by people who have intentions to do anything but keep the less fortunate children of Fontaine safe. Most people in your field consider him a hero of sorts—a boy who sacrificed his freedom to make a change the justice system wouldn’t. 

You think Wriothesley is troubled. He was as a child, and in some ways, he is now. You wish he could have been like other boys and girls, that he could be like other men and women. You wish life was kinder to him so that his circumstances never had to feel like the extremes were the only way out. 

You wish Wriothesley could have had a good life. You wish Fontaine and those who uphold its justice hadn’t failed him every chance he had to get one. 

He doesn’t look at you for a while. His gaze stays focused on the ceiling as he swallows. “The night I killed my foster parents maybe wasn’t my proudest moment.”

“Maybe not,” you agree, moving your hand to grab his, lacing your fingers together. “But I think you’ve had a proud moment or two since then.”

He stays silent. For a long time, Wriothesley is silent. You don’t think he’ll say anything else, so you close your eyes, slowly drifting off to sleep against his chest when his voice rumbles in your ear. Low. Hesitant. 

“I don’t regret it,” is all he says. 

You crack an eye open, tilting your head up. “Killing them?”

“Setting the kids free,” he corrects. “No one else would have done it. That was the only way I could think of. I felt like they deserved it.”

“How about now?”

“Well. Still think they deserve it,” he mumbles. “But…I would do it differently now.”

“That’s because you can,” you point out, “you have the connections and the resources to do things the ‘right’ way.”

“Think so?” he cracks a grin—small, but there. 

“I do believe you hold some authority, you grace,” you chuckle. He doesn’t say anything else—just laughs softly and kisses your forehead. You fall asleep lulled by his fingers along your back and the smell of his faint cologne. 

────────────────────────

Wriothesley has a habit of throwing himself into the ring when things get hard. It was the only outlet he had down here in the fortress for the most part when he served—the only way for him to break a sweat and get his energy poured into something. And maybe get in a few good hits to anyone who’d been giving him a hard time. But, well…some habits just stick. They’re hard to grow out of. 

Nowadays, being in the ring is more or less a matter of keeping in shape. At least, that’s what he tells himself, anyway—he knows it’s no coincidence that when his mind is particularly heavy, he spends more time hitting a punching bag with taped fists. He’s always had a high pain tolerance. The sore muscles in his arms and the sting of his knuckles ground him half the time more than they do hurt him. 

He wonders if he’s grown accustomed to pain because it’s been the only constant in his life, or if it’s because he simply deserves it. 

“Wrio,” he hears a soft voice call, pausing him from throwing his next punch. He drops his form, straightening his back as he looks over his shoulder. It’s you, of course. It had to be even before he’d registered your voice—only one person is allowed at the pankration ring at this hour (him) and only one person gets away with breaking his rules (you). 

“What’re you doin’ here, sweetheart?” he tilts his head a few times to crack his neck, “you’re supposed to be in bed.”

“So are you.”

“Got a little restless, is all,” he says vaguely. 

“You’re tired,” you raise an unimpressed brow, “and that poor bag has had enough—it never did anything to you.”

“I’m not tired yet,” he denies. (He is. Even for his standards, his arms and shoulders are rather tense and sore. He’s pushed himself further than usual. He bets you would know because you can feel it.)

“You can’t lie to me when I can feel the same things as you,” you huff, rubbing sleep from your eyes. “You’re too young to have stiff shoulders, y’know.”

His eyes soften with guilt before he lets out a heavy sigh and lets his shoulders drop. You walk over, standing behind him as your arms wrap around his midsection and your nose buries into the bare skin of his back. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he lies. 

“Wriothesley,” you say flatly. 

“Just a busy week,” he says half-heartedly. “Seriously, I’m fine. So…just drop it.”

“Okay,” you sigh, too tired from your sleep being interrupted to put up a proper fight. You kiss his back, and he melts a little at the gesture, limbs loosening up even more. “You’ll talk to me if you need to?”

“Yeah,” he whispers, “I’ll come find you if I need it.”

Wriothesley is aware that you know he won’t. Not of his own free will. He doesn’t talk about his feelings or share his burdens because then he’s no longer in control of his image. The less strong of an image he has, the more innocent and frail he seems. The more innocent and frail he seems, the more likely it is that he’ll be taken advantage of. 

It’s not that Wriothesley doesn’t trust you, or that he thinks you’ll take advantage of him. You won’t. He trusts that much. You’re the only good thing that’s his. But muscle memory is muscle memory. 

Some habits just stick. And they’re hard to grow out of. 

You gently shuffle to stand in front of him, wrapping your arms to rest around his neck now. His hands find your hips. “Let’s go to bed,” you whisper, pulling him down so his forehead rests against yours. “If you’re really that energetic, I’ll tire you out some other way.”

“Yeah?” he cracks a grin. 

“Mmh,” you hum. 

“Then lead the way, sweetness,” he chuckles. 

(In the end, he’s out like a light as soon as his head finds that comfortable place against your chest. He’s sure you’ll tease him for it as soon as he feels himself start to drift off, but he thinks it’s worth it when he feels your fingers card through his hair.)

────────────────────────

Sometimes, you forget Wriothesley can feel your pain just as much as you feel his. Your whole life has been spent so focused on how often he endures suffering compared to you, that you forget to focus on your own. 

He doesn’t forget to focus on you, though. He never does. He’s one deep scowl and a hand on his hips away from making that known. 

“With a headache like that, I’m surprised you’re still conscious, let alone finishing paperwork,” he clicks his teeth.

You glance up and give him a tired look when you register his words. 

“I just need to finish these up and get them out of the way so they don’t haunt me—”

“No, you need sleep. And maybe a proper meal,” he interrupts. 

“But—”

“No buts. Let’s go.” Before you can protest any further, he has you lifted and settled in his arms as he drags you to your bed from your desk. 

You learn quickly on that Wriothesley doesn’t like spending nights apart. He’s grown too used to your presence. On nights you can’t come down to the Fortress, his simple solution is just to come spend the night up at the surface. You can’t pretend like you aren’t relieved by his presence yourself—one night without him makes for a terrible night of sleep. And maybe a worse headache the next day. 

He shuffles through your apartment with a sense of familiarity that makes your heart full, even if your head is pounding. You nuzzle into the crook of his neck as he walks with you carefully tucked against him. 

“You give me headaches,” he mumbles, “literally.”

“S’only fair,” you yawn, “you’ve put me through worse.” Your words have no bite to them. Nothing more than a good-natured quip. You’d go through worse in a heartbeat for him.

He smiles fondly, sighing as he kisses the side of your head. “Yeah,” he whispers, “guess that’s true.”

────────────────────────

Sex is a complicated topic for Wriothesley. 

It’s a topic he’s been thinking about more lately. The more that sex happens between the two of you, the more he’s starting to realize that it’s a complicated topic for him.  

Although if he’s being honest, what he engages with you can hardly be considered just sex. It’s intimacy. Wriothesley has never partaken in intimacy before you. Sex, though? Plenty of times. Sometimes, it was more for survival than his own desires, and sometimes it was simply because he was a growing, curious boy with needs and wants. Sometimes, a quick fuck got him what he needed for survival much quicker when he was still a prisoner. Sometimes, a quick fuck got him through his pent-up emotions better than sitting and processing them.

Whatever the case may be, Wriothesley has always had just sex because it was just that. Sex that has a purpose—some purposes less sanitized than others, but a purpose all the same. 

But being intimate is something different from having just sex. When Wriothesley is having just sex, he can put on an air of cockiness. He can play into what people want, slip into whatever role they carved out for him—innocently sweet and naive, or dangerously charming and experienced, sometimes even a little rough and a little wicked. He can wear confidence like a mask, sharpen his smile into something rakish, tilt his chin just right, and say the things he knows people want to hear. 

He can disconnect. He can keep his heart out of it. He can survive it.

Intimacy, though? Intimacy is different. It demands that he stay honest, not perform. That he be soft. That he be seen.

With you, there’s no room for the cocky smirk or the confident swagger. And he tries—he really, really tries—but the moment your hands are on him with care instead of expectation, the moment you kiss him like he’s precious instead of convenient, the moment your eyes are fond instead of just lustful, his whole front crumbles. 

The mask doesn’t fit. The persona slips. The smooth, practiced words get stuck in his throat.

He’s clumsy with intimacy in a way he never was with just sex. His touches hesitate. His breath stutters when your fingers thread through his hair. He keeps searching your face like he’s waiting for the moment you change your mind, like he’s terrified you’ll see too much of him and walk away. Vulnerability of this kind turns him quiet, nervous, almost boyish in a way he hates himself for, and yet can’t seem to stop.

With you, he’s not performing. With you, he can’t.

You’re not just hoping he touches you for your own pleasure—and you don’t want to touch him back just to indulge your own wicked fantasies. You care about how he feels, how it is for him more than it is for you. You care about his experience with affection and gentleness. 

The more that you and Wriothesley are intimate, the more he opens himself up to gentleness. And Wriothesley has never known what to do with gentleness. 

He doesn’t know how to accept it. Not ever since the day he realized it came with a heavy price that he could never afford. (And how could he afford you? You are so patient and happy to have him, so willing despite knowing his past and the horrors of his crimes, despite enduring the agony he put you through physically. Your affection, of all things, should come with the highest of prices.)

“Did it bother you growing up?” he whispers, tracing your hip bone with his thumb as you lie against his bare chest. You like cuddling after intimacy. He likes it, too. You curl against him in his dark bedroom, bare and sleepy and satisfied, and for a moment, he feels normal. Like you’re not with him under the literal ocean. Like he’s not an ex-convict who now sees over other convicts. Like he’s not the guy who made you feel sharp kicks and deep bruises all your life. 

“What?” you hum. 

“You know what,” he huffs. You give him an earnestly confused shake of your head, and he sighs. He decides that perhaps you are being honest and not purposely dense just to make him properly communicate his feelings. “The pain,” he mutters. “It didn’t bother you that I was always bringing you pain?”

“It did,” you say bluntly. He tenses under you. You gently press a kiss to his chest as if to soothe him, like you’ve already read his mind. “Not for the reasons you might think, though.”

“Oh?” he arches a brow, “then do enlighten me, miss soulmate. How exactly did it bother you that I’m not gathering here?”

You roll your eyes. It’s affectionate. 

Wriothesley misses that. He misses affection in the simple forms he once knew—Mother’s fond eye-roll, the way she’d sigh and grab a handkerchief to clean the chocolate smeared at the corner of his mouth after Father brought home treats. The way she’d bend down and wipe the smudges away as she’d gently scold, You’ve got to be more careful, ▇▇! Heavens know what other people would think if they saw you so filthy. Whatever would you do without me? The way she’d sigh and pull him into a hug, kissing his cheeks when he’d pouted at being lectured. 

Mother was always so soft—he still wonders, sometimes, how anyone could possibly fake so much gentleness. Some of it had to have been real, right? Just a fraction? A small morsel? It had to be, hadn’t it? Even if he wasn’t worth loving long enough to keep, he must have at least been worth loving for that temporary time she showed him that affection.

If only he were worth more than a pretty sum of mora. If only he could have made Mother fond enough of him that keeping him was worth more than selling him off like some animal on the market, a piece of meat to butcher and cut open and devour with filthy, disgusting hands. 

Affection has always cost him something. Some price that is not worth paying. His innocence, his freedom, his life. You are the only person who affords him affection without any price. And how funny, he thinks—that the one person capable of it is the one person meant for him, decided by fate. He wonders then, that if there was no such thing as fate and divinity, if he’d be worthy of any affection at all. If you are the one person the world has granted him because it is their begrudging duty to assign him another half. If you alone are a miracle that he was lucky enough to be allowed by Celestia, as they smiled down on him out of a single, twisted instance of mercy. 

He can’t dwell on it too long before you’re cupping his cheek and pulling him out of his thoughts, pressing a kiss to his lips. His breath hitches for a moment—he forgets sometimes that can do this whenever he wants. He can kiss you. Claim your affection. Feel the proof of it for himself. He presses into you harder, desperately trying to swallow down as much of it for free as he can in case one day, this too has a price that is out of his means. 

“It never bothered me to carry your pain,” you whisper against his mouth, “though I won’t lie—it did hurt,” you chuckle. You peck his lips before he can say anything in response. “It bothered me that it was your reality. I couldn’t understand why it was like that—how different we were.”

“You shouldn’t have had to try to understand it,” he mumbles, “if you weren’t stuck to me, you’d have—”

“Mwah,” you cut him off, pressing a loud kiss to his mouth. “Don’t say that, silly. I’m not stuck with you.”

He blinks before he huffs out a soft snort, shaking his head in disbelief. “Silencing me with a kiss isn’t going to—”

“Mwah!” You kiss him again, theatrically louder this time as you giggle. 

“If you keep kissing me when I say self-deprecating things, it’ll only condition me to say them more,” he warns. 

“Then I’ll kiss you after you say anything,” you hum. “Then you’ll only bother saying the nice things since you might as well.” 

“I don’t know if that’s how it works—”

“Mwah!” You kiss again. 

He laughs, pulling you impossibly closer before he tilts your face up, cupping your cheek with a large hand that practically swallows your face entirely as he kisses you. Hard. You hum against his lips, eyes fluttering shut as you kiss him back. As if kissing him is enjoyable. As if someone like him was worthy of your time and affection and touch. As if someone of his status is worth tangling your life with, despite being who he is and where he is from. 

“Wrio,” you murmur, trying to pull away from his needy lips. 

“Mmh,” he mumbles, bridging the gap every time you try to create it. You giggle, gently stroking through his hair before delicately tugging at the strands to pry him away. He caves, sighing before he pulls away, grumpy as he stares at you, dazed. “What?” he frowns.

“I would have taken your pain for myself if I could,” you whisper, “if it meant you didn’t have to live like that. Feeling it was never the issue. You should know that.”

“You’re insane,” he breathes, “now c’mere.”

He moves to kiss you again—but instead, you cup both of his cheeks and force him to look you in the eyes. “You didn’t deserve to feel it all either.”

“I know that,” he mutters, frowning. (He is grouchy when he’s vulnerable. He’s known that from a young age. Feeling weak fills him with a sense of anger and disgust that makes him lash out. Maybe he’s angry with himself for being so weak. Or perhaps at the world for making him that way. He doesn’t know. All he knows is that it makes him want to become bigger. Stronger. More untouchable. Whether it’s through bloodied gauntlets in his childhood living room or some bulked-up muscle in the pankration ring, he is always trying to seem stronger.)

