#cnqfeusd || emmie/em . tea drinker . dick graysonâs wife . jason toddâs love . wannabe writer . unofficial spokes person for polkadots . if you squint im hilarious . bella kay listener . my sleep schedule is horribly messed up .
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a few centered around his familyâhe always sits or stands to the left of dick, always makes cass her plate, always brings dessert to gatherings because nobody can do it as well as he can.
a few about his workâhe always starts on the south end of gotham and works toward the north, always cleans his guns an hour before patrol, always puts his right boot on before his left one.
then, he has several for you.
he always flicks your sky projector on fifteen minutes before youâre done getting ready for bed, he always lets you take a bite of food first before picking his fork up, he always lets you read the prologue of a book heâs considering purchasing.
but your personal favorite?
jason always lets you kiss him first.
heâll lower his face to yours, keeping the space between the two of you until you lift your lips to slot against his. whenever he wants affection, heâll draw closer, look at you with those utterly compelling eyes of his, and wait.
he waits until you respondâwhether it be reciprocating his energy or not.
he doesnât take from you. he loves whatever you give him, even if itâs merely eye contact.
even then, heâll graciously accept it because itâs from you.
jason has a habit of waiting for you to kiss him first, not because heâs nervous or shy.
he waits because he knows what itâs like to have things taken, and he always wants you to have a choice.
Asking your boyfriend for a hug shouldnât be this hard.
Youâve been pacing around in your bedroom for ten minutes. Your mind a raging storm of thoughtsâ good ones, bad ones, all blended together to form a giant hurricane.
See, these past few days have just been so hectic and stressful for you (you had tried to hide your exhaustion from Dick, but you knew that he noticed) and for once, you just really want someone to give you a hug.
And that someone being your boyfriend.
There was a slight problem, though: you were not the kind of person who was used to any sort of physical affection.
It took years and loads of efforts for Dick to worm his way into your heart, for you to warm up to him and get to where you were today.
He respected your boundariesâ touching you and kissing you only when he knew you were comfortable with it. And you loved him endlessly for it.
But it was just a hug. Dick loved you. He wouldnât mind if you asked for a hug... right?
But what if he thinks itâs weird? That youâre being weird? Itâs not exactly like you to just ask for it out of the blue like that.
âHow do I even ask him?â you muttered under your breath, sneaking glances towards the door where, on the other side, Dick making your lunch in the kitchen. ââHey, love, may I please have a hug?â No, that sounds dumb.â
You screw your eyes shut, groaning at your own helplessness. You paced around more frantically, as if to will your mind to come up with a better idea.
âDarling?â
Flinching in surprise, you whipped your head towards the doorâ now opened, your boyfriend leaning against the doorframe casually, a curious look on his face.
âAre you okay?â
You stared at him nervously, hands fidgeting behind your back. âUh-huh.â You nodded, lips pursed. You didnât sound the least bit convincing, even to your own ears.
âWhat is it?â That was when he stalked towards you. His tone was airy, yet careful.
Once he was right in front of you, his hand reached for yours, interlocking your pinkies together as he repeated his question with a look.
Blowing a breath, you nodded your head, giving him a soft smile in assurance. âYeah. Itâs just...â you trailed off. God, just ask him!
âI-â You reached out, only for a fraction, then stopped as you said the single broken word. The heat of embarrassment crept up your face, you could feel it. In your ears, your hands that were even start to tremble and clamp up a bit.
You blinked at him, desperately trying to convey your words by a mere gaze. Why was it so hard to ask? For a split, ridiculous, second, you thought about running away.
But, like he understood you, Dick's arms were already encased tightly around you before you could, pulling you close to his chest.
Your body tensedâthe usual reaction your body gave to physical touch, or just affection in general, reallyâ it took a minute before you slowy melted into a pitiful, stressed-out puddle in his arms, your chest already feeling much lighter as he ran his thumb over your waist.
âIt's okay,â He hushed gently in your ear. âItâs okay. I know.â And he didn't know just how much those simple words undid you.
Lowering your head on his shoulder, you just nodded, silently feeling the dam of emotions break in your chest. Through it all, your heart did somersaults over the fact that he knew you so well.
He stroked your hair softly; you resist the urge to just fall asleep right then and there. âYou can ask me, alright? You don't need to overthink it, I'll always be here.â
Humming in response, you, albeit hesitantly, just held him tighter in your arms.
With your arms still wrapped around each other, he pulled back just slightly after a while had passed, and planted a kiss to your forehead.
His fingers lightly brushed your cheek. âBetter?â
A grateful smile curved your lips. âMuch. Thank you.â You angled your head just enough to brush a kiss to his palm.
The next time you needed a hug, you didnât hesitate to ask him. There'll be a day where you'd be the one to initiate those hugs, but that'll come sometime in the future, you just didn't know it yet.
And just as he told you, Dick was always there when you needed him.
authorâs note : i forgot that i had this in my drafts and never reposted itđ i edited some of the parts a little bit so it's a tad different than the one i posted on my prev blog, but other than that it mostly stayed stayed the same.
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âË⥠synopsis: when red hood stumbles into your shitty convenience store at 2 am looking for marlboros, you donât expect him to come backâbut he does, except now heâs jason, your cute regular.
âË⥠pairing: jason toddâ â đâ â cashier!reader.
âË⥠authorâs notes: iâve probably said this like fifty times, but iâm restarting my dcu taglist. iâll make a proper post soon, but if anyone is interested you could leave a comment or send me an ask. even though there is a afab presenting picture in the moodboard, that does not dictate readerâs genderâi have always written gen!reader.
Your clenched hand bangs on the âOPENâ sign for the third time this night. One letter is always burnt outâthe âOâ, to be specific. As a result, the small convenience store you work for has the word âPENâ basically written on its front door. Letâs say it doesnât naturally garner any paying customers after normal shopping hours. Well, any normal customers, that is. Youâre pretty much desensitised to every stranger who walks through the door.