“And you deserve someone to carry everything with you,” you continue. “You know that too, right?”

“Course I do,” he grunts, not meeting your eyes, “what’s the point of saying all this?”

“The point,” you say firmly, “is that you start believing you can have nice things.”

“I have nice things,” he says petulantly. “Got a decently good income and…and my title is literally Duke, and I got you—I have a pretty lady that’s all for me, don’t I? You wound me, sweetheart. Are you trying to say I don’t have anything nice because I live under the sea or something—”

“Wrio,” you say softly. “Please.”

He deflates. 

Wriothesley has always kept a respectful distance away from people. His colleagues and this prison are all his home. His family. But he keeps a respectful distance. It’s the smartest option. Because distance is what keeps him most safe. What keeps people close enough that he’s never truly alone, but not close enough that they are people he can lose and suffer the loss of. But distance is difficult to maintain in an intimate relationship, though—distance is impossible to keep for longer than a small period of time.

Wriothesley is realizing that, slowly but surely—that no distance means having all the hard conversations. The ones that make him feel so raw and vulnerable, it’s like he’s peeling his skin straight off and exposing his bones and tissue. 

He takes a moment, focuses real hard on tracing the skin of your arm rather than meeting your eyes before he mumbles, “Yeah. Fine.”

“I don’t want you to feel guilty,” you say softly. 

“S’not a feeling I can just turn off,” he shrugs. 

“Yes,” you agree, “it’s not. But we can talk about it when your mind goes there.”

“I don’t like talking.”

“But you like me,” you smile, “and I like you, too. And if we want to like each other and make it work, we have to do that thing you don’t like where we talk about our feelings. Communicate. Do that couple-y sort of stuff. Yeah?”

You’re right about one thing—Wriothesley likes you. He likes everything about you. He likes hearing you talk and listening to your voice. He likes learning about you and the things you like. He likes looking at you and the way you smile or laugh. He likes everything. He even likes the way you add too much sugar to the tea he brews up for you (even if you don’t properly enjoy its flavor that way). He likes having you. Likes being able to say you’re his—not because he doesn’t want to share you with the world, but because he wants to have something he can keep. Something that isn’t here one second and gone the next. Something that was meant for him, so he can have it and never have to exchange it for something else because the universe only lets him have one good thing at a time. 

But Wriothesley also knows that things are just a set way for a guy like him. Not all people are created equal. Some people are blessed and lucky and can have a good life. Others are simply there to serve as a reminder that those people should count their blessings unless they want to end up like the others. 

He’s one of the others. And you’re one of the blessed. And sometimes…well, sometimes he wonders if it’s better that you stay in your blessed little bubble of a world instead of getting caught up in the whirlwind that is him. And his life. And his terrible, awful luck. 

He’d love it if he could save you the trouble of mingling with someone like him and realizing you were made for something better. And maybe, a little selfishly, he’d love it if he could save himself some heartache in the process and lose you before it would wreck him completely. He feels like he deserves that much—feels like he’s helped enough people and atoned enough for some of his darker sins that he should be able to just hold onto the stability he’s built himself. Sure, he’s not exactly fulfilled or happy, but he’s not exactly miserable or suffering. 

He’ll take that minimal win happily. 

You…you are everything he’s dreamed of. Maybe more. Maybe even more than more. You could very easily leave him miserable and suffering—not because you’re bad and you want to hurt him, but because he’s one of the others. And you’re one of the blessed. And things just work out a certain way for people like him versus people like you. 

You kiss his thoughts away again. Kiss his lips all soft and sweet and filled with a certain amount of adoration he doesn’t know he’s earned. (But he’ll take it. He’s not above something soft and sweet and just for him.)

“Your head is not a very nice place,” you murmur, tapping his forehead. “I can tell. It’s being mean to you.”

He laughs at that, raising an amused brow. “Yeah? Think so?”

“Yeah,” you hum. “In my head,” you move your finger to now trace his chest, running your fingers through the hair that litters his skin, “you’re just a good boy who did some bad things. And you’re trying to be good now, see? You reformed a whole prison! Very good. I think that we can work with that.”

“Good boy,” he repeats in disbelief, “you’re talking to me like I’m a dog?”

You pet his head teasingly. “Such a good boy.”

His face lights up as he suddenly gets an idea—you watch it in real time, the scheming look in his eyes. In an instant, he’s grabbing your wrist as he pulls it against his lips and murmurs, “Careful,” before gently nibbling at your inner wrist, “I might bite.”

“No!” you shriek, letting out a series of giggles, “no, don’t bite, please! I have treats! Spare me!”

He shakes his head, fighting back a lopsided grin. “Unbelievable,” he huffs, “you’re unbelievable.” 

“I’m not,” you brush back his hair. “If you just believe me, you’ll feel a lot better.”

“Yeah? What should I believe then, miss soulmate?”

“That we’re good together,” you murmur, “and that we’ll be fine. And that we deserve each other—as in you deserve this, too. Just trust me on that.”

He lets out a soft, heavy breath. Not all people are created the same in Fontaine. In fact, they aren’t in any nation. But all soulmates love each other the same—and this time, the way you look at him is not the same picture-perfect, falsified look from Mother. Or the same deceivingly kind, careful words from Father. 

These are real. He can work with that. 

“Okay,” he pretends to cave, shoving his face into your neck. You let him hide away in there. Let him keep that fragile look in his eyes hidden from view. “M’trusting you on that. Deceiving the Duke is punishable by ten years in prison, miss.”

“Yes, sir,” you smile, stroking his hair. “I am no rule breaker, you see. I’m a law-abiding citizen.”

“Good. I’ll hold you to that.”

“Wanna talk about what’s on your mind?” you offer softly. 

He hesitates. And then he decides that maybe he can afford nice things—the Fortress has granted him a pretty amount of mora these days, anyway. “Yeah,” he murmurs, “maybe not this second, though. But we’ll talk about it.”

He can practically see your smile even if he can’t look. “Okay,” you murmur, “fine by me. We have plenty of time, baby.”

Your arms wrap tighter around him. Perhaps this is Fontaine. Perhaps this is the nation of justice. Perhaps he has found his justice in your arms, feeling your warm skin against his as you erase every memory of pain from his body where you and he touch.

"God damn the god or gods or whatever creature made the curvature of your ass and damn you for wearing those leather pants." Jason thought as he sat on his bike behind yours while waiting for a stoplight to turn green. Had it been thirty seconds or an hour, he doesn't know.

He'd been behind you for a few streets, the way you handle your bite is impressive and you have this badass little chain on your jeans, to hold yoir wallet or to just look cool he didnt know but either way it's working. He'd definitely mark you down as cool in his book, definitely a chick he'd be slightly intimidated to approach at a bar.

"Come on light, change for Fuck's sake- Shit! She's looking at you. Oh my god she nodded. Act calm, Act calm Jason. Should I nod? Yeah, I should do something to acknowledge her." He gives you a quick thumbs up before gazing back at the light.

"Jesus, Jason! What was that? A thumbs up? Are you a moron? Well who gives a shit I guess, right? I probably wont see her ever again. Youre a fuckin moron, Todd." He scolds himself, his heart feelijg lighter quickly once the light turns green, zooming down the street as you turned the corner.

About ten minutes of driving passed and he was finally here, Ziggy's aka a small but not too small bar in the downtown area where he liked to meet up with friends and have a few beers.

"Only took you forever, Jaybird." Roy says as he sees Jason walk in and sit down at their table. He hears footsteps behind him and quickly turns seeing the girl from the stop light. God she's hot an a total badass.

"Sorry, I'm late, had to make a few pitstops." You said before taking off your helmet and setting it on the table infront of you. Jason's eyes nearly bulged out of his head as he saw you. You look so innocent and sweet, like a sweet kitten only dressed up to look scary.

"Oh yeah, this is my friend Y/N. She hasn't been out in a while, long story with her shitty ex boyfriend...anyways, Y/N, Jason, Jason, this is Y/N." Roy stated as he secretly totally planned this as a set up, your boyfriend was a complete asshole and Jason had also just recently got away from a shitty girlfriend.

"Yeah." Jason clear his throat. "I saw you at the light." "Shit, why did I say that?"

"Oh! Yeah, I remember, The thumbs up guy." Your mouth brightens into a smile as you give him a thumbs up, Roy mouthing to Jason with a shiteating grin of his own "a thumbs up?"

"Yep, that's me." Jason says as he just decides to eat his actions and live up to it, wishing it wasn't so hot in here.

"It's a little hot in here, should I get us some drinks?" You ask with that cute little glint in your eyes thats making Jason's heart leap and swoon, the one thing thats gonna make him make a fool of himself tonight. As you leave he gives Roy a look that says "Please save me, I'm a complete moron."

"It's alright, Jaybird. Calm down, she totally digs it. I've told her about you before and how you fix bikes and shit. She's got a vintage Harley she want's help with and I think you could totally be her man on it." He says before popping his gum nonchalantly, again like he didnt ochestrate this entire night.

"Roy mentioned you drink coke and whiskey so I got you one, myself and Vodka Redbull I couldn't drink even if I wanted for Roy." You smile and sit down beside Roy and across fron Jason. "God, please quit smiling. I cant handle it. Get ahold of yourself, Jason. Talk to her about motor bikes. Yeah, good idea."

"So you- Um- You- Harley- Bike?" Jason fumbles over his words like a man learning English but you thankfully understand him and make no comment to tease him which he appreciates a ton.

"Oh, yeah. I guess Roy told you about that. Yeah, I have a old Harley one of my dad's bestfriends gifted to me when he passed away but it's got problems and I don't really know what I'm looking at." Your brows furrowed a bit with confusion as you thought about the bike, so adorable. He found himself hanging on every word you said but feeling like he's retaining almost nothing as he's oh so content with just the sound of your voice and your sweet adorable face.

Roy smirks to himself realizing how quickly Jason's got down bad for you and how he has barely even touched his drink. It's nice to see his two best friends having such a good time after being with such shitty people.

Its about one o'clock and your watch goes off. "Oh, Shit. Um, Time flies doesn't it?" You ask as you stand up, Jason's eyes trailing over your face as he goes over the entire conversation in his mind, remembering almost everything you said now.

"You want me to walk her out, Jason? It's dark out." Roy days still very nonchalant about the whole situation but inside he's clapping for himself and his idea, patting himself on the back.

"Oh, Um- Don't forget your helmet." Jason said as he went to hand you it, his fingers grazing yours cause his arms to feel electric with goosebumps and his face to slightly turn pink. "Let me walk you out." he said as he placed a hand on your lower back, giving a bit of a stink eye to any man who had even a thought to look at you with anything less but innocence or purity.

You got out to your bike, putting you helmet on and leg over your motorcycle. Putting your visor up on your helmet due to how dark it is around here due to the time of night. Before you revved your bike a bit to get it "ready to go" but mainly to impress him.

"Wait- Wait, you need your bike fixed, right? Gimme your number and we can find a good time to meet up and I could look you over. I- I mean her, er um it." His face was hot again, what is it about those innocent puppy dog eyes of your had him stubbling all night? He reached for his phone and your reached for a marker, pushing the sleeve of his jacket up before writing your number on his arm.

"In case you lose your phone." He wasnt gonna lose his phone, you both knew that but to you there was something more intimate and romantic about writing your digits on someones arm and besides if it smudges he can just get it from Roy. "See you later." You smiled before giving him a little thumbs up at a nod to earlier at the stop light before peeling off, Jason's heart hammered and leaped as he stoof there dumbfounded.

"I knew it. I knew you two seemed like you'd be good together." Roy gloats with a smirk. "Roy one, Universe none. Face it, Im the best wingman in the world."

"Shut up, you are not." Jason shoves him playfully even though Roy knows he's head over heels and it's just been a feel drinks and a single night and he's right.

[Dick]

“Nightwing,”

Dick choked on his own spit. “NIGHTWING?!” He sputtered.

“He’s just so sexy. I don’t know what to tell you Dickie. He’s such a sweetie. And there’s something about the way he moves. I just get so starstruck when he’s around,”

“When he— When has Nightwing been aroun—”

And suddenly he remembered all those times he thought he was being sneaky, stalking secretly walking you home from the rooftops whenever you got off work at night.

Shit. Did you see him? Maybe once or twice? Was it more? Have you been aware that a whole ass vigilante has been practically stalking you? And you were okay with that?

Maybe you just thought his patrol route lined up with your way home.

But he didn’t have any more time to ponder this as you JUST KEPT GOING OH MY GOD.

“And damnn, have you seen his butt?” you whistled, “His suit is so tight. Sooo tight.” You emphasized.

Dick’s face was redder than a tomato at this point. Someone kill him now. Stephanie looked like she just won aforementioned lottery.

“He’s out here single-handedly keeping the entire ass city of Blüdhaven safe, all while looking like he was sculpted by Michelangelo or something. Literally gorgeous. And I heard he saved a puppy one time. A puppy, Dick. It’s like he was written by a woman. I’d be stupid to NOT tap that sweet ass.”

Suddenly, and probably his brain trying to cope with the mortification, all sorts of filthy fantasies were crossing his mind of you, him, and the Nightwing suit. Why did that sound so hot?

Imagine him coming home, not even shedding the sweaty suit as he made a beeline for you. Imagine dry humping while he’s still suited up. God.

Imagine the hero Nightwing bending an innocent little civilian over the table because you just wanted to thank him for keeping you safe. You’ll do anything for him, anything he wants *wink wink*…

Goddammit Dick! Not in front of The Children (his grown ass siblings lmao).

“Well, looks like Dickhead doesn’t mind,” Jason teased as he nudged his older brother with his elbow, knocking him out of his horny daze.

“Oh, he’s totally down for a threesome with Nightwing, Y/n,” Tim added devilishly.

“Shut up both of you!” Dick’s face literally could not get any hotter.

He hid his face in his hand as the rest of the party descended into giggles. You among them.

Poor Dickie. You’ll have to put him out of his misery and tell him that you know his secret after tonight. And then maybe you will get to tap that.

[Jason]

“Red Hood,”

…Jason was confused. Why would you pick him. What?

“Red Hood?”

Where was all his bravado when he needed it?

“Yeah, Red Hood,” you puffed out your chest in pride, “He’s like legitimately the coolest out of all the bats!”

“No he’s not,” Jason said exasperatedly, “You’re biased because he saved you that one time.”

It was a weird night for him. He couldn’t say he wasn’t pissed to all hell when he caught you getting fucking mugged in an alleyway, but he did enjoy the way you looked at him like he was your hero. Your knight in shining armor. Or knight in a beat up leather jacket and red helmet.

“No, I’m right. Not just because he beat up those goons for me.” you crossed your arms, “Those other vigilantes wish they were as cool as Red Hood. Batman wishes he was as cool as Red Hood,”

“He’s done a lot of bad things,” was all Jason could think to say.

“Antiheroes are sick as fuck, Jay. And he’s sexy as fuck too.”

Oh really now? He could almost roll his eyes.

“You don’t even know what his face looks like,” he scoffed.

“I don’t have to. Have you heard his voice when he talks to reporters? It’s like honey. Hot honey, Jason. I just know he’s gorgeous under that stuffy helmet. Oh! I bet his helmet hair is sexy too.”

Jesus Christ. Jason took a deep breath to center himself. You did not just say. All of that.

“Man, I hope that next time I get mugged he puts that sexy leather jacket around my shoulders,”

Your boyfriend just stared at you, willing the veins to not pop out of his forehead.

“You okay there, Jason?” Duke asked in fake concern, patting him on the back.

“Yeah, you’re looking a little.. Red,”

Oh, Jason was going to kill Tim for that one.

Forget them, there’s something more important on his mind now, “There will not be a ‘next time you get mugged’, Y/n,” he said annoyed.

“Oh sure there will. We live in Gotham,” you waved your hand in dismisal.

Lord have mercy on his soul.

Looks like ‘Red Hood’ was going to have to pay you a visit to have a little chat about safety. Again.

And maybe it’ll be as Jason, your boyfriend. If he can work up the courage. Maybe. Maybe it won’t be as bad as he’s been making it out in his head. If your staunch defense of him tonight proved anything. Maybe you’ll love Red Hood too. He won’t have to hide that part of himself anymore. He’d give you all of him, if you would take it.

[Tim]

“Red Robin,”

“Ooooh,” the siblings chorused.

Tim was unexpectedly quiet, however.

“…That’s an interesting choice.” he sounded weirdly calm, lost in thought as his eyes flickered like he was calculating something, “Red Robin,” he said it more to himself than anything.

Not exactly the embarrassed reaction you were hoping for. You were kinda confused, “What do you mean?”

“Well it’s just that he’s not exactly popular, you know? Like, you could’ve chosen Nightwing. That would be the obvious choice here. Everyone loves Nightwing,”

You pretended to not hear Dick scoff at that.

“Well, I don’t love Nightwing,” you said and also pretended to not hear the little wounded noise Dick made at that, and then the sound of the air getting knocked out of his lungs as Jason jabbed him in the stomach.

“So why Red Robin?”

“Well, again, sorry to Nightwing, but Red’s my favorite Robin. He’s just objectively the best.”

“Objectively?”

You started listing off reasons on your fingers, “He’s the smartest of the bunch, he’s the most successful, he’s the prettiest—“

“All of those things are highly debatable,” Jason interjected.

You shook your head, “Look, we’re lucky he hasn’t chose to go rogue because he’d be an incredibly powerful supervillain. He’d be unstoppable. And he’s my Robin. So really. There’s no denying it,”

“Your Robin?”

“Yeah, My Robin,” you fiddled with the bracelet on your wrist, that Tim recognized as the tracker he secretly put on you.

He knew if he gave you something, you’d never take it off. And sue him, he likes knowing where you are at all times. Helps soothe his anxiety about letting you roam around Gotham as you please.

It alerts him if you stray along an unusual path (dangerous) or stay in one place too long (also dangerous). Not your home or work or any of the shops and cafes you frequented. Just like. If you stay on a side street too long, then something’s happening. And he needs to know that immediately.

Seeing your little icon on the map safe and sound in your home was a comfort to him. Sometimes he’d fall asleep watching the unmoving icon.

“He’s like, the Robin who was active while I was growing up, you know? He’s the one I saw on the news and watched rooftops with my telescope hoping to get a good picture of him. That was the guy I wanted to save me. My Robin.”

“Oh so when you said objectively, you meant subjectively,” Damian didn’t sound impressed.

“No. I mean objectively. Just because I’m biased doesn’t mean he isn’t legitimately the best,” you crossed your arms, “You’re just jealous, Tiny,” you stuck out your tongue at the younger boy.

Damian squinted his eyes at your childish display.

Tim laughed, “Well, I guess I really can’t be mad if you sleep with him, then,”

“You can’t,” you said smugly.

Tim slipped his arm over your shoulder, and you melted into him. You might not have changed his plans on the perfect time to tell you his secret (which is next month, your anniversary), but this sure was entertaining. At least now he knows you won’t be mad.

(Bonus) [Damian]

“Robin,”

“Robin?” Damian echoed, voice tinny like he was outside of his body.

“I’m sorry Dami, he’s just really cool—“

“I have to kill him.”

“What?”

“I have to kill Robin, obviously,” he said solemnly as he quickly stood up from his chair, making a scraping noise on the floor, “The hunt starts now. Goodbye, Beloved, I will be back soon.”

“Damian!” you called after him as he dramatically left the room.

There’s a knock on his door — not a polite tap, not a cautious rhythm, but a bright, bounding knock so full of irrepressible cheer that Jason doesn’t even need to breathe to know who it belongs to.

Only one person on earth knocks like that.

His only and… dearest older brother.

The room is dark around him, washed in a muted haze of blue from the streetlights outside. Papers lie scattered across his desk like fallen feathers. The air is still, heavy, as if holding its breath with him. Jason freezes, muscles going stone-hard, his pulse a quiet drum beneath his skin. If he doesn’t move, maybe—just maybe—Dick will get bored and wander off to bother someone else. Preferably Tim.

A thin blade of hallway light slides under the door, warm against the gloom. Jason imagines, with grim certainty, Dick lying on the floor with his ear pressed right to the crack, blue eyes staring into the void like a nosy raccoon with a moral superiority complex.

“Yo Jason!”

The desk betrays him. It creaks under his palms — a small, traitorous groan.

Jason closes his eyes slowly, like a man accepting his fate.

The desk is old, older than half the memories he carries. Bruce bought it for him when he first started school, dark mahogany polished to a soft shine, two sturdy drawers, his name carved lovingly into the side by hands that somehow managed tenderness through guilt. There’s a tiny nick on the edge — one Jason made years ago, by accident. He never fixed it. Instead, it became a habit, a quiet ritual: whenever he’s home, whenever anxiety claws at the inside of his ribs, his thumb finds that chipped edge and runs over it in slow, steady circles.

That’s what he’s doing now.

Left thumb skimming the worn wood, grounding him.

Right hand hovering over the half-finished letter he’s rewritten four times, each attempt messier than the last. Ink smudges stain the heel of his palm like bruises.

“Psst! Jason!”

Jason’s brows knit, irritation crawling up the back of his neck like a cold hand. He holds his breath, hoping silence will act as a repellent.

“Jason, I know you’re awake! I can hear you huffing and puffing from my room!”

A groan slips out of him — long, exhausted, soul-deep. He drags his hand down his face the same way you do when Damian announces the cat has eaten some of his dinner. Then, with the kind of resignation reserved for condemned men, he rises to his feet. The notebook that he was writing the letter on top of snaps shut beneath his fingers, the unfinished words inside collapsing into darkness.

He crosses the room.

Each step feels loud in the quiet, a faint echo off the hardwood.

The hallway light glows through the crack like sunrise threatening a vampire.

Jason opens the door.

And there Dick stands — illuminated like some celestial being who has never known shame or the concept of boundaries. His smile is bright, boyish, far too large for how Jason is feeling at the moment. Moonlight and hallway gold tangle across his features, turning his eyes into flickers of storm-blue glass. He looks… hopeful. Expectant. A little too triumphant, as if guessing correctly that Jason was awake is the peak accomplishment of his week.

Jason stares.

Dick stares back, unflinching, spar=kling like human confetti.

“What?” Jason hisses, every syllable sharp enough to cut through the warmth pooling in the hall.

Dick only beams wider, because of course he does.

“I don’t know!” Dick announces, far too cheerfully for a man who has absolutely no business existing at this hour, and before Jason can even twitch, he’s already slipping past him like an overexcited golden retriever with hips.

Jason should slam the door in his face.

Jason should grab him by the ankle when he dives headfirst onto the bed.

Jason should—at the very least—preserve the last sliver of dignity this room holds.

But he doesn’t.

He closes the door behind him.

Soft click.

Mistake number three of the evening.

Dick sprawls across the mattress with all the grace of a tranquilized octopus, limbs everywhere, face buried in Jason’s old pillow like he owns the place.

“Nice pajamas,” Dick says at last, voice muffled by the comforter before he rolls over and looks up at Jason with that infuriating big-brother sparkle.

Jason glances down at himself — black silk, slightly too short, the collar soft and worn from years in Bruce’s closet. Alfred had grabbed the set for him when Jason showed up unannounced, dripping from the rain and refusing to unpack the clothes he’d left in his duffel.

He shouldn’t have sniffed them earlier, after his shower.

But he had.

Some stupid instinct tugging at him, expecting the fabric to smell like aftershave and leather and something cold, clean, distinctly Bruce.

It hadn’t, of course.

But the ghost of that expectation still lingers embarrassingly in his chest, so Dick even mentioning the pajamas now makes him even more stand-offish.

Jason blinks once. Slowly. “The fuck do you want?”

“Language,” Dick snips automatically, wagging a finger at him like a kindergarten teacher with unresolved trauma.

Jason scoffs, sharp and humorless. “Like you’re one to scold me about language. Half the fucking curse words I know are from your whiny bitch-ass teenager phase.”

Dick props himself up on his elbows, mouth falling open in offense so dramatic it could win awards. “Does your girlfriend like that you talk like that?” he fires back, crossing his arms. His smile is gone, but the brightness in his eyes hasn’t dimmed at all. If anything, he looks even more alive, like he enjoys the sparring again too much to pretend otherwise.

Jason stares at him — at the tousled hair, the flushed cheeks from the coldness of the day, the stupid boyish energy radiating off him like a second sun — and wonders, not for the first time, why the Gods refuse to allow him peace.

He thinks you might appreciate a letter from Dick.

Something handwritten.

Something honest.

Something that doesn’t taste like gunpowder or excuses or the silence he’s been hiding under.

Not because of Dick.

Jason isn’t jealous— Gods forbid—but there’s something about the energy Dick carries, like it lives in his skin, a second suit sewn into his bones. That warmth that slips beneath people’s defenses before they even realize it’s happening, pulling them into his orbit like a lazy sun, all gravity and comfort until they soften, loosen, unravel.

Boyish charm like that should know how to write a letter.

Jason Todd does not.

“She doesn’t care if we’re not around Damian,” Jason mutters at last, voice low, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his borrowed silk pants.

Dick huffs, rolling onto his back with the grace of a cat and the dramatics of a man half his age. “God, she’s too nice to you.”

Jason bites the inside of his cheek, jaw flexing.

Dick thinks he’s subtle—which is hilarious, really. Jason’s had years of this, years of Dick’s bright-eyed reconnaissance disguised as conversation. Years of gentle prodding hidden under soft smiles. Years of perfectly crafted questions that sound innocent to everyone else but ring in Jason’s head like sirens.

He knows all the tricks.

He knows how to avoid every single one.

“…So you guys broke up?” Dick blurts, as if subtlety has finally keeled over and died in front of him.

The question hits Jason like a sucker punch, knocking the air out of him, leaving him stuttering like a car engine in winter. “What? Hey— you heard me and Damian in the dining room—we’re on a break!”

Dick scoffs, triumphant, his grin spreading like dawn across his face. He sits up, elbows on his knees, eyes sparkling with the kind of nosy, brotherly joy that makes Jason want to commit minor crimes. “Break my ass. It’s been over a week. How the hell do you go over a week without seeing your partner when you know they’re upset with you?”

“You think I’ve been happy?” Jason snaps, snatching a throw pillow from the chair and smacking Dick in the leg with it—hard.

Dick yelps in mock outrage, clutching his shin as if Jason had struck him with a crowbar instead of decorative fluff. Jason can’t help the twitch in his mouth—the almost insult he refuses to let fully form.

The pillow slips from his fingers.

The room feels smaller, warmer, the air tinged with the faint scent of old books and older memories.

“Hey.” Dick mumbles, and the tone shifts — softer, a little awkward, like someone stepping onto thin ice and hoping it holds. He sits up straighter, hands fidgeting once before resting at his sides. “Look, I’m not telling you to… y’know, tell me what happened or anything. I’m not here to give you advice. But, uh—”

Jason stares at him.

Long. Flat. Unblinking.

Then he reaches for the pillow again.

Dick barely has time for a single confused inhale before Jason plants the pillow directly over his face with the force of a man who has finally snapped.

“HEY—JASON—!” Dick’s voice muffles instantly, flailing arms smacking the mattress like he’s fighting off a particularly determined goose.

“You think you can act all high and mighty with your perfect relationship—?” Jason grits out, half scoff, half exhausted laugh, bracing his weight just enough to inconvenience Dick, not enough to actually suffocate him. He watches Dick’s legs kick helplessly off the side of the bed. It’s almost therapeutic.

Jason knows—knows—that Dick also knows this is the threshold: push too hard, and Jason will toss him out the door and lock it behind him.

But struggle just enough, and Jason lets him stay.

The rules of brotherhood are stupid like that.

“Perfect?!” Dick sputters, voice muffled and offended in equal measure. He manages to tug the pillow down just enough for one eye to glare up at Jason. “Me and Kori aren’t perfect—”

His hair is a dramatic mess, sticking out in every direction, moonlight glinting off the strands as they fall over his forehead. His cheeks are flushed from laughing or suffocating—either works.

Jason stares down at him, jaw tight, chest tight, everything-too-tight.

Dick looks back up, exasperated but earnest, breathless but steady — so damn Dick it hurts.

“How do you deal with it?” Jason huffs, still half–looming over him, breath warm against Dick’s cheek as Dick blinks rapidly, trying to clear whatever dust or pillow lint found its way into his eyes.