âDoes this make my store look like we sell dirty magazines?â Your manager, an old lady whom youâve just learned to call maâam instead of her real nameâMarjorieâbarks your way before opening the door to finally head home.
How nice that she never stays around for the night shift. Fantastic choice of words to end her stay here for tonight, too.
âMore like a stationery shop,â you say, trying to align the sign to the center of the door, âIâm not sure people expect us to be selling anything⊠mature at a convenience store. You know, with there being aisles full of groceries.â
âIâll be damned if a stupid sign ruins the reputation of this store, do you hear me? This building has been in my family for generations.â Sheâs still pointing at you, even though sheâs half out of the door. âTake care of the place, donât forget to clean up.â
âSure, maâam.â You try your best to hold back the sarcasm in your voice, but it fails, and you receive a nasty side glare from the woman.
You groan, turning back on your heel to return to the counter. Itâs made of old wood-grain, laminated. Already chipping at the edges. It sits catty-corner to the door so you can see both the entrance and the back aisle. Which you have to, since the camerasâinside and outâare definitely fake.
Thereâs an old-school bell on a spring, attached to the door. It announces every customer, loud and impossible to muffle. Hearing bells at two in the morning isnât ideal, but the store runs on pure spite, and your rent needs to be paid somehow.
Speaking of the devil, you hear the bell ring.
You straighten your spine, mentally readying yourself for another of Marjorieâs scoldings. You wonder what you forgot to do now, or who will be the recipient of her wrath. Raising your head, you open your mouth to muster some kind of excuse for whatever sheâll throw at you, but you stop dead in your tracks.
The person who walks through the door isnât the short, hot-tempered old lady youâve been working with for the past few months.
No.
You first notice the blood. The way itâs still wet, clinging onto the helmet, which is in the same shade. A man whom you have never seen in person stands just a few feet away from you. A hip holster hangs off of him, with something metal shining under the unbearable fluorescent lights. You donât have to guess. It might be a gun, or he might have a knife stashed in another holster you havenât spotted yet.
Youâve seen freaks in this shopâthe guy who tried to pay with a bag of loose teeth, the woman who screamed at the beer cooler for ten minutes. Some are even sort of endearing when you learn how to handle them.
But you havenât seen Red fucking Hood. And you sure as hell donât know how to handle him.
What the actual hell? Marjorie didnât train you for this. There isnât a âhow to deal with a vigilante showing upâ section in any manual.
You freeze on the spot. Your hands grip the cold counter. For a moment, you think of taking the energy drinks from the small cooler and just throwing them at the man so maybe, just maybe, heâll find the attempt pathetic enough and let you go. You can hear him step closer. Youâre sure the metal cans wonât save you now.
You take a single step back. You hit the cigarette wall behind you. Marjorie would kill you if she found the cigarette wall in a mess, but it wonât really matter if the man approaching you gets to you first.
God, he is bigger in person. What the hell does he even eat to look like that?
What are you even thinking right now?
It only takes him a few steps to reach the counter from the entrance. A small trail of dirty footsteps follows him, and you grimace at the drops of blood sticking to his boots. Thereâs a small⊠handle sticking out of a holster lower on his leg.
Oh, thatâs where the knife is. Lucky you.
You swallow down the breath stuck in your throat as he stands in front of the counter. He looks everywhere but at you, eyeing the energy drinks beside you and the cigarette wall. Instinctively, you raise your hands in front of you, as if to show him you wonât try anything stupid, like throwing energy drinks at him.
You can swear you hear something like an amused scoff coming from underneath his helmet as he looks back at you.
So, he finds this funny, huh.
âIâm not going to bite your head off.â He speaks first, because you sure as hell wonât talk to him first. You doubt Marjorie would scold you for customer service when the customer is Red Hood himself.
âSo the knife there is just for show?â The words escape your lips without your permission, and you regret it instantly.
âI do love a good accessory,â he clicks his tongue, as if heâs being hilarious.
He raises a hand, and you watch the way the leather of his gloves flexes. Theyâre dark in color, tactical, fitted, covering to his wrist. The fabric leaves a piece of his forearm exposed. Your eyes trail over the showing skin. There are a few scars littered on the surface, running down his arm like rivers.
âYou can drop your hands,â his voice breaks you out of your thoughts⊠about his arms?
âSo, you arenât suspicious or anything?â You drop your hands to your sides, âWhat if Iââ
âYou donât scare me, sweetheart. Itâs mostly the other way around.â He says the word âsweetheartâ a little too easily. It almost sounds like honey rolling of his tongue. If he didnât have a gun and knife strapped to him, maybe youâd even blush.
You hope you arenât visibly blushing. The heat in your cheeks is your problem, not his.
âI could call the cops,â you challenge, a newfound confidence seeping into your words.
âAnd theyâd definitely come here. After half an hour, give or take. But Iâd already have taken what I came here for.â
Yep, heâs actually going to do something horrible. You thought Red Hood took care of criminals, not some cashier like you, who, yes, might have skimmed some dollars out of the cash register a few times. But that doesnât warrant a visit from Red Hood himself. Your jaw tightens, while your hands clench. Youâre sure your nails are digging crescents into your palm right now.
âAnd what would that be?â
If youâre going to be beaten up or robbed by Gothamâs most smart-mouthed vigilante, youâre not going down silent. Maybe you should scream. Just to make this harder for him.
He puts his other hand on his hip. For a moment, you think heâs reaching for his holster, but his voice from the helmet reaches you again.
âI want a cigarette.â
What.
âYou want a what?â
Red Hood points a finger at the cigarette wall behind you. You follow the gesture to the Marlboros sitting in the middle row, just behind the locked glass screen. The â21+â sign is hanging on the screen with the paint already peeling off its surface.
He wants a fucking cigarette. And heâs saying all of this as if he didnât just threaten you a moment ago.
âSeriously?â
âI am over twenty-one, if youâre wondering.â
âThatâs not,â you groan. âThatâs not what I meant, and you know it.â
He shrugs. Throwing that energy drink can might have been an actual good idea.
âI canât show you my ID, unfortunately,â he gives you a faux sigh through his helmet. Both of his hands are on his hips now, and you somehow calm down seeing that heâs not reaching for a weapon. âSecret identity and all. You understand, no?â
âYou just had to mess with me, huh?â
âCouldnât help myself.â
You turn your back slowly, still trying to keep an eye on him, all while letting out an annoyed huff. He mimics the sound of your sneer right back at you. You snap your head back at him. He, on the other hand, looks at one of the shelves, as if he didnât do anything at all. You can feel something akin to a laugh building up in your body because he looks ridiculous, if you ignore the blood. His hands are on his hips, showing you heâs not going for his weapons. Heâs looking away like a child caught doing something he wasnât supposed to.
You open the cigarette wall with a turn of your keys. The glass screen moves, and you grab a single pack of Marlboros. You scan the pack in silence. Itâs not like the heavy and tense silence from before, when he first walked through the door, bloody and intimidating. Now it feels like heâs actually a customer. A weird one, but itâs Gotham. Youâre not surprised.
âSmoking is bad for you, yâknow,â you say quietly, almost mumbling. Though he hears you anyway.
âYou worried, sweetheart?â
âOh, of course,â you answered with a raised brow, hoping the sarcasm was obvious in your voice. âWho else would walk in bloody in the shop just to buy cigarettes?â
He reaches for his pocket. Your eyes trail to his forearms again. You hadnât noticed before, but the veins on his arms are barely visible. Though you can see the way they are indented in his skin, between the scars. He lays a few crumpled dollar bills on the counter. To his credit, the money at least isnât bloodied.
âNext time atâŠâ he looks at the clock on the wall behind you, the cracked glass shows that itâs eight pm now. âHow does five sound?â
âIf you donât come with your accessories and blood, maybe. Just maybe.â
You hand over the cigarette pack to him. Your fingers brush his, and for a split second, his fingers freeze. Itâs like heâs surprised and flustered by the contact.
âA deal breaker, then?â He lets out a cough before grabbing the Marlboros and taking a step back from the counter.
You tilt your head, trying to figure out in your mind what he looks like right now behind that helmet. His voice sounds hoarse. All because you touched him. Though he hasnât expressed any discomfort yet.
âNo,â you answer. âNot exactlyâŠâ
God, why is your stupid heart talking instead of your brain?
He perks up. You can see it in how his shoulders pick up. His grip on the cigarette pack changes; heâs now twirling it between his fingers.
Yep, youâre never leaving your apartment ever again.
He does have big hands, though.
âFive oâclock, then,â he says, like itâs already decided. Like you already said yes.
âI didnât agree to anything.â
âYou didnât say no either, sweetheart.â
There it is again. That word. Dripping off his tongue like heâs known you for years. Like he has any right to call you that when you canât even see his face.
He tucks the Marlboros into his jacket pocket. Takes a step back. Then another.
You should feel relieved. You are relieved. Probably.
âSame time tomorrow,â he says from the door. The bell hasnât rung yet. Heâs waiting. For what, you donât know.
âSame blood?â you ask, because your mouth has officially divorced your brain.
He tilts his helmet. That same amused energy from before.
âMaybe less. If youâre lucky.â
The bell rings. Heâs gone.
You stare at the door for a full ten seconds. Then, at the crumpled bills on the counter. Then at the trail of dirty footprints leading to the entrance.
Then back at the door.
What the hell just happened?
You grab the nearest energy drink canânot to throw, just to hold. The metal is cold against your palm. Your heart is still racing. Your cheeks are still warm.
And you hate yourself a little for already knowing youâll be here at five oâclock tomorrow.
+++
âWait, say that again,â Marjorie points at your face, as if youâre in the wrong. âA vigilante walked through my doors and threatened my employee?â
âHe didnât really threaten me,â you point out, but the exasperated look on the womanâs face makes you backtrack. âI mean, he looked scary. He didnât lay a hand on me, though.â
Unfortunately.
You should have stayed home.
âYou said he had a gun!â
âAnd a knife.â
âOh, my god. And he smokes, too. Children these days.â
âI donât think his smoking is the main issue here,â you move past the counter to the aisles.
You didnât call Marjorie about what happened last night as soon as he had left. In her book, if something isnât bleeding or broken, calling isnât necessary. You cleaned the drop of blood from the counter and closed up last night. The streets felt just a tad brighter under the streetlights, knowing a certain vigilante might be looking out for you. Who knows, maybe heâll appreciate the fact that you sold him the cigarettes without calling the cops on him.
Now youâre here, the next day. Youâve been buzzing around the shop all day. The sticky floors, even though you cleaned them yesterday, are still holding onto the grime. The fluorescent light bulb above the counter needed a few hits before it stopped flickering. Youâve been listening to the rattle of the beer cooler since you clocked in.
Marjorieâs incessant badgering about Red Hood unfortunately did reach your ears over the coolerâs rattle.
âDid he hurt you?â She asks again, and you, surprisingly, find the concern a bit endearing.
âAw,â you coo, âyou do care about me, Marj.â
âDonât get ahead of yourself, idiot,â she scowls. âWho else would work for me if you died, or worse, quit?â
âNo. He didnât hurt me,â you deadpan. âHe didnât take anything. He paid for a Marlboro and took off.â
You havenât mentioned the fact that he might visit again. Youâre not planning on Marjorie finding out. Sheâll leave in a few hours, and you will hang onto that stupid and foolish hope that a man whose face youâve never seen will come to see you. You spent a few more minutes today in front of the mirror, too.
God, what are you doing?
âMarlboro?â Marjorie raises a brow. âHe doesnât even have taste. He should have gotten one of those⊠what are they called?â
âYellow Spirits?â
âYes, those.â
âYouâre only saying that because they cost more.â
âIf heâs bothering my employees, the least he can do is pay me.â
You bend down to the box near your feet. Itâs full of some brand of cereal you canât remember the name of. Something generic for an even more generic convenience store.