“Deal with what?!” Dick snaps, squinting like Jason personally threw sand at him.

“The fact that she’s— I don’t know— a— an alien?” Jason blurts, face twisting like the word physically hurts to push out.

Dick freezes beneath him.

Just— freezes.

Then his hands clamp around Jason’s wrists, not hard, but sharp enough to make a point as he glares up with that older-brother warning written all over his expression.

“Hey. Watch it—”

“That wasn’t an insult,” Jason fires back, annoyed and flustered and somehow defensive all at once. He gives Dick an inch by asking the question, and now his nerves demand he give a whole damn mile. “I’m saying I don’t understand, okay? Half the shit my girlfriend does I don’t understand and she—”

He cuts himself off, because the words aren’t lining up. They’re slipping. Falling apart before they even reach his tongue.

Dick watches him. Really watches him.

And that’s the worst part.

Jason Todd, who always had words like weapons—sharp, fast, ready.

Jason Todd, who never needed to search for his voice in a fight or a confession or a slammed door.

And now he looks like he’s fumbling around in the dark for pieces of a language he never learned.

Scraps.

Fragments.

Like he’s trying to build a dictionary from memory—your dictionary—the one that explains the things she says, and the things she feels, and the strange, quiet orbit she has around him that he can’t map no matter how many times he reaches for the stars she comes from.

His breaths get uneven.

His hands still tremble around Dick’s wrists.

And Dick—

Dick’s expression softens into something unbearably gentle.

Like he knows this version of Jason.

Like he’s seen it, in mirrors or in old memories or in his own quiet nights with Kori when he was just as lost.

“I love her.”

The words leave Jason like he’s coughing out something sharp.

Awkward. Choppy. Wrong in his mouth only because he’s never said them out loud—

not to Bruce,

not to Dick,

not to anyone except maybe Damian once when the kid cornered him into it.

Jason’s jaw ticks.

His shoulders do that stiff half-hunch like he’s bracing for recoil from admitting something so unarmored.

“I just… don’t understand her.”

Dick inhales slowly through his nose, eyes narrowing—not in judgment, but in searching. Like he’s looking for the rest of the sentence Jason hasn’t found the courage or vocabulary for yet.

“What happened.” Dick finally says, voice lowered. “You don’t have to give me a play-by-play, but—”

“She started crying—”

The shift on Dick’s face is instant. Concern sharpening his features. Suspicion too.

Jason growls, pointing at him mid-sentence. “Quit glaring at me. I didn’t do shit—do you honestly think I’d be this conflicted if I thought I’d actually messed up at that moment?”

Dick rolls his eyes, hands up: Fine, continue.

Jason huffs and tosses the pillow to the far corner of the bed like it personally wronged him. He gets off of Dick, moving across the room in a few stiff steps, talking over his shoulder as he heads toward his desk—toward the half-written letter he’s abandoned.

“She was crying over this stupid thing—stupid to me—I can acknowledge stupid to me,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “So I asked, y’know? I tried— I actually tried to keep asking why she was crying and she just wouldn’t budge.”

His voice cracks slightly— frustration, not sadness.

“This was after the fucking patrol we had in that warehouse and— dude, I even asked her to let it go, but she said no!” Jason spins around, eyes wide in disbelief, hands thrown up helplessly. “How does that make sense? To act like it’s nothing while crying, then refuse to move past it while saying it’s also not my fault?”

Dick listens. Really listens.

He watches the way Jason’s eyebrows pull together and loosen, over and over, like he’s fighting an emotion he doesn’t trust yet. His shoulders rise and fall like he’s pushing through invisible weight. There’s a tremor in his hands he probably doesn’t even realize is there.

Jason Todd pacing under dim light, ranting because there’s too much inside him and nowhere safe to put it—

that’s something Dick hasn’t seen in a long time.

He doesn’t interrupt.

Doesn’t tease.

Doesn’t soften it with a joke.

He just watches his brother unravel in quiet, controlled spirals, as though every sentence is a grenade he’s trying not to drop.

Jason pauses.

It’s not dramatic—no sharp gasp, no sudden shift.

Just this small, exhausted drop of his shoulders, like something inside him finally unclenches.

He drags a hand down his face.

He hates this.

Hates spilling relationship details to anyone, even Dick. Especially DIck.

But right now? He’s terrified that a “break” is about to become a “break up,” and suddenly pride or privacy doesn’t feel worth it.

“She cried because I knocked over a teacup from the kitchen counter.”

Dick blinks at him.

Jason can feel the blink from across the room.

“Dick she has never—ever—mentioned to me even liking the damn thing.” Jason continues, voice cracking on confusion. He sinks down into his desk chair, knees spread, shoulders hunched like he’s bracing for another blow. “I’m so careful with her stuff. I— she keeps telling me to make myself at home, but the second I break something it’s just… tears?”

Dick leans forward slightly. His tone softens—not pity, but gentleness meant for fragile spaces.

“Was she mad at you?”

Jason lets out this breath that sounds like it’s been clawing its way out of him for days.

“She said she wasn’t.”

Dick nods, slowly. “Are… you mad at her?”

“No.”

It flies out of him.

Fast. Absolute. Reflex.

“Fuck no, I—” Jason stops, hands gripping the arms of the chair like he’s trying to keep himself grounded. “God, I just can’t understand where any of her reaction came from.” His voice dips, raw but not loud. “How am I supposed to trust our relationship if I can’t even predict how she’ll react over simple things? Like a broken teacup she’s never even fucking mentioned liking.”

His breath shakes.

Not angry.

Not annoyed.

Just… scared.

He looks at the floor like he’s hoping it’ll offer answers. Something. Anything.

Because Jason Todd—who can read a hostile room in two seconds flat—can’t decipher the person he loves most, and that's what's making him distance himself. Because from a distance, Jason can predict your every move.

He can track you like muscle memory—

the rhythms you live by,

the rituals you never break.

You’re probably having tea right now.

Probably standing in the dim glow of your kitchen, hands curled around a mug, eyelashes lowered, breathing steady as you try to quiet your mind before bed.

Something in Jason’s chest aches at the thought.

“You’re not supposed to trust her reactions so you can trust your relationship,” Dick says finally, the silence stretching long enough to settle between them like dust. He speaks gently, but not softly—like he knows softness will only make Jason flinch. “You’re supposed to trust her, so you can trust your relationship.”

Jason’s head snaps up, eyes sharp.

“How can I trust her if I feel like I can’t know her completely?” he fires back, voice strained. “Why wouldn’t she explain what was wrong?”

Dick sighs, pushing himself up from the pile of pillows and settling against Jason’s headboard, legs dangling off the side. The lamp on the desk casts a warm gold halo over him, like he’s some exhausted angel forced into sibling therapy duty.

“Jason, come on, man—I’m not taking her side.” His voice is steady, older-brother steady. “I’m just saying you can’t expect someone to calm down from crying the same way every time. Life isn’t… predictable like that. How long did you stay after she started crying?”

Jason’s jaw works.

He doesn’t want to say it.

But the truth drags itself out of him anyway.

“I would’ve stayed longer if she didn’t just—refuse me,” he mutters, hands opening and closing as if the memory still sits there, heavy. “I asked her to let it go and she just told me not to be upset with her. Not be upset that she’s going to hold onto it.” His voice tightens, low and hoarse. “The fact that I finally broke something—finally messed up—and she—”

He cuts himself off.

The room stills with him.

Jason swallows hard, eyes slipping shut like he’s trying to keep his emotions from breaking through the cracks. He mutters something unintelligible, probably a curse, before finally letting out a long, shaking sigh.

“Dick, I— I asked her to explain what was wrong. Still tears.” His fingers press into his thighs. “I told her I’d buy her a new one. Still tears. So I think—fine—forget the explanation, forget the damn cup. Let’s just move past it, sweep it under the rug, if it’s hurting her that much.”

He scoffs, but it’s not dismissive.

It’s bewildered.

Hurt.

“And the girl looks at me,” Jason says quietly, voice cracking around the edges, “and tells me, ‘Please don’t be upset with me.’”

The words hang there between them—soft, fragile, and unbearable.

The words linger in the room like smoke—thin at first, then thick enough to choke on.

Dick doesn’t move.

Jason doesn’t breathe.

Outside the window, the manor grounds are quiet, washed in a pale, winter-blue glow. Inside, Jason sits hunched forward in his chair, elbows braced on his knees like the weight of what he’s carrying has finally grown too heavy to keep pressed to his ribs.

Dick breaks the silence first.

He shifts on the bed, the mattress dipping, sheets murmuring under him. “You ever think maybe it wasn’t about the teacup?”

Jason’s laugh comes out sharp, brittle. “Of course it wasn’t about the damn teacup. That’s the whole problem! I don’t know what it was about.” His voice rises—just a little, just enough to crack in the middle. “I thought I knew her. I thought I could read her like—like—”

“Like one of your safe houses,” Dick says, a tiny wry smile tugging at his lips, “or like one of your informants. Predictable. Structured.”

Jason shoots him a glare, but Dick’s expression doesn’t waver.

“You can’t treat her feelings like a crime scene to solve.”

Jason’s shoulders rise, tense.

“Then what the hell am I supposed to do?”

For a moment, Dick just watches him—really watches him—with those painfully bright, painfully open blue eyes of his that see a little too much. The lamp light flickers over Jason’s face: the tight jaw, the tired eyes, the lingering hurt he’s been trying to stuff behind anger all week.

“You stay,” Dick says finally. Not dramatic. Not profound. Just true. “You stay when it’s messy. When it’s inconvenient. When it makes no sense.”

Jason’s throat bobs.

He looks away.

Dick continues gently, “You stay long enough to hear the real reason, even if she can’t say it right away.”

Jason’s breath shudders out of him. The fight drains from his posture, leaving something rawer behind—something vulnerable, something young.

“I just wanted her to tell me,” he admits. “I would’ve fixed it. I would’ve… I don’t know. Done something.”

“Jay,” Dick says softly, “she didn’t need you to fix it.”

Jason looks up sharply.

“What else am I supposed to do?”

Dick meets his eyes, unflinching, steady.

“She needed you to sit with it. With her. Even if it didn’t make sense yet. Even if she couldn’t explain it.”

Jason lets out a slow, shaky breath, chest rising and falling like he’s finally realizing the fight he lost wasn’t with her—it was with his own helplessness.

“People cry for reasons they don’t understand in the moment,” Dick continues. “Doesn’t make it irrational. Doesn’t make it wrong. And it sure as hell doesn’t mean they don’t trust you.”

Jason stares at the floor.

His fingers curl around the edge of his chair.

“…Then why did she look like she was apologizing for breaking herself in front of me?”

Dick doesn’t answer right away.

He just lets the question settle—the kind that echoes, the kind that isn’t meant to be answered quickly.

After a long moment, Dick speaks, voice soft enough to almost blend with the silence.

“Maybe she wasn’t ashamed of crying,” he says, glancing at the mirror near Jason's old closet. Looking at his own reflection. “Maybe she was scared that the minute she stopped holding it together… you’d see too much.”

The lamp hums quietly behind them.

Jason sits very still, like he’s afraid the truth might move if he does.

“Jay,” Dick adds, gentler than he’s been all night, “loving someone isn’t about predicting them.”

Jason swallows hard. “…Then what is it?”

“Letting them be a mystery,” Dick murmurs, “and choosing them anyway.”

Jason lets the words hang for a moment, looking down at his feet and mumbling, “Since when did you become a poet?”

“Yeah, well,” Dick chuckles, “love makes people stupid. Not me though I'm always stupid so only other people.” He nudges Jason’s leg with his foot. “Present company included.”

Jason shoots him a weak glare.

But it doesn’t hold.

Not when his chest feels this raw.

Dick leans back on his palms.

“Talk to her,” he says gently. “Not to fix it. I dont think either of you are in the wrong…just both made a silly mistake of not staying.”

Jason huffs, leaning his head back and looking at the ceiling, “...You ever fight with Kori?”

Dick’s lips twitch—somewhere between a smile and a wince—like he’s remembering something private, something a little bittersweet. The lamplight paints soft gold into the angles of his face as he shifts, elbows resting on his knees, gaze dropping to the floor.

“And…?” Jason presses, voice low, impatient, the word echoing lightly in the hush of the room.

Dick inhales, slow and steady.

“And I sit with her,” he says, voice quiet enough that Jason almost misses it. “Even if she doesn’t want to talk. Even if she doesn’t want me near her. I sit anyway.”

Jason turns his head, just enough to watch him from the corner of his eye.

Dick continues, fingers tracing absent circles on the blanket.

“Because sometimes the problem isn’t the thing we’re fighting about. Sometimes the problem is… she’s scared I don’t understand her.” His eyes flick upward, meeting Jason’s. “And sometimes the problem is that I don’t. But she still wants me there while she’s confused.”

The heater hums softly, a low, warm rumble against the winter night pressing at the windows.

Jason scoffs under his breath—small, defensive, exhausted. “What, so you just sit there? That’s your grand relationship wisdom?”

Dick huffs a laugh, but it’s soft, fond.

“You asked,” he says with a shrug. “And yeah. Sometimes that’s all I can do. I can’t fix things I don’t understand. But I can show her I’m not leaving the room just because she’s overwhelmed.”

He pauses, gaze drifting to the old desk—your half-finished letter still sitting there, a wounded thing waiting to be mended.

Then back to Jason.

“You ever seen Kori cry?” Dick asks gently.

Jason’s jaw tightens. “No but…Ive seen her upset.”

“She sucks at hiding it.”

Jason rolls his eyes. “Alien biology, bro. She looks like a big-eyed dog making you feel guilty from across the room.”

Dick laughs—quiet and warm.

“Yeah. It used to piss me off. Then I realized...she could have left the room entirely.”

He taps Jason’s knee once—just once, a grounding point.

“She was asking you for room to feel something she didn’t have words for yet.”

Jason stares at him, breaths coming a little slower, a little heavier.

The ceiling suddenly feels too far away.

The whole room feels too quiet.

“…I don’t know how to do that,” Jason admits, voice barely above a whisper, carried off by the low hum of the heater. The warmth coils through the room, but somehow leaves his chest untouched. He doesn’t know how to do that because he’s never had to. Not with you. Not with anyone.