Marjorie approaches you near the aisle. Her brows are furrowed, and her wrinkles are even more pronounced today. The corners of her mouth are pulled into a thin line. As if sheâs actually worried.
She starts digging into her pocket. You turn your head, curious about what sheâs doing. She pulls out something that looks like a⊠taser?
âMarjorie, what is that?â
âKid, we both know I donât have the means to get you a gun,â she clicks her tongue, gesturing the taser your way, âbut this should do the trick. It ainât one of those harmless ones either. It packs a big punch.â
You grab the taser from her hand. It feels heavy in your grip. You imagine using it against anyone, though you donât think youâll be pointing it towards Red Hood anytime soon. First, stupidly enough, you hope he wonât give you a reason to use it. Secondly, youâre sure it wonât work against a man shaped like a mountain.
âThanks, Marj,â you pocket the taser in your apron, the one Marjorie forces you to wear all your shift.
âItâs Marjorie,â she scoffs. âNow, Iâll get going. My heart cannot take another one of your ridiculous night stories. My poor knees need a break.â
As if sheâs the one restocking.
Sheâs already half out of the door before you can even say goodbye. Not that sheâd say it back. So much for her poor knees.
You turn back to the aisle. There are still a few more boxes unopened. The shop is relatively small one, so youâre not too worried about the amount of work waiting for you.
You look at the cracked clock near the register. There are a few minutes left before it strikes five. You bite your lip. Thereâs a strange feeling of impatience and exhilaration mixing in your stomach, all like a bad concoction.
This is how crazy people die in those superhero movies, all because they think that theyâve got a connection with a murder. You are very much that type of crazy person. Itâs almost like Gotham has entirely changed you, making your eyes locked onto the door, awaiting a certain someone.
To your utter surprise, the bell rings. You feel your knees getting weak. You step away from the aisle that was blocking your way to the front door, half expecting Red Hood to show up and actually rob you or something; youâre not sure what people like him get up to.
Your heart is beating against your chest. Thereâs something deeply wrong with you. You consider running out the back door, but youâre already in the line of sight of the entrance.
He already saw you.
âYou look like youâve seen a ghost, sweetheart.â
The âheâ turned out to be not a bloodied costume-wearing vigilante, but your loyalest regularâJason Todd. You still donât understand why he keeps visiting. A small part of your heart hopes itâs because he finds the cashier, you, cute.
Heâs wearing a black T-shirt. Itâs cut off around the forearms. You see familiar faint scars. Youâve never asked Jason about them. He did notice you staring once, and he explained that he had had a few accidents with his motorcycle. Your heart pangs uncomfortably at the reminder of him being in pain. The shirt clings to his chest in a way that will not leave your mind this entire week. It rides up slightly around his waist, exposing just a small part of his skin. You can see the tattoos peeking out from underneath the fabric, just above the leather belt around his hips.
This is too much. Way too much for a full day shift.
Wow. Both him and Red Hood. Thatâs low. Even for you.
You feel a sense of disappointment, as if you were played by Red Hood. But itâs not like he owed you anything.
Jason tilts his head. A few of the white strands of his hair fall down on his forehead. They frame his face in an effortlessly handsome way, so much so that you want to punch the subtle grin off his face. Youâre sure Marjorie would fire you for that, considering Jason is probably the only customer of this shop she actually likes.
âJason,â you finally get the words past your lips, âitâs just you.â
âJust me?â he places a hand on his chest in faux hurt.
He steps into the shop. His gate is steady. In a way that is the opposite of yours. Youâre sure youâre shaking like a leaf right now, gripping the bag of cereal even harder. You scold yourself mentally for freezing up like this.
You can see the way Jasonâs face shifts. Maybe he noticed how off you are today. Heâs always so perceptive, a trait you havenât yet decided is stupidly attractive or attractively dooming for you. It reminds you of that one time you tried hiding a burn you had gotten in the shop from him, but he still noticed. He walked to the pharmacy across the street just to buy a weird cream you had never heard of, but you appreciated the gesture either way.
No one had really done that for you before. Not without expecting something in return.
He reaches you in just a few steps. You wonder how he moves so quickly. In a way that doesnât tick you off either. He raises his hands, almost to show heâs trying to calm you down.
âYou okay?â He asks, voice laced with concern. His tone is softer, too. Like cigarettes wrapped in velvet fabric.
âYes. Yes, Iâm fine. I feel like a million bucks.â
Who even says that?
You cough, trying to clear your throat. With a tilt of your head, you gesture to the register. Jason follows your gaze. He lets out a small sigh and follows you to the counter.
âSo,â you try to force your voice to sound chirpy. It seems wrong. âWhat can I get you?â
By the look on Jasonâs concerned face, youâre sure he noticed the strain in your voice, too. The soft glint in your eyes makes your heart tighten. You canât take your anger out on him. Itâs unfair.
âIs there anything I can do?â Jason offers, and the guilt in his voice makes you want to crawl under the counter.
For a moment, you wonder why heâs so hell-bent on comforting you. Especially when he has nothing to do with your stupid infatuation with a vigilante. Well, you have a small crush on Jason, too, but the future you will be the one who unpacks that.
âItâs nothing,â you lie, already reaching for the yellow Spirits behind the glass. Your fingers fumble with the keys. âRough night. You know how it is.â
âI donât,â he says, leaning against the counter. His forearm brushes against the chipped wood. You watch the muscles shift under his skin. âBut Iâve got time if you wanna talk about it.â
âYouâre buying cigarettes, not listening to me talk all day. This isnât therapy.â
âSame thing, sweetheart.â
There it is. Sweetheart. The same word Red Hood used. Your brain short-circuits for half a second before you rememberâJason has been calling you that for months. Way before last night.