It’s always been you—explaining every small emotion you have, sometimes even translating his, guiding him through feelings he never had the vocabulary for. He doesn’t know how to make himself understanding without your permission. Jason was worried about it before, but now hes confident you've spoiled him.

Dick smiles—not mocking, not triumphant. The kind of smile that means I love you, and you’re an idiot, but you’re my idiot.

And Jason has the irritating, sinking feeling that he’s going to owe him for this. Badly.

“That’s how you start,” Dick says gently. “You tell her that.”

The silence that follows is long—quiet enough that Jason can hear the faint crack in the old walls, the soft hiss of air from the vent, his own heartbeat clicking too hard against his ribs.

Then—

Dick’s brows knit together, thoughtful.

“What was going to be your plan anyway? Just… wait it out?”

Jason’s body betrays him.

His eyes flick—just for a second—toward the letter resting on his desk between the notebook.

And of course Dick sees it.

Of course the son of a bitch sees it.

Everything happens at once.

Dick launches himself off the bed like he’s been fired from a cannon, feet skidding across the hardwood. Jason curses, scrambling after him, fingers clawing for the paper.

“Dick—do NOT—”

But it’s too late.

Dick snatches the letter with impossible acrobat reflexes, spinning out of Jason’s reach with a delighted noise that should be illegal coming from someone his age.

“Jason, bro, you are NOT Jane Austen!” Dick cackles, dodging every swipe and punch as if the room is his personal trapeze arena.“Use your goddamn phone!”

Jason snarls, grabbing for him, the heater humming like background music to a scene he already regrets starring in. Dick dances out of reach again, holding the letter up like it’s glowing treasure, like it’s the world’s most humiliating artifact.

His laughter rings through the room—bright, obnoxious, perfectly older-brother. The kind that fills every corner, bouncing off the walls like it owns the place. Jason curses under his breath, lunging again, fingers swiping at the letter as Dick lifts it high above his head like a stolen artifact.

“Give it back!” Jason snaps, half-tackling him into the dresser.

“Nope!” Dick’s grin is wild, eyes glittering with the kind of mischief that has gotten him punched more times than anyone else in the manor. “Oh my god, Jay—this is practically parchment. Did you use a quill? Did Alfred help? Tell me Alfred helped.”

“Shut up!” Jason growls, grabbing for the paper again. Dick twists, agile as ever, sliding across the floor with a dancer's grace that makes Jason want to punt him through the nearest window.

The letter flutters like it's laughing at him too.

Jason makes another swipe, but Dick jumps back onto the bed, legs crossed, holding the letter out like he’s presenting sacred scripture.

“Look at this!” Dick beams, slowly clearing his throat with exaggerated theatrics. “My dearest—”

Jason tackles him.

The bed groans under their combined weight as the two of them wrestle like rabid raccoons in pajamas—Jason in luxurious too-big silk, Dick in mismatched sweats he probably stole from every sibling in the house. The letter crinkles dangerously in Dick’s fist as Jason tries to pry his fingers open one by one.

“BRO—” Dick wheezes, fighting to keep his grip, “—THIS IS NOT PRIDE AND PREJUDICE—”

“GIVE. IT. BACK.”

Jason finally manages to pin him, knee pressing into Dick’s stomach just enough to knock the wind out of him. Dick lets out a pathetic oof, the letter finally slipping from his fingers.

Jason snatches it, cradling it to his chest defensively, glowering like a feral cat who’s had its favorite toy threatened.

Dick blinks up at him from the mattress, chest heaving with laughter, hair sticking up in every possible direction.

The room is chaos—pillows everywhere, blankets destroyed, the heater roaring in the background like it’s cheering them on.

Jason’s breath is ragged.

His cheeks flushed.

His silk shirt completely wrinkled beyond salvation.

Dick lifts a hand, patting Jason’s arm with all the solemnity of a dying soldier.

“Bro…” he says between gasps, “you cannot write your girl a letter like you’re shipping off to the Civil War.”

Jason scowls down at him, but there’s a flicker of actual embarrassment on his face.

Dick grins wider, the kind of grin that has too much affection tucked into it.

“Text her,” he says. “Call her. Show up at her place. Just—don’t write sonnets from the 1800s.”

Jason looks down at the rumpled piece of paper in his grip—the messy handwriting, the crossed-out lines, the emotion bleeding through every uneven stroke. He swallows.

“It wasn’t supposed to be a sonnet,” he mutters.

Dick claps him on the shoulder.

“Then why was it written like you were waiting for her hand in marriage from across the ocean?”

Jason groans, burying his face in the bedspread.

But Dick only laughs again—softer this time, warmer—and nudges Jason’s head with his foot.

“Hey,” Dick says, laughter finally tapering off into a breath as he leans against the desk. “It’s okay not to know how to say things out loud. But for the love of god, don’t embellish an apology.”

“I’m not embellishing it, you asshole—that’s just how I write.” Jason grumbles as he snatches the crumpled letter back. His cheeks are hot—anger, humiliation, maybe both. He shoves the drawer of his nightstand open with his knee and tucks the letter inside like he’s trying to bury a crime scene.

Dick scoffs. “Then for the love of god, at least use some printer paper.”

“This is what Alfred gave me!” Jason fires back, indignant, slamming the drawer shut.

Dick freezes for half a second, like the universe just delivered the greatest punchline directly into his soul.

Then he loses it.

He bends over, clutching his stomach, laughter exploding out of him in bright, unrestrained bursts. “I fucking knew you asked Alfred!”

Jason throws a pillow at his head.

Dick dodges, still laughing.

․ ⸝⸝𓅨⸝⸝ ․

When Jason shows up at your door, you don’t expect to see him standing there like a wet, begrudging hero, clutching a bouquet of roses that have clearly seen better days. Petals droop, some edges brown, and between his fingers is a piece of printer paper now crumpled and soaked through from the rain.

He probably doesn’t expect to see Bruce and Damian lounging on the sofa like Sunday mornings are their permanent reality—tea steaming gently in their cups, shoulders relaxed at staring.

Jason blinks at them first, then at you. His chest rises with a slow inhale, like he’s preparing a speech, a complaint, or a reprimand—but just as quickly, he remembers: he doesn’t exactly have the standing to be angry right now.

But still, he asks, voice tight, clipped, a little brittle:

“What are they doing here?”

You stare back, expression calm, unwavering. Not a hint of panic, no edge of scolding. Just presence. He doesn’t look any less pale than he did a week ago. No deeper circles under his eyes, no sudden loss of muscle tone. You know his body reacts faster than most to stress, illness, fatigue—but somehow, he looks the same. The same Jason Todd who somehow survives everything the world throws at him, yet here he is, soaking wet, fragile-looking, and… human.

He glances down at the rain-sodden bouquet in his hands. Your mind catches up first, slowly, appreciating the effort he put into showing up, however disastrous the execution. “They’re… lovely,” you say softly.

Jason lets out a humorless scoff, barely hiding a smile of frustration at himself.

“Gods, you’re pathetic,” Damian mutters from the sofa, leaning casually against Bruce’s side beneath their shared blanket.

Your radiator has been broken for days. You’d been letting the apartment chill into a gentle winter because Jason hasn’t been here to fix it. Bruce, sitting cross-legged beside Damian, is absently scrolling on his phone, muttering under his breath about finding the best repair guy in Gotham, probably hoping that effort will somehow count as an apology for the inconvenience.

“What's this?” you murmur softly, reaching for the paper in his hand. The words are barely audible, carried in the hush of the apartment, under the hum of the broken radiator and the faint tapping of rain against the windows.

Jason steps fully inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He cups your elbow gently, guiding you past the living room, past Bruce and Damian, past the smell of tea and old books, toward your bedroom. His touch is light, careful, but somehow grounding—like he’s holding onto the only thing steady in a storm he’s not sure he can navigate.

“Hey!” Damian calls from the living room, voice sharp, accusing. “This is a family conversation!”

Jason doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even glance back. He slams the bedroom door behind the two of you, the lock clicking softly into place.

“Can you believe them?!” Damian’s voice carries faintly, probably yelling directly into Bruce’s ear.

Jason doesn’t react to that either, hell Bruce probably deserves it right now. His grip on your elbow stays gentle, absolute, thumb shifting awkwardly like he doesn’t know what to do with it. Like it has no right to exist so close to you and yet here it is.

You move first, sliding your hand out of his grasp and taking the bouquet from him. You carry it over to your vanity, setting it in an empty vase. You’ll add water later.

“They…” Jason starts slowly, words careful, hesitant, “They looked nicer…before…”

You leave him there and fetch a towel from the bathroom, the warmth of it brushing against your palms as you return to him. Jason is still rambling about the flowers—swearing they were pretty, insisting he'll buy you new ones—and you drape the towel over his damp hair, absorbing the rain and the weight of the morning.

“Bruce showed me an old picture of you,” you murmur softly, fingers working through the tangled strands of wet hair, careful not to tug.

Jason groans, warm towel pressed to his scalp, embarrassed and half-relieved, “Thought he got rid of them all.”

“This one was taken by Mr. Kent,” you whisper, tone soft enough to make him look at you. “You were holding new storybooks and a race car toy. I… I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile that wide.”

Jason swallows, leaning down slightly so you don’t have to strain yourself. But it reads more like a bow of shame than courtesy. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, voice low.

You pause for a moment, letting the words hang between you—soft, fragile. Then you tug him down gently, coaxing him to sit on the floor in front of your bed. You settle on the edge, a little closer than necessary, still drying his hair, your hands warm and steady.

“I thought we’d agreed,” you murmur, voice quiet, calm, “this was no one’s fault.”

Jason exhales, slow and heavy, letting the tension drain out of him in small increments. The towel smells faintly of fabric softener, of rain, of the quiet intimacy that only exists when no one else is watching. “I didn't know what to do.”

“I… I just wanted you to…” You search for the rest of the sentence, but your throat tightens around it. “I don’t know—let me be upset?” you finish, barely above a whisper.

Jason freezes. For a heartbeat he looks almost confused, like you’ve spoken in a language he hasn’t learned yet.

Then he twists around to look up at you from between your thighs, palms braced on either side of your knees. His face is open in a way he never lets anyone else see—offended, scared, wounded, all tangled together.

“How could I?” he blurts, voice cracking in the middle. “You never let me be upset over anything—ever. You always fix everything.”

His hands lift helplessly, fingers flexing in the air like he’s reaching for a point he can’t quite hold.

“I should be able to do that for you,” he says, softer now, like the words are unraveling right out of him. “I should be able to fix things for you, too—”

“I didn’t need you to.”

The interruption lands like a pin dropping in a cathedral.

Small.

But echoing.

Jason goes absolutely still.

His eyes—already too wide, too bright—lock onto yours with the kind of aching intensity that makes your breath catch. Like the room just shifted under his feet and he’s trying to figure out if the ground is still there.

“You…” Jason starts, voice trembling, then falters. His mouth opens again, but nothing comes out. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, struggling to find the words. “I… I don’t know how you work. You didn’t even like that teacup.”

“…You’re right,” you respond softly, voice low, careful. “That’s… I knew that. That’s why I asked you not to be upset.”

Jason exhales sharply, a mix of frustration and something softer—fear, maybe shame. He leans forward slightly, placing a hand on your knee. His thumb traces the bone there in slow, hesitant circles, an unspoken apology.

“I wasn’t upset over the fact that you were crying about a teacup you didn’t even like,” he murmurs, words halting, raw. “I… I didn’t understand that. That’s why I got upset. And… I don’t know… it felt like—like you didn’t want me to understand?”

He pauses, eyes dropping to his thumb brushing your knee, ashamed and searching. “If that makes sense, I…”

You reach down and cover his hand with yours, grounding him, steadying the tremor that runs beneath the surface. “It makes sense,” you whisper, soft but certain. “It makes perfect sense.”

Jason swallows again, slow and deliberate, as if he’s finally exhaling the weight he’s been carrying. His shoulders slump slightly, tension bleeding out of him, leaving him smaller, more human, more vulnerable than you’ve ever seen.

“I don’t ever want you thinking I don’t want you to understand me,” you continue. “I just… I couldn’t explain it then. Not without feeling stupid.”

Jason’s brows draw together. Not angry—hurt. Devastated in a quiet way.

“Hey,” he murmurs, the word barely a breath. His other hand lifts, hesitating in the space beside your thigh before it settles there—light, tentative, as if he’s asking permission just by touching you. “You don’t… you don’t get to feel stupid with me,” he says quietly, eyes flicking up to yours with something painfully earnest. “We both know you’re smarter than me anyway.”

A soft laugh slips out of you—thin, a little frayed at the edges. “I know. I just… couldn’t say it in the moment.”

Jason exhales, sharp and frustrated, but the frustration is turned inward. You can see it in the tight set of his jaw, the way his shoulders curl in like he’s trying to fold himself around the mistake he thinks he made.

“I should’ve stayed,” he mutters, voice low, rough. “I should’ve sat down next to you and just—shut the hell up and waited.”

You don’t deny it. Your silence says everything.

“It wouldn’t have done anything,” you murmur after a moment. “I don’t—”

“I would’ve been there,” Jason interrupts softly, eyes drifting around your room as if the peeling radiator and scattered books might offer him courage. His gaze lands on the corner where the heater sits useless, and he huffs a laugh so small it almost isn’t one. “And your damn heater would’ve been fixed sooner.”

You glance at it too, and for a heartbeat, the quiet hum of the room becomes a third presence—an ache, a reminder.

“...I leave you alone when you’re upset,” you say gently, not accusing, just observing a truth you’ve both lived.

“Because I ask you to.” Jason’s voice is immediate, defensive only in its desperation to be understood. Then it softens, frays—like something tender peeling open. “I just assumed you’d ask the same. I won't assume anymore.”

His thumb brushes your knee, slow and nervous, like the movement steadies him.

“In the future,” he says, eyes lifting to yours with a vulnerability so raw it feels like a confession, “please don’t let this stop you from crying in front of me. I—” His voice falters, catches, then returns in a whisper. “I’d hate for that to happen.”

“…I don’t like seeing things broken,” you murmur after a long pause, voice low, barely more than a breath. “I was tired, I think, and—”

Jason’s hands are suddenly on your face, a little awkward, hesitant—like he’s breaking the usual rules. His palms press gently over your hair, over your ears, holding you steady. “You don’t have to explain anything to me,” he murmurs. “I got it.”