It doesnât mean anything, you tell yourself. Itâs just a word.
âYouâre staring,â Jason says, amused.
âIâm obviously glaring,â you correct, shoving the yellow pack across the counter. âThereâs a big difference.â
He doesnât reach for the cigarettes. Instead, he tilts his headâand there. Thatâs the same tilt. The same one Red Hood used when he found you funny. Your stomach flips.
âYou glare at all your customers like that, or just me?â
Two can play that game.
âJust the ones who show up at five oâclock looking like that.â
âLike what?â
You gesture vaguely at all of him. The arms. The chest. The stupid white streak in his hair.
âLike you just walked off a movie set.â
Jasonâs grin spreads slowly. You feel heat pool up in your stomach. Suddenly, it feels like youâre back to last night. As if he is again, right in front of you, and youâre not sure how to handle this. How to handle Jason and Red Hood.
God, youâre going to hell. If thereâs even one.
âSo you have noticed.â
âI notice when my regulars change their look,â you say, deflecting. âNew shirt?â
âThis old thing?â He plucks at the fabric, tugging on it a bit too harshly. You wonder if heâs nervous. âYou like it?â
Jasonâto your surprise and amusementâsounds actually nervous. The idea that you can fluster him lights your skin on fire.
âI liked the leather jacket better.â
âNoted.â
Heâs still not taking the cigarettes. Heâs just looking at you. Like heâs trying to solve a puzzle. The same way Red Hood looked at youâlike you were interesting. Like you werenât just another cashier.
âYouâre doing it again,â you say.
âDoing what?â
"Looking at me like Iâm hiding something. Which I am definitely not."
Jason laughs. Itâs low, warm, and it does something stupid to your chest.
âMaybe you are hiding something,â he says. âYouâre harder to figure out than most.â
âThatâs the most backhanded compliment Iâve ever received.â
âItâs not backhanded,â he says, and you can get drunk on the flustered tone of his voice. âIâm just bad at words.â
âYouâre a regular. You come here three times a week. Iâve learned that youâre not bad at anything.â
His eyebrows go up. âAnything?â
Shit.
âI meantâtalking. I meant talking.â
âSure you did.â
He finally takes the cigarettes. His fingers brush yoursâdeliberate this time. Youâre sure of it. His hand lingers for half a second, in a way thatâs longer than necessary.
âSame time tomorrow?â he asks.
âYouâre already here today.â
âAnd?â
You stare at him. He stares back. The fluorescent light buzzes. The beer cooler rattles. Somewhere outside, a car alarm starts wailing.
âYouâre completely ridiculous, you know that?â you say.
âAnd youâre avoiding the question.â
âFine. Same time tomorrow.â
âGood.â
He tucks the yellow pack into his back pocket. No jacket today means you can see the outline of his wallet, the curve of hisâ
Stop it.
But heâs totally doing this on purpose.
Jason steps closer to the counter. You can see the faint freckles dotted across his pale skin. Thereâs a light scar running down his cheek. You wonder how a motorcycle accident could do all of this. You know heâs hiding something from you. For a second, you wonder what it would feel like to count his freckles and trace the scar.
You can see the muscles in Jasonâs shoulders flex as he leans over the counter. His hand reaches for his other pocket. He takes out a lighter you havenât seen before. A raised cross spreads across its surface, darkened in the grooves.
He places it on the counter between you, sliding it toward you.
You pick it up. Itâs heavier than you expected. Warm from being in his pocket. Your thumb traces the engraving. Along the edge of the metal, barely noticeable unless you know to look, a Latin phrase is etched in fine, precise letteringâworn just enough to suggest it is carried often, turned over in someoneâs hands.
âWhatâs this say?â
âSomething stupid that I got when I was nineteen.â He doesnât elaborate. âLight it up for me?â
You look up. âWhat?â
âThe cigarette.â He pulls the yellow pack from his back pocketâwhen did he grab that?âand taps one out. Holds it between his fingers. Doesnât move to light it himself, just looks at you. âYouâve got the lighter.â
âYou have hands.â
âAnd youâre holding it.â
The fluorescent light makes his eyes look greener than usual. Or maybe thatâs just the angle. Or maybe youâre hallucinating because of what is happening right now.
âYou want me to light your cigarette,â you say slowly, âover the counter. In the middle of my shift.â
âI want a lot of things,â he says. âRight now Iâm just asking for a light.â
Your heart is doing something stupid. Your hands are definitely not shaking as you flick the lighter. Once. Twice. On the third try, a flame catches.
Jason leans in, closer than he needs to. His fingers brush yours as he brings the cigarette to the flame. His eyes donât leave yours. You canât take your gaze off the sea-green color of his eyes.
The cigarette catches. He takes a slow drag. Exhales away from your faceâpolite, even nowâand the smoke curls up toward the flickering lights.
âThanks, sweetheart.â
He picks the lighter off the counter. His fingers linger over yours again.
âSame time tomorrow? Actually, I might be a little late.â
âYouâre already here today.â
âAnd?â
You canât think of a single clever thing to say. Your brain is full of smoke and green eyes and the weight of a silver lighter thatâs no longer in your hand.
âFine,â you manage. âSame time tomorrow.â
âGood.â
He tucks the lighter back into his pocket. The cigarette hangs from his lips. Heâs halfway to the door when you call out.
âYou forgot your cigarettes.â
He glances at the yellow pack still sitting on the counter. Then back at you through the smoke.
âNo, I didnât.â
The bell rings.
Heâs gone.
+++
The next night is different. The fluorescent lights are too rough on your eyes. The counter is too cold. The rattling of the beer cooler is too loud. Marjorie didnât drop by today either. You find yourself missing her incessant badgering, even if it does get a bit too much sometimes.
You feel lonely.
Ridiculous.
Maybe itâs because Jason didnât show up today, and youâve been staring at the front door like a kicked puppy. Youâve been lied to by him and Red Hood two times already. Or maybe, youâre just a fool to think that either of them would actually show up for you.