You shake your head, voice soft, almost a whisper. “I want to.”

He exhales slowly, shaking his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “…You want me to feel satisfied with how this ends.”

You pause, struck by how much he knows you. Not just your habits, not just your moods—but the way your heart flinches and your chest tightens, the things you try to hide. Knowing him is second nature to you. But him knowing you? That’s deliberate, a careful, desperate sort of pursuit, and it leaves you breathless.

“…Will you be?” you murmur, barely lifting your eyes to meet his.

Jason hesitates, then lets the words slip, soft, almost shy. “…Can I sleep here tonight?”

You blink, because fuck—your chest tightens, and your eyes sting with tears that don’t make sense. “…Yeah—uhm—yeah, if you’re okay with two extra roommates.”

Jason’s smile is slow, hesitant at first, then warm, soft. He leans down, thumb brushing against your cheek to swipe a stray tear. “Bruce can sleep on the couch,” he says quietly, voice gentle, almost playful, but the softness beneath it makes your heart clench.

“I’m sorry.” Your voice cracks at the end, soft and fragile, the words barely holding themselves together. “For not saying ‘I love you’ when you left.”

Jason exhales, slow and almost dreamy, like your big heart, your tear-filled eyes, have caught him in the chest and won’t let go. “You didn’t need to,” he murmurs, voice gentle. “You told me to tie my boots… same thing.”

A soft chuckle escapes him, warm and teasing, and then his lips press against your cheek. He’s still kneeling between your legs, rain-soaked clothes clinging to him, but the damp doesn’t matter. “I love you too,” he whispers.

“I love you the most,” you stutter, shaking off his hands before pulling him into a hug so tight it’s almost violent—your ribs pressing into his, clothes brushing together, rainwater mixing with the warmth of your embrace.

“HEY!”

The voice is sharp, insistent, impossibly small yet commanding, and it pierces through the moment like a trumpet. Damian. From behind the door. “WHAT ABOUT ME?!”

“Damian, I swear to—” another voice cuts in eerily like Dick’s, followed by kicking, shuffling, a full-on wrestling match somewhere just outside the door.

You blink down at Jason, a little dazed. “…When the fuck did Dick get in my house?”

Jason sighs, letting himself collapse into your lap, wet hair brushing your shoulder, body warm and heavy against yours. “He can share the sofa with Bruce,” he says, voice muffled against your chest. “Let them have their daddy-daughter cuddling time.”

You sigh, letting your fingers thread through Jason’s damp hair for a moment, tangling slightly in the soft strands. Then, slow and deliberate, you ask, “Jay…was that paper a love letter?”

Jason freezes in your hold, lips parting like he’s about to protest, then faltering into a small, almost helpless voice: “I… I thought you’d like it.”

You glance down at him, amused, and hum softly. “Okay, Jane Austen—”

Jason groans, cheeks flushing deep red, heat rising in a way that’s almost adorable. “Babe, please—”

“After not talking to your girlfriend for a whole week, Mr. Darcy over here thinks it’s a good idea to—”

“It was supposed to be romantic!” Jason interrupts, voice muffled as he buries his face into your stomach, rainwater from his hair soaking into your clothes.

You can’t help the soft laugh that escapes you. “Maybe some parchment would have helped,” you tease. “Printer paper? Really, Jay?”

Jason Todd is going to kill Dick Grayson.

My dearest,

…Yeah, that looks weird. Looks like I’m writing to a Victorian ghost. I almost scratched it out and started with “babe,” but that felt even worse. So you’re stuck with it. Sorry hun.

I miss you. I miss you more than I know how to say without sounding pathetic, and I’m really trying not to be pathetic here.

I’m sorry.

And I know—you’d tell me no one’s in the wrong, that we were both tired, that things happen, that it’s fine. And I’d agree with you because I always do.

But I still feel like I’m punishing myself.

I bought you roses yesterday. They looked better then, before Gotham rain turned them into whatever the hell they are now. I stood outside your door for a good ten minutes trying to work up the guts to knock. 

Didn’t. Classic. Couldn’t. My hands just wouldn’t listen. Then my feet wouldn't listen so I ended up walking in the rain, clutching those stupid roses, wondering if you’d even want to see me. Wondering if you’d yell. Or cry. Or maybe just look at me the way you do when I’ve screwed up but you’re too soft to actually explode.

And I hate that I’ve become the guy who thinks about that—thinking about how you’ll react, instead of just… doing the right thing.

I thought about calling, but… God, I didn’t want to sound like I was begging. Or whining. Or—whatever it is I always end up sounding like around you. So I wrote this instead. Because maybe, just maybe, the words on paper can carry what I’m too much of an idiot to say out loud.

Damian's been drilling me with his eyes for the past few days, the kid is too scared to admit he wants to show. Maybe you're right, him and I are more alike then I give him credit for.

I want to fix this. Not just the teacup—or the flowers—but us. I want to understand you the way you understand me. I know I get angry, or defensive, or quiet in all the wrong ways. I know I mess it up more often than I want to admit.

But I’m trying. God, I’m trying.

If you’ll let me, I want to keep trying—just closer this time. With you, not around you. With my hands on yours instead of empty like they’ve been all week.

I’m not asking for everything to magically go back to normal. I’m just asking for a door to open when I knock. I’m asking for a chance to come home.

If you’ll allow it.

Please allow it.

Love,

Jay

⤷ series masterlist

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“Come on, babe… seriously?”

Jason’s voice hits the quiet room with far more weight than he intends, dragging across the stillness like rough gravel, thick with disbelief and a frustration so reluctant it almost embarrasses itself as soon as it leaves his mouth. His brows pull together in a tight, uneasy line—an expression he would never aim at you on purpose—especially not when you’re standing there blinking too fast, your lashes wet and trembling, your throat bobbing like you’re trying to swallow something sharp that refuses to go down.

“You have like a million of them.”

He gestures vaguely toward the counter, where the remains of the china teacup—your moderate-quality, robin patterned, impulse-buy teacup—lie scattered like a small, stupid tragedy. They weren’t heirlooms or antiques, not rare pieces from some dusty backroom chase. These were cups you grabbed without thinking, without sentiment, without ceremony. Eight of them total. A casual, mismatched set.

Well… seven now.

“I’ll buy you one, I swear—”

His hand lifts halfway, caught in a helpless, uncertain arc before the words collapse in his throat and die there, because the moment he sees the tears actually slip free—heavy tears, slow tears, so silent they seem almost reverent in the way they fall—Jason goes completely still.

He stares at you like you’ve grown a second head. Like he’s witnessing something impossible.

Teacups. You’re crying over teacups. Teacups you still have seven of.

“Are you—” Jason stops mid-sentence, his mouth hanging open in a stunned, graceless pause, and the expression that flickers across his face—hesitant, baffled pity—makes your stomach twist with pure humiliation. “Are you actually upset at me right now?”

You shake your head—barely, weakly—because even you don’t understand it. The tears aren’t sharp with anger or hot with blame; they’re just happening, spilling for reasons you couldn’t name even if you tried. You bite your lip hard enough to sting, keeping your mouth clamped shut because you know the moment you speak, the words will fall out trembling and pathetic.

“Hey—” Jason tries again, exasperation threading through the tired edges of his voice, “when you broke that part of my motorcycle I didn’t say shit. When the hell did material things start mattering to either of us?”

“Why wouldn’t my things matter to me?”

Your voice shatters right down the middle, thin and fragile like porcelain under too much pressure, and before he can see the way your face twists with the effort of holding yourself together, you crouch down.

You gather the broken pieces carefully, almost ritualistically, your hands moving with a reverence that feels too gentle for something so ordinary—as though, if you’re soft enough, steady enough, patient enough, maybe the cup will knit itself back together and the part of you that cracked with it will follow.

“They shouldn’t.”

The words escape him with a force that seems to rip straight out of his ribs, unbidden and unrefined, slicing through the stillness of the room before he even fully registers he’s said them. They hit the air too hard, too sharp, reverberating like something brittle thrown against concrete, and he looks instantly, horribly aware of the damage they might cause.

Jason draws in a breath that stumbles unevenly through him, his chest rising with the kind of sincerity he has spent years learning how to smother beneath sarcasm and a bulletproof smirk. There’s something desperate in the way he inhales, something taut and aching, as if the confusion flooding his voice is so deep, so marrow-level, that it drags grief behind it like a shadow disguised as irritation.

Because in his world—one stitched together by scarcity and tight budgets and objects that were borrowed, stolen, or broken before they ever reached him—things were never allowed to matter. Not cups, not toys, not clothes, not anything you could hold in your hand.

In his world, things broke all the time. In his world, people broke too. And no one ever cried over either.

He grew up wanting things he wasn’t allowed to touch, told to keep his hands in his pockets and his eyes down, to pretend he didn’t see what he desperately wanted, trained to choke on desire before it had a chance to hurt him.

And the truth—the painful, embarrassing, childlike truth he would never speak aloud—is that he would’ve traded the last unbruised shard of his soul for a cheap plastic cup with a peeling racecar sticker on it, something flimsy and mass-produced, something that would never impress anyone, simply because it would have been his. Just one object that belonged to him alone. One thing no one could rip from his hands, or throw away in a rage, or pawn, or break, or use as proof that he didn’t deserve anything nice in the first place.

And he has no idea how to bridge the distance between your heartbreak and his history.

And now he’s standing here, watching you cry—cry—over a teacup he’s never once seen you cradle to your chest like something precious, never watched you display on a shelf with the kind of pride reserved for heirlooms, never heard you speak about with anything more than offhand fondness when you stumbled across a new one to add to the pile.

It hits Jason strangely, almost disorientingly, the way a dream curdles into something slightly off-kilter, because the sight of your tears over something so… replaceable presses on a part of him he doesn’t know how to unpack, a part of him that twists slowly, tightly, like a knot forming in the center of his stomach.

He’s so careful with your belongings it borders on near-religious devotion, a quiet reverence he never names out loud because naming it would make the feelings behind it too visible, too exposed. Jason never touches your jewelry trays because the clasps look delicate in a way that feels above his pay grade, like the kind of fragile luxury that should only ever be handled by someone who doesn’t have a lifetime of breaking things embedded in the muscle memory of their hands.

He avoids your vanity entirely, sidestepping it like a shrine he has no right to approach, because the shimmering bottles and soft-bristled brushes arranged in pristine rows look like artifacts—beautiful, intentional, expensive—objects that radiate the same untouchable gravity as all the things he wasn’t allowed to want when he was young.

He places his phone on your nightstand with the gentleness of someone setting down an explosive device, using both hands, terrified his weight might scratch the surface or send a lamp wobbling toward disaster.

He even—Gods, even the thought is embarrassing—hand-washes all your clothes when your not home to do the laundry with him.

Even your socks.

Because the idea of shrinking something soft and beloved of yours makes his throat go tight, because the fear of ruining a thing you love is so sharp it borders on physical pain, because he cannot stomach the possibility of leaving the wrong kind of mark on anything that belongs to you.

And yet here you are, shoulders trembling, breath stuttering in fragile hiccups, tears slipping down your cheeks in slow, devastating arcs over a teacup that has seven identical sisters waiting patiently in the cabinet.

The sight doesn’t irritate him.

It doesn’t make him scoff or roll his eyes or dismiss your grief as melodrama the way someone less careful with you might have done.

No—what it does is far worse.

It cracks something open in him, something raw and jagged and humiliating, because nothing—not the memories of his childhood or the poverty, not the violence, not the hunger—has ever dragged him back toward the aching emptiness of where he comes from quite as mercilessly as watching you mourn something he doesn’t have the blueprint to value.

And the awful part—the part that presses under his ribs like a shard of glass—is that he wants to understand.

Jason wants to know why your fingers tremble as you gather the broken porcelain, why your breath keeps catching in your throat like you’re afraid it will escape you entirely, why your tears fall faster every time his voice slips into that helpless, weary frustration he didn’t mean to let bleed through.

He wants to tell himself that maybe this cup carried some hidden meaning, some quiet memory or sentimental thread he never saw, something soft and secret that shattered along with the porcelain and left you hurting in a way he wishes he knew how to soothe.

But he knows that isn't it. So Jason doesn’t understand.

So he stands there—lost, aching, hollowed by helplessness—staring at the broken pieces scattered between you, each shard glinting with a kind of accusation he doesn’t know how to answer. And for the briefest, sharpest moment, he feels like the fracture on the floor isn’t the worst thing he’s broken here.

And you—

God, you feel so unbearably stupid you could fold in on yourself from the embarrassment of it.

They were just tea cups.

Just cheap little china cups you never bothered to wash the “proper” way like the tiny slip of paper told you to, cups you left in the sink overnight sometimes, cups you barely thought about until one was sitting cracked and broken on your kitchen floor like the aftermath of something far more devastating.

You didn’t even care enough to treat them gently.

You chipped one last week and shrugged it off.

But now—now staring at it shattered beyond repair, splintered into fragments that look like the aftermath of a moment you weren’t equipped to handle—you feel something twist sharply inside you, something raw and humiliating and impossible to explain.

“Jason.” You breathe his name out in one long sigh, trying to smooth the wobble from your voice before it cracks into something pathetic, something you know he’ll mistake for anger. “Please… not right now. I had a long day and—”

“I just came back from an eight-hour patrol, and you’re the one crying, so how is this my—”

“I’m not blaming you!” you snap—not out of rage, but desperation—and the moment the words escape, you hate how thin and trembling they sound.

“Sure as hell sounds like it!” Jason fires back, a sharp huff of frustration leaving him as he begins pacing around the kitchen like the movement might somehow make sense of any of this.

You stare back down at the broken pieces of china, your teeth biting into your lip so hard it almost hurts, and the quiet, exhausted words slip out before you can stop them. “Well how is it my fault you’re taking it that way?”

“Can you stop talking to me like that?”

“How else am I supposed to talk to you?” you whisper, blinking fast, eyes wide and stinging. “What do you want me to do, lie and say ‘It doesn’t matter, Jason, this is exactly what I needed to come home to at ten o’clock at—’”

“If you’re stressed about something else,” he cuts in, exasperation threading through every syllable, “then why are you getting so defensive about the stupid tea cup?”

You stare at him, jaw dropping, because the word feels like a slap. “Stupid?”

“It’s a tea cup.” He groans the words, dragging a hand over his face like this entire moment is exhausting him.