You sigh, leaning your elbow over the counter. The cold surface bites at your skin, but you donât really care. Your thoughts are buzzing in your head nonstop. Itâs all like an ambience you want to shut out.
The bell rings.
Your head snaps up, eyes trailing to the door.
A man walks in. Average height. Average build. Grey hoodie. Jeans that donât quite fit right. His hands are shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the coldâor against something else. You canât tell. His face is the kind youâd forget five seconds after looking away.
Nobody, you think. Just another nobody.
You straighten up anyway, because Marjorie might not be here, but her voice lives in your head rent-free. âDonât slouch,â sheâd say. âMakes you look like you donât care. Customers can smell apathy.â
âEvening,â you call out, forcing something pleasant into your voice.
He grunts. Doesnât look at you. Wanders the aisles like heâs searching for something. You watch him pick up a bag of chips. Put it back. A candy bar. Put it back. A Gatoradeâblue, the electrolyte oneâhe holds onto that one.
His hands are shaking.
Late at night, you tell yourself. Long shift. You shake too, sometimes, when youâre running on three hours of sleep and bad coffee. Donât judge him too quickly. Just mind your own business.
He walks to the counter. Sets the Gatorade down. The bottle thuds against the laminateâharder than it needs to.
âThat everything?â you ask.
He doesnât answer, just keeps staring at the bottle.
âSir?â
He looks up.
And there it is. That thing in his eyes that makes your stomach drop. Heâs not looking at you like a customerâheâs looking at you like youâre not even there.
âTwo eighty-nine,â you say, voice smaller than you want it to be.
He reaches for his pocket. Pulls out a crumpled five. Smooths it on the counter. Once. Twice. Three times. His fingers are pale and knuckles white.
You make a change and slide it across. He doesnât take it.
âSir? Your change.â
He blinks and pockets the money without counting. âThanks.â
Then he walks to the door.
Good, you think. Heâs leaving. You were wrong. Heâs just some guy.
He stops at the door and doesnât turn around. He keeps just standing there. His one hand is on the frame. The bell is hanging inches from his head.
A cold feeling, like a wretched thing crawls up your spine. Lock the register, you think. Your keys are in your pocket. Lock it. Callâ
He turns around.
The Gatorade is still on the counter, just as he left it.
He walks back, and not slow this timeâfast. His footsteps donât echoâthey thud. Every step is a warning call.
âI changed my mind,â he says.
âAbout the Gatorade?â
âAbout all of it.â
His hand goes to his waistband.
You know before you see it. Before he pulls it out. You know.
The gun is small and black. Itâs the kind that fits in a waistband without printing. God, how did you not see it before? He holds it at his side, not pointing it at you yetâbut the threat is there.
âOpen the register,â he says. His voice isnât flat anymore; itâs shaking.
A scared man with a gun is worse than an angry one.
Your hands go up automatically. âOkay,â you say. âAll right. Iâm opening it.â
Your fingers find the keys in your apron. You donât look away from him. Never look away from the gun.
The register drawer slides open with that familiar ka-ching thatâs never sounded so loud before. Now it rings out loudly in your ears over the deathly silence.
âTake it,â you say. âItâs all there. Iâm not going to stop you.â
He steps closer, and the gun comes up. Itâs pointed at your chest now.
âThe safe,â he says. âOpen the safe.â
âI donât have the code. The managerâshe doesnât give it to the night shift. I swear.â
His jaw tightens. His finger moves to the trigger.
This is how I die, you think. In a convenience store that says âPENâ on the door, and just for a register with maybe two hundred dollars in it.
âYouâre lying.â
âIâm not. Iâm not. Pleaseââ
He reaches across the counter. Grabs your arm, and he grabbed it hard. His fingers dig into your skin hard enough to bruise.
âThen youâre gonna call her. Right now. And youâre gonna get the code.â
âShe wonâtâsheâs asleep, sheâs old, she wonâtââ
He yanks and pulls you halfway across the counter. Your hip slams into the edge. Pain shoots up your side.
âI said call her.â
Your head hits something on the way down. The corner of the register, or the counter edge. Youâre not sure. All you know is white-hot pain and then warm wetness dripping into your hair.
The bell rings.
You barely hear it over the ringing in your ears.
But he does.
The robber turns. Just for a second. Just long enough to see who walked in.
And then heâs not holding you anymore. Because someone else is holding him.
Red Hood moves like water, like something that was never human to begin with. Your eyes canât even catch up with his movements.
One second, heâs at the door. Next, his hand is wrapped around the robberâs wrist, twisting until you hear something crack. The gun clatters to the floor. The robber screamsâa high, wet sound that barely registers in your foggy brain.
Youâre on the ground. When did you fall? The linoleum is cold against your cheek. Sticky, too. Thereâs blood in your eyes. Your blood. From your head.
Oh, you think. Thatâs not good.
Red Hood doesnât say a wordâhe just moves. A punch to the gut. An elbow to the back. The robber crumples like paper, gasping for air he canât catch. Hood pins him to the ground with a knee to the spine.
You try to push yourself up. Your arms wonât cooperate. Theyâre shaking. Everything is shaking.
âStay down,â Hood says. His voice is modulated. But thereâs something underneath it. âDonât move your head.â
You blink. The world swims. The fluorescent lights blur into halos. You can see his bootsâheavy, and splattered with something darkâstepping over the robberâs body, coming towards you.
âHey,â he says. âHey. Look at me.â
You try. Your eyes find the helmet. The white lenses. The shine of bloodânot his, not hisâon his chest plate.
âThere you go,â he says. His voice is softer now. The modulator canât hide that. âYouâre okay. Youâre gonna be okay.â
âYou came back,â you slur. Your tongue feels too big for your mouth.
âOf course I came back.â He crouches down. His gloved hands hover over you, like he wants to touch but doesnât know where itâs safe. âI said five oâclock, didnât I?â
âYouâre late. So fucking late.â
A sound from under the helmetâa laugh, a broken one. âYeah,â he says. âIâm late. Iâm sorry.â
Something falls from his jacket. A glint of silver. It skids across the floor and stops near your outstretched hand.
The lighter.
The silver one. The engraved one. Jasonâs.
Your brain snags on it like a needle on a record. Thatâsâthatâs his. Thatâs the one he put in your hand. The one you flicked. The one that was warm from his pocket.
âThatâs,â you start, but the words wonât come. Your vision is going dark at the edges. âThatâs Jasonâs.â
Hood goes very still.
âJason,â you repeat, because itâs the only word that matters. âYouâreâyouâre him. Youâreâ⊠oh my god.â
âDonât,â he says. His real voice. The modulator must have cut out. Or maybe your ears are just giving up. âDonât talk. Just stay awake. Please.â
You try. You really do. But the dark is pulling at you, soft and heavy, and the last thing you see is the lighterâsilver and warm and hisâsitting on the dirty floor between you.
The last thing you hear is his panicked voice.
âStay with me. Donâtâshit. Stay awake. Please.â
Then nothing.
+++
The beeping is the first thing you hear.
You can barely find the strength to open your eyes. Your eyelids feel too heavy. Thereâs a sterile smell around whatever room you are currently in.
The walls are stark white. They stretch unbroken except for the occasional monitor, its screen blinking in steady, indifferent rhythms. A faint antiseptic smell lingers in the air, sharp and clean, threaded with something metallic beneath it. The bed sits at the center, too narrow, sheets pulled tight.
And, youâre in it.
You look to the side of the bed. Thereâs a small table near you. On top of it, there is a small card. You try to raise your hand, and itâs a miracle you manage to. You grab the card and open it. Your eye recognizes Marjorieâs handwriting.
Get well soon, kid. Iâm sorry I wasnât there for you, not much an old lady like me can do. You take all the time you need while youâre at the hospital. The GCPD will investigate this even if I have to break down their door. Call me when youâre ready to talk.
â Marj.
You knew she cared about you. Too bad you had to survive a robbery to get proof of that.
Fuck.
You got robbed. Almost shot at. Just for a few hundred dollar bills and a safe you donât even know the code to.
You thought you were going to die.
Until he showed up.
You push yourself off the bed. The room spins. Your head throbs. You press a hand to your forehead and feel the bandage there, rough against your fingertips. Stitches. Great.
You look around. Youâre in a private room. How the hell did you get a private room? Marjorie can barely afford to keep the storeâs lights on. Maybe the hospital made a mistake. Maybe youâre in the wrong bed. Maybeâ
The window.
Thereâs something at the window.
A shape, dark against the night sky. Youâre on the third floorâyou remember that much from the ambulance ride, the stretcher, the paramedic with kind eyes telling you to stay awake, honey, stay with meâ
The shape moves.
A tap, glass against knuckle.
You squint. Your vision is still blurry, but youâd know that silhouette anywhereâthe shoulders and the faint movement of dark curls.
Jason is standing on the fire escape.
He doesnât come in. Just stands there and watches you.
You should be scared. You were scared the first time. But now? Now all you feel is something warm and stupid blooming in your chest.
You reach over and fumble with the window latch. Your fingers are clumsyâthe head injury, probablyâbut you get it open. Cold air rushes in. Gotham smells like rain and exhaust and something that might be smoke in the distance.
âYouâre supposed to be resting,â he says. You can hear the exhaustion underneath.
âYouâre not supposed to be on a fire escape,â you shoot back. Your voice comes out hoarse. âLooks like both of us are starting this conversation in horrible ways. But I could scream, and theyâd drag you out of here.â
âYou wouldnât,â he tilts his head, like heâs daring you to try.
He could probably cover the distance between you in a second. Heâd have his hand over your mouth before you could even let out a squeak.
Why are you imagining his hand on your mouth right now?
âAre you gonna come in?â you ask, trying to get your mind out of the gutter. âOr are you gonna stand out there all night like a creep?â
His hair is a messâcurls sticking up everywhere, the white streak catching the dim light from the monitors. Thereâs a cut on his cheekbone, fresh. Dark circles under his eyes so deep they look like bruises. Heâs wearing the same black shirt from before, the one cut off around the forearms, and you can see the scars now with new eyes. Youâre sure the scars are not from a motorcycle.
âYou look like shit,â you say.
He laughs. âYouâre one to talk.â
âFair.â
He climbs through the window, but doesnât sit on the bedâstands near it, like heâs not sure heâs allowed. His hands are shoved in his jacket pockets. The jacket is different tonight. You wonder if heâs wearing anything like armor underneath it. Or maybe, tonight, heâs just your Jason, not Red Hood. Or maybe both. They have always been the same. You were just too blind to see it.
âThe lighter,â you say.
He goes still.
âIt fell out of your pocket. During the fight. I saw it.â
Jason stares at you. Something passes over his faceâfear, maybe, or relief. You still havenât quite figured that one out, yet.
âI know,â he says.
âIs that how you wanted me to find out? Or did you just get sloppy?â
He flinches. âI didnâtâI wasnât thinking. You were bleeding. You passed out. Iââ He stops. His jaw tightens, as if heâs chewing on words he canât bring himself to say.
âYou what?â
âI panicked.â The words come out rough. Broken. âI donât panic. I donât. But you were on the ground, and there was blood in your hair, and I thoughtâI thought you wereââ He canât finish the sentence.
You reach out. Your hand finds his. His fingers are coldâfrom the fire escape, from the night, from whatever he was doing before he got here. You hold on anyway.
âIâm not dead,â you say.
âI can see that. And youâre not good at bedside manners.â
âSo stop looking at me like Iâm gonna disappear. Plus, Iâm the one in the hospital bed. If anyone has to work on their bedside manners, itâs you.â You jab a finger in his chest. The skin behind the fabric of the jacket feels like a wall.