“My tea cup,” you sputter, voice breaking as you gather the pieces into your hands and set them on a plate.

“What—so something you have seven other of matters more than me?” Jason finally asks, and the words aren’t mocking or cruel. They’re lost. Utterly, helplessly lost. Because you crying over something he did feels worse to him than any yelling you could throw his way. Yelling he understands. Yelling has a shape, a form he can wrestle. But crying? Tears he caused? That carves panic into his bones because tears don’t tell him what to do, tears don’t show him where to step, tears don’t give him a blueprint for repairing what broke.

He offered to buy you a new one—twice.

He tried explaining it was small, replaceable, meaningless in the grand scheme of things.

But you didn’t let it go.

You couldn’t let it go.

And he doesn’t even care if his own frustration sounds ridiculous, because in his mind he’s changed so much for you already.

You coaxed him open, gently, carefully, teaching Jason piece by piece what it meant to trust someone without waiting for the ground to fall out from under him—but Jason's the one who actually did the opening.

Jason's the one who learned to speak softer when you’re overwhelmed, who forced himself to sleep through the night instead of wandering the apartment like a ghost, who makes himself step back when he feels his temper flare instead of letting it swallow him whole.

He takes care of himself now—because you asked him to.

He tolerates people he would’ve shoved aside or ignored—because you asked him to.

He has given and bent and adjusted more than he ever thought he could for another person.

And Jason's never asked you for anything in return, so the helpless, aching plea slips through his voice before he can soften it, before he can make it gentle.

“Can’t you just let this go?” Jason murmurs, exhausted, grabbing his jacket from the back of the kitchen chair like he’s already bracing himself for the distance he thinks is coming.

And you don’t care—not even a little—if your reaction looks ridiculous or dramatic or childish, because the truth is that you have adjusted so much for him, bent yourself in ways you never thought you would have to, stretched your patience and your compassion and your understanding until it felt like you were pulling threads from your own ribs just to weave Jason something safe to land in.

You’ve explained every emotion you’ve ever felt to this man, laid them out in neat, vulnerable rows so he could see them clearly, so he wouldn’t have to guess, so nothing inside you could ever blindside him the way life blindsided him growing up.

You’ve explained his emotions to him too, talking him down from the cliffs of his own mind, guiding him back toward safety again and again, never once complaining, never once hesitating, because if he was drowning, then you were already in the water with him, pulling him back toward shore.

Was there ever one night—just one—where you weren’t there after patrol, waiting with the med kit, with the soft voice, with the careful hands?

Has Jason ever once gone to sleep without you bandaging him up first, cleaning blood off knuckles that never deserved to split open, humming under your breath so he wouldn’t mistake tenderness for pity?

Have you ever blamed him for anything—any outburst, any moment of panic, any jagged edge that cut too sharp because he hadn’t learned how to sand it down yet?

Have you ever pushed him to talk before he was ready, forced anything out of him, told him that what he felt was stupid or irrational or inconvenient?

No.

Never.

You’ve given him endless grace, endless patience, endless space to unravel and re-stitch himself at his own pace.

So for this one thing—for this one small, embarrassing, fragile break down—

“Please don’t be upset with me,” you whisper, voice trembling in a way you can’t hide, because you genuinely don’t think your heart can take it right now, because even if the reason for your tears is stupid, the feeling behind them isn’t, and lying about that would hurt more than the broken porcelain ever could.

And Jason—

God.

“…so that’s a no.”

And he breathes it out like you’ve betrayed him, like you’ve taken something from him without realizing it, like your refusal to snap out of your emotion is confirmation of some deep, ugly fear Jason’s never learned how to name.

You look down again, wiping your face with the back of your sleeve, your breath shivering in your chest as you try to swallow down the ache pressing against your ribs.

“I’m…” Jason starts, voice fraying at the edges after a long, taut moment. “I’m—I’m going to go, okay?”

You stare at the floor—at the tiny fragments of the cup, pieces so small they’re hardly more than dust, pieces you couldn’t see clearly through your earlier tears—and you manage a small, hoarse “…Okay.”

Jason stands there for a second and then hes nodding stiffly even though your eyes are still glued to the floor, your shoulders tight, your hands curled helplessly against your sides.

Then he walks away, the sound of him crossing the room somehow louder than it should be, like every step is dragging something behind it.

You don’t move.

You don’t even breathe properly.

You just stand there pressed against the fridge, listening to him tie his boots, the laces whispering against each other, the radiator humming in the background like it’s trying to fill the emptiness settling between you.

Then you hear his footsteps again—approaching this time—and before you can straighten or look up or prepare yourself, he’s standing beside you.

“I love you,” Jason murmurs, low and quiet and painfully awkward, like the words are too big in his mouth. “That hasn’t changed—uh… goodnight.”

Maybe it would have hurt less if he hadn’t said anything at all, because the forced wobble in his voice lands in your chest like a bruise, and you hate that you can hear the part he’s trying to hide.

“…tie your boots,” you mumble softly, eyes still fixed on the floor, “don’t trip, Jason.”

There’s a long, aching pause.

“Yeah, babe,” Jason whispers. He stands there for another second—just breathing, just gathering himself in the silence—and then he turns and leaves.

¹ ʷᵉᵉᵏ, ¹ ᵈᵃʸ ˡᵃᵗᵉʳ

Jason might genuinely be dumber than Damian ever suspected, because everyone at this damn table is staring at him—openly, mercilessly—and he’s still shoveling steak into his mouth like he’s in some kind of life-or-death speed-eating contest, jaw working with single-minded determination as if chewing is optional and survival isn’t.

Father, of course, looks absolutely delighted.

Ecstatic, even.

Jason staying at the manor for more than forty-eight hours—actually sleeping in his old room, leaving his boots by the door, existing in a way that suggests permanence—has turned Bruce into some strange, quiet version of jubilant, sipping his miso soup with the serene bliss of a man receiving endless father's day cards. Damian would not be surprised in the slightest if Bruce Wayne, Gotham’s brooding sentinel, were kicking his feet under the table like a child too excited to sit still.

Jason finally glances up mid-chew, cheeks full, eyes flat.

“What.”

Damian doesn’t miss a beat. “Chew.”

“Yeah, seriously,” Dick scoffs, though he’s grinning in that way that means he’s both disgusted and entertained, “what are you, a dog?”

“Do not compare dogs to him,” Damian snaps before Jason can even gather enough dignity to glare. “Titus eats his food like a gentleman.”

“I’m losing my appetite watching this,” Tim mutters, pushing his plate away and turning toward Bruce. “Since I’m obviously done, can I go work on—”

“No,” Bruce cuts in smoothly, still wearing that faint, impossible-to-scrape-off smile, “eat your asparagus.”

Tim groans, picks the limp vegetable up with all the enthusiasm of a condemned man, and shoves it into his mouth. “Acting like your not avoiding your seaweed.”

Jason tunes them out, shoulders lifting and falling with a silent sigh as he scowls and aggressively inhales the last of his food.

Eventually it’s just him, Dick, and Damian left at the table.

The clock on the far wall blinks a clean, indifferent 2:00 a.m.

Bedtime for the bats.

Or it should be.

Patrol itself had been easy—almost offensively so. Just annoying.

A rundown gambling hall and a half-hearted drug exchange at the docks during the storm, nothing he couldn’t handle blindfolded with one hand tied behind his back.

But Jason hadn’t been in it.

Not fully.

Not even halfway.

He’d moved on instinct alone, the muscle memory of nights like this doing all the work while his mind drifted somewhere far from the smoke and the grit and the snapping bones beneath his fists.

Jason had taken more hits than usual—unnecessary ones, stupid ones—including a sharp punch that split his lip and another that caught him square in the jaw. One ancient asshole had even landed a blow to his knee, of all places.

Dick had actually yelled at him mid-fight—“Get your head on straight!”—voice cracking with genuine worry.

Later, on the rooftop where Tim passed out greasy paper bags of burgers, Dick had tugged Jason aside, fingers buried in the mess of dark hair, muttering about how he needed a damn haircut because obviously that was the reason he was off his game.

And Damian—

Damian had burned holes through the back of Jason’s hood all night, silent, suspicious, eyes sharp enough to slice open whatever secret Jason wasn’t sharing.

“You going to bed here?” Dick asks now, picking up his plate, tone light but probing in that older-brother way he’ll never shake.

“Yeah,” Jason mutters, nudging a sad stalk of asparagus across his plate like the world’s most exhausted toddler.

Damian’s head snaps up so fast it’s almost comical.

He stares—really stares—at Jason, eyes widening, brows furrowing, mouth parting in something halfway between realization and disbelief. Jason, predictably oblivious, doesn’t notice a damn thing.

Dick does, though–oh, he definitely does.

He hides a snort behind his hand, mumbling something about making sure Tim is in his bedroom and not the cave before walking out.

And Damian?

Damian is still staring like Jason has just announced he’s selling his organs to fund a circus.

Now it’s just the two of them left in the dining room, the silence stretching out in a way only Jason receives as casual, and Damian watches as Jason takes a slow swig of water as if he can wash the exhaustion out of his bones before pushing himself up to stand, ready to make the quietest, least dramatic exit possible—only for a metal clatter to slice through the room when a spoon hits the middle of his back with the delicate precision of someone who has absolutely no intention of letting him leave.

Jason freezes mid-step, staring at a painting on the wall as though it might offer him a different reality, one where he isn’t being pelted with kitchenware by a ten-year-old assassin, and then he turns, slow enough to betray just how done he is, to face Damian.

“What did Dick say about throwing cutlery?” he grumbles, trying—God, trying—to summon that authoritative ‘dad’ tone Bruce wields like a weapon and Dick wields like a warm blanket, but it comes out thin, frayed, and completely incapable of intimidating anyone who’s ever stabbed a man before puberty.

Damian doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t blink. He just looks at Jason with those flat, unyielding eyes and says, “It’s been a week, you said on monday 'maybe friday'.” like the words are a verdict and Jason is already guilty.

Jason drags a hand down his face, worn-out in a way that has nothing to do with the bruises blooming under his skin. “Look, now is really not a good time,” he mutters, the words reaching for patience and barely grazing it. “And it’s not like I’m keeping you out, alright? I’m not going either—”

“Who said I needed to go with you?” Damian interrupts, his tone sharp enough to cut, as if the idea that he might require accompaniment is almost insulting.

Jason raises an eyebrow, too tired to even pretend he doesn’t know exactly where this is going, too tired to carry the weight of this conversation but too human not to try anyway. “She’s not going to want to see you right now,” he says, and the words come out softer than he means them to, softer than he wants them to be.

That actually hits Damian—Jason sees it, the tiny break in the armor, the shift from steel to something almost, almost vulnerable. His expression tightens, curls in on itself, and for a moment he looks less like the demon heir and more like a kid trying to fit himself into a shape the world keeps insisting on. “I… don’t recall doing anything… wrong,” he murmurs, the uncertainty so rare it practically echoes.

Jason exhales, a long, unraveling sound that’s half frustration and half something like grief, because the last thing he needs is to drag anyone else into the mess he’s made. “You didn’t,” he says, and he even tries for reassurance, though it lands crooked. “Chill. You’re fine. It’s me—it’s… her. We’re not talking right now. She’d be upset if you showed up by yourself, and you’re not coming with me because I’m not going.”

“You’ve split up?” Damian explodes, his hands slamming against the tabletop with a force that rattles the silverware, the kind of theatrical outrage only someone raised by assassins and billionaires could ever pull off without flinching.

“No,” Jason exhales, the word coming out flat, worn, so utterly unaffected that it almost sounds cruel, though it’s really just exhaustion wearing his voice like a wet coat. He knows exactly where this is headed, knows exactly how drained he’ll feel by the time he finally gets upstairs, and yet he still tries—Gods help him—to keep things level. “We’re just taking a break, okay—?”

“A break?” Damian repeats, the word hitting his tongue like it’s poison, like the very idea defies the laws of physics. He stares at Jason with something between horror and disgust. “What the hell did you do?”

“Nothing!” Jason shoots back, the frustration rising faster than he can tamp it down. “We just had an argument, alright? And frankly I don’t even feel that in the wrong here—we’re going to talk about it like adults later, but right now I don’t exactly want to see her and I seriously doubt she wants to see you—”

And the second the sentence leaves his mouth, he hears it. He hears it. The way it sounds. The way it lands. He watches Damian go still in that frightening, surgical way he has, his lips flattening into a single, rigid line and his fists curling tight enough that the knuckles pale.

Jason closes his eyes, drops his head, raises a hand in something like surrender—but not quite apology, because he hasn’t figured out how to string one together yet. “I didn’t mean it like that—”

“What does what you did wrong have to do with me?” Damian fires back, each word sharpened to a point.

Jason actually stops. Actually blinks at him. And then, with a tiredness so bone-deep it feels like he’s speaking through mud, he says, “I hate to fucking tell you this, Damian, but you’re my brother first. No amount of closeness—yours or mine—or whatever the hell any of us think we are to her is going to change that.”

For a moment, the room goes very, very still. A breath held by someone who doesn’t want to acknowledge they’re holding it.

Then Jason turns—and finds Dick and Tim standing in the doorway like two busted gargoyles caught eavesdropping on a family therapy session they absolutely didn’t have the clearance for. The tension on Jason's face folds into something sharp and undeniably pissed off.

“What the hell?” he snaps. “Fuck off and go to bed.”

Dick looks at him like Jason’s a stray dog someone just threatened to kick. Tim looks like he’s trying to figure out whether this is finally the moment where a 'trouble in paradise?' joke would get him killed.

Jason pushes past both of them anyway, jaw tight, shoulders tense. He sends one last look over his shoulder toward Damian—the kind of pointed look that carries a warning far heavier than the words themselves.

“Don’t even try to sneak out,” he says, low and firm, a promise more than a threat. “You do that and I— so help me Damian I'll make sure your never allowed to step foot into that apartment again, who do you wana be shed listen to?”

And then he’s gone down the hall, leaving Damian alone with a table full of cold food and a silence sharp enough to slice clean through him.

“Hey… bud,” Dick starts, voice careful, slow, like he’s trying to thread his way through a minefield of tension he can feel but can’t quite see. “Do you want to play a video game with—”

Damian doesn’t even pause. Doesn’t even glance. His head shakes once, sharp, decisive, the motion carrying more weight than any argument ever could. Then he simply walks past them, silent, deliberate, leaving the words hanging in the air like smoke, unclaimed and useless.

Dick exhales, just a little, the sound betraying a mixture of frustration, resignation, and something softer, something that almost feels like sadness. Tim shifts in place, uncertain, then sighs and mumbles a small, "I'll tell Bruce.”

Damian is sprawled flat beneath Titus like some unwilling, furry sarcophagus, limbs splayed and pinned, when Bruce walks into the room. Fresh out of the shower, pretending worry isn't gracing his brow because of the fact Damian has not kicked him out yet. Lucy, the monkey Damian has been itching to introduce for days, perches nearby, inspecting strands of his hair with meticulous little fingers, poking as if she’s checking for fleas or ticks.

Bruce eases onto the edge of the bed, reaching down to lift one of Damian’s feet. His hands move with that practiced, silent precision, pressing gently for bruises or tenderness from the night’s patrol—the memory of Dick shoving Damian away from a man and into that tight space between two shipping containers still clear in his mind, the only time Jason had reacted with something close to humor, snorting from his daze as if the absurdity had momentarily broken through the tension.

“I’m not hurt,” Damian huffs, the sound muffled beneath Titus’s fur, thick and immovable. Ace nudges into Bruce's back like hes telling his owner to ignore the little one.

“Humor me,” Bruce replies, voice low and roughened from Gotham’s rain, hands shifting carefully, probing not just for broken bones but for temperature changes and tension in muscle that might betray pain he refuses to admit.

“Father…” Damian’s voice finally cuts through, hesitant, thin, fragile under the weight of silence. Titus has shifted fully, blocking Bruce’s view of his youngest’s face, and maybe that is exactly what gives Damian the courage to ask the question rolling uncomfortably off his tongue.

“Mhm? Yes, Damian?”

“…Your… experienced with women.”

Bruce freezes mid-motion, fingers resting lightly on Damian’s knee. This is not the conversation he anticipated when Tim had peeked into his master bedroom, reporting that the baby needed attention.

Not in a million scenarios did he imagine navigating questions about women or experience with this son, least of all now, when he barley reaches Bruce's hip.

And yet here it is, suspended between them in the quiet room, heavier than any patrol report, any argument, any lesson on discipline—and Bruce knows that his experience isn't exactly…well one he wants to be used for teaching. 

“Did you… meet a girl at school?” Bruce begins carefully, slow and measured, the words more an experiment than a question, and he watches, almost with a kind of detached fascination, as Damian immediately snaps upright, yanking his leg away from his father’s hand as if contact itself had suddenly become unbearable. His ears flare bright red, almost glowing beneath the dim light, and the flush spreads up his sharp cheekbones, raw and uncontainable.

“NOT ME!” Damian practically screams, the volume ricocheting off the walls and into Bruce’s ears, which still throb faintly from the night’s patrol.

“The other one!” Damian huffs, his anger deflating slightly as he pets Lucy, Titus, and Ace with careful, apologetic strokes, murmuring soft noises that are half reassurance, half apology, as if the animals themselves need to understand he’s not permanently dangerous. 

Bruce rubs at his ears, bitterly convinced that after that scream he deserves a pet too.

“Dick?” Bruce murmurs, voice low and cautious, “I think he can figure out Koriand'r better than any of us could, Damian—”

Damian mutters a name under his breath, sharp, almost imperceptible, and Bruce pauses mid-thought.

Of course, he knows of you; he knows that most of his children are well-versed in your existence, your habits, your presence in the orbit of their lives—but the formal interactions between Bruce and you have been limited, almost clinical: a parent-teacher conference, one short exchange of cash in thanks, nothing else. Hell, the only reason he has your number is because Damian's phone and contacts is connected to his.

Bruce is not annoyed that Damian hadn’t called him immediately when the fight happened, but there had been a flicker of irritation that neither you nor Jason had tried, that the initiative had fallen elsewhere.

That irritation fades almost entirely, however, the moment he recalls the selfie Jason had sent a few days ago, one of those rare, candid things. Jason had been smiling ear to ear, face unguarded, and Bruce’s eyes had fallen on your hand brushing lightly against the whipped cream on Damian’s upper lip, gentle and unaware of the camera.

Jason was wearing one of Bruce’s suits, perfectly tailored from no use, and Bruce thinks it has been years—years—since he has seen that effortless smile from his son, never mind one sent willingly, one shared.

“Jason…” Damian spits the name like venom, forcing Bruce’s memory out of that quiet, tender snapshot he had professionally printed months ago and keeps tucked in his desk drawer. “Says the two of them are on a break.”

Damian’s voice hardens further, the word break pronounced like an accusation. He mutters under his breath, barely audible: “What does that entail?”

Ah.

Well.

Talia and Selina had taught him more than enough about what a ‘break’ meant, and Bruce could feel the weight of it pressing into the room, a tension that seemed almost physical, curling around the corners like smoke.

“Well…” Bruce begins slowly, carefully choosing each word as if it were a scalpel, “Your mother—”

“Father. Textbook definition.” Damian’s face scrunches up, sharp angles softening for the briefest fraction of a second. “Not mother's.”

Bruce exhales, long and weary, the kind of sound that carries the history of too many late nights, too many battles, too many conversations that end in nothing but exhaustion. “It’s different for everyone,” he says, hands flexing on his knees, voice low and ragged, “It could entail not seeing or speaking, just acting as friends, maybe seeing other people—”

“OTHER PEOPLE?” Damian actually yells this time, the word snapping like a whip, ricocheting against the walls of the room.

Other people.

People who could, Gods forbid, have little brothers.

Bruce presses a hand to his temple, already tasting the headache forming, the kind that comes whenever hes thinking about his children's love lives. At least it’s not Cassandra, he tells himself bitterly.

Bruce looks down at his son, defeated, the weight of parenthood settling across his shoulders like an old, heavy coat. “I doubt that’s what they did, but—” He pauses, pinching the bridge of his nose, willing the migraine back into nonexistence, “Look, they probably had an argument and just—”

“Have you done this ‘break’ before?” Damian interrupts, sharp, precise, a predator circling a question like it’s prey.

“Yes,” Bruce says, the word falling flat but necessary, the history of his own mistakes and missteps coiling behind it. “With your mother. All the damn time. In fact I think we never formally ended things. See? No problem. Calm down, Damian—”

Damian blinks at him like a bird caught mid-flight, feathers ruffled, heart racing. “That’s… not exactly reassuring,” he mutters, the words soft but pointed, as if every syllable carries a weight Bruce isn’t entirely ready to shoulder.

Bruce shifts, awkward, uncertain. “She’s nothing like Talia, and you can’t assume Jason will act the way I do, so… I’m sure—”

But Damian doesn’t hear him. He sees you. He recalls the way you scold Jason and him, measured but firm, precise as any lesson he’s ever had from his mother. He remembers the tea, the way you handle it, the soft pressure of your hands on the cup, as if you are instilling care into the ritual itself. He recalls the gentle pat to his head, firm yet soft, praise administered like an art form in the same cadence, the same rhythm as Talia.

He remembers Jason, the way he closes off, blocks the world, melts into something unreadable and strange the way Bruce had with Talia, the way he does with you. He remembers the switch flipping, the calm, the mush of familiarity and affection, all tangled into a strange, fragile symmetry.

Damian looks down at his lap, where Lucy has tucked herself, huffing softly, a tiny puff of air as if she’s exasperated on his behalf.

Bruce tries again, voice careful, steadying, the weight of years of lessons bleeding through: “And… it’s not like Jason can’t handle his own relationships—”

Damian looks up at Bruce and mumbles the money move.

"Father...please? I'm only talking about this with you because I trust you to keep it to yourself."

The pause stretches, dense and thick, a pressure that hovers in the space between them, before Damian watches as his father flops onto the bed, resting his head on Ace’s back as if surrendering to the sheer absurdity of parenthood.

“I’ll take you to her apartment,” Bruce sighs, voice heavy with both command and relief, “Go get the keys.”

Damian launches himself from the bed with such ferocity, such unrestrained vigor, that Bruce can’t help but feel a small, fleeting twinge of jealousy.

“CAN I DRIVE?!” Damian yells from down the hall.

“DONT MAKE ME TAKE IT BACK!” Bruce yells back from the bed, petting Ace with the same gentleness his son does all the time.

You don’t even know why you’re surprised when you glance out the window and see Bruce and Damian Wayne crawling back inside—completely unannounced, completely without costume, like some absurdly wealthy, deadly version of burglars who’ve forgotten the subtlety part of the job. Your brain freezes for a moment, caught somewhere between incredulity and the faint, reluctant amusement that it somehow never manages to suppress around this family.

Bruce moves with the quiet, deliberate precision you’d expect, though somehow even that is comically undermined by the fact that he’s wearing a loose dress shirt and slacks instead of armor, and Damian—sharp, rigid, impossibly focused—clings to the sill like a tiny, lethal spider. And somehow, somehow, this is happening in your living room.

Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out. You think about yelling, about asking, about just… doing literally anything, but the scene is already too ridiculous, too surreal, too utterly Wayne to stop watching.

“…I take it Jason doesn’t know you two are here.” Your voice is flat, calm, deadpan enough to make Damian falter at the window, caught mid-crouch like a startled cat, before he stiffens and composes himself with that rigid precision that somehow manages to look both absurd and impressive at the same time.

Bruce just stares at you, eyes flicking toward the floor for a moment, the faintest shadow of shame crossing his face. “Damian is… very convincing,” he admits quietly, almost reluctantly, like he doesn’t want to admit that his youngest has outmaneuvered him. And that the reason he isn't donning his suit and cowl that would make him feel less awkward doing this is because Damian said you…dont allow ‘costumes’ in the apartment.

You sigh, long and measured, because you know that all too well. “...Would you both like some tea?”

“Green, please.” They say it simultaneously, words colliding mid-air, and then both of them pause, blinking at the strange synchronicity of it.

Damian finally lifts his gaze to you, stepping fully into the warmth of your apartment—the one he’s been missing all week—shoulders still drawn back a little, tight with tension, cautious. There’s a flicker in his expression, a shadow of worry that you might be angry with him, and for a quiet moment, you realize that this must be why he didn’t come with Jason.

Why he felt safe enough to come with Bruce.

The thought makes you smile faintly to yourself. Unfortunately that worry was still for not, since nothing—nothing—could make you think of Jason without some measure of fondness, some involuntary warmth curling in your chest.

“…Two sugars and—”

“Honey.” You nod softly, gentle but sure. “I take it that’s for you as well, Mr. Wayne?”

Bruce notices it immediately—the same airy softness in your voice that Talia once had, long before… everything. The sound of it makes his chest tighten in a almost protective way, the kind of tightness that drives him to think about checking security systems more obsessively, running patrols along streets he shouldn’t need to think twice about, filing addresses away in the back of his mind for frequent, silent surveillance.

Mr. Wayne closes the window behind him with a slow, deliberate motion, the kind of movement that feels both commanding and almost apologetic at once, muttering under his breath with that rare, unguarded humility: “I don’t deserve honey.”

“I agree.” Your voice cuts through the quiet with that clipped precision, that same subtle authority Bruce knows all too well, and both father and son feel it—the unmistakable sting of being scolded by another woman in their life.

“This is all Jason’s fault,” Damian mutters under his breath as he stalks toward the kitchen, each step measured, deliberate, like a small storm contained in a human frame. Bruce sighs and trails behind, a quiet shadow to Damian’s tempest. “I’m putting salt in his hot chocolate.”

“That makes it taste better,” Bruce mumbles, distracted, voice low, already running through possible interventions, calculating ways to prevent this minor rebellion from turning into another justification for why your relationship with Jason is somehow compromised.

Damian turns to him with a look that could have been mistaken for disbelief or horror, eyebrows raised as if Bruce had just sprouted a third head. “You… you poor people are so weird, Can’t afford high-quality chocolate, so you add salt—”

“I’m a billionaire,” Bruce scoffs, the faintest smile tugging at the corners of his mouth at how Damian seemed to relax slightly.

“Do all billionaires use the window?” You quip from in front the kettle, and only then does Bruce fully register that the two of them have already moved into your kitchen, filling the small space with the weight of their presence. In his defense, Bruce isn't used to such small living spaces.

“Just our family,” Bruce says awkwardly, voice softening, attempting to lighten the mood in a room that somehow feels smaller and larger than he can fit in all at once.

You glance over your shoulder, and the glare is familiar—sharp, incisive, the same one Jason had once leveled at him at nine years old, full of judgment that Bruce could only find adorable.

ᴅɪᴠɪᴅᴇʀꜱ: ᴄᴜʀꜱᴇᴅ ᴄᴀʀᴍɪɴᴇ & ᴄᴀꜰᴇ ᴋɪᴛꜱᴜɴᴇ

⤷ series masterlist

tag-list [ reply to the master list to be added ദ്ദി˶ｰ̀֊ｰ́ ) ] ᯓ★ @marenyearlylover444, @psysgr, @sourstrawburry, @bloomfaery, @prettysweet02, @r-4-y-v-3-n, @backtonormalthings, @milam03, @animegamerfox, @tamyyyy2005, @arachniis, @k-pevensie28, @thetruecardinalsinner, @dreammarereads, @lllucere, @vieenr0se, @deadbeatphobos, @k-pevensie28, @nyxisnotok,@lemmonpiie,@yo-soy-yo, @starfiremylove, @whosmev, @avlizio, @indigoscribe, @yo-soy-yo, @appalost, @c4xcocoa, @mystic-is-here-to-love, @its-me-mila, @nightlights-and-twiklingstars, @smiithys, @oh-buttercup, @jcks29, @naessheart, @bungunz, @atomicpeachmaker, @lulasgna, @givemefinganame, @dap11, @screamingsilence3, @woderfulkawaii, @radicalcannoliqueen, @itachisrealm, @missmillivanilli, @fluffalorianflash, @koibleufish, @liuope, @athenalive, @idiotussupremus, @foquest, @justamarsbar, @lordbugs, @rosehoneycomb, @bibiznbyler, @andraax2, @lemmonpiie, @mournersinketterdam, @wrenisrad, @chaosandcandies, @saltedcoffeescotch, @0lives10, @s0uz4s, @girl-so-gay, @sharkabb, @blackthemiller, @strawbrysapphic, @inherdiary77

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