Definitely not the time to be thinking about his chest.
He looks down at your hands. Then back at your face. Something shifts in his expression. The tension cracks.
He doesnât talk right away. Instead, he pulls his hand around youâgently, like heâs afraid of hurting you, and reaches into his jacket pocket. When his hand comes back out, heâs holding the lighter.
The silver-engraved one. He turns it over in his fingers.
âI came back for it. After the ambulance took you. It was still on the floor.â
âSo you didnât come to see me?â
He gives you a look. That look, the one that says you know exactly why Iâm here.
âI came to see you,â he says. âIâve been out there for three hours.â
âThree hours?â
âYou were sleeping. I didnât want to wake you.â
You stare at him. This man. This impossible man. Buys cigarettes from you three times a week. Calls you sweetheart like itâs your actual name. Climbed through your hospital window atâwhat, two in the morning?âjust to make sure you were okay.
âYouâre an idiot,â you say.
âIâve been told.â
âA stupid idiot.â
âAlso been told. Also, stupid and idiot are synonyms.â
You grab his wrist. Pull him toward the bed. He stumblesâactually stumbles, like youâve caught him off guardâand ends up sitting on the edge of the mattress, close enough that you can smell the smoke on his jacket and the gunpowder. Itâs intoxicating. It reminds you of the time his nose was almost brushing yours as you lit his cigarette.
âYouâre staying,â you say.
âI canâtââ
âYou can. The nurses donât come in until six. Thatâsââ you glance at the clock on the wall, the one with the cracked glass that reminds you of the store, ââfour hours. Youâre staying for four hours.â
âFour hours,â he repeats.
âAnd then youâre gonna come back tomorrow. And the day after that. And youâre gonna keep coming back until Iâm out of here. And then youâre gonna come to the store. And youâre gonna buy your stupid yellow cigarettes or the Marlboro ones, I donât care. And youâre gonna let me light them for you. With your lighter. And you will ask me out on a date. Preferably not one that starts in a convenience store.â
His mouth twitches. âThatâs a lot of demands for someone who just woke up from a concussion.â
âIâm very good at multitasking.â
He laughs again, and itâs louder this time.
âOkay,â he says.
âOkay?â
âOkay. Four hours. And I will take you out on that date.â
He doesnât leave after four hours. Instead, he stays until the sun comes up.
The nurses find him there in the morningâ asleep in the visitorâs chair, his hand wrapped around yours, the silver lighter sitting on the bedside table.
They donât ask questions. Thank god.
This is Gotham, after all.
âË⥠taglist: @coffeelovingreader @cherryseascns @yuunarii-arii @simpingmyassoff (if anyone wants to be added or removed please let me know).
it was a quiet day when you ruined your friendship with jason todd.
you were sprawled out happily on top of the couch, hair up and twisted into a towel drying from your shower, your legs laying over the top of jason who was trying hard not to fall asleep as he read. jason was practically falling asleep, his eyes clearly unfocused as he tries to read the same page over and over.
it was a rare comfort for him, being able to nap in the afternoon. he had never been able to turn off that part of his brain that screamed danger, when he relaxed for a moment. and very slowly over the years of your friendship he had allowed himself to feel safe enough to take napsâ only in your presence though â a fact that made you smile.
you on the other hand were unable to relax, one very mistimed collision earlier had resulted in you accidentally kissing him. kissing him! jason todd! your best friend! who has no intention of becoming anything more! you kissed him!!!!! and if you ignored the ugly part where he doesn't want anything more, it made you warm and giggly on the inside. the feelings you'd had for years popping out of their shell with determination to not be ignored.
but the ugly reminder rears its head and you are in fact hit with the knowledge that jason had practically piss-bolted away from you, insisting that it was a mistake and would never, ever happen again. so in actuality, he hates you and never wants to be near you again, and you'll be single for the rest of your life pining after a guy who doesn't like you in the way you want him to. fun times. hahahahaâ
"are you alright?" the words startle you out of your thoughts and you look up at jason who is frowning softly at you, his book laying down next to him as he gives you his full attention.
"yeah, why? what's up?"
"your leg has been shaking for the past ten minutes." he says looking at you. which makes you duck your head. knowing jason, he would've noticed the second you started and put his book down to look at you and make sure you were alright. "you only do that when you're upset at something." the simple reminder that he does in fact know you well, is like a kick to the guts.
"oh... its nothing," you murmur, willing your cheeks not to go red. he's been watching you for the last ten minutes and you've been off in your own land thinking about him great.
you're both quiet for a beat.
"is it because of theâ uh," he coughs. "the kiss earlier?"
you tense up. "no! not at all, just, uh work." the rejection was bad enough once, you don't need another.
you're lying obviously, and he knows you're lying, and you know he knows you're lying.
"because if it is, i swearâ"
"its not! i promise!" you shriek, untangling your limbs from his and crawling off the couch. "lets stop talking about that now. imgoingtogomakeacupofteadoyouwantone?"
clearly seeing you want an out, he nods and picks up his book, softly thanking you for making him one. you turn quickly and sprint to the kitchen putting some much needed space and that awful conversation behind you.
if you had looked back you would've seen him, press his fingers softly to his lips and smile.
when you return jason is curled up on one end of the couch now, no longer stretched across it, still trying to give you space, which you take gratefully. you hand him his cup of tea and try your very best not to blush when his fingers brush yours.
you really need to grow up. who gets flustered when someone accidentally touches your fingers??
you try to reassure yourself that maybe you would act this way with all of your friends, if you had accidentally kissed them. possibly. maybe you need to explore that avenue (no you don't). maybe this way was your out, to somehow kill your feelings for jason (it is not).
"do you think i should kiss owen?" your question escapes you before you can stop it. owen probably wasn't the best choice out of your friends. but your knew he was one jason didn't particularly like.
jason raises his eyebrows at you, alarm clearly present in his eyes. whether at your question, or at your choice of person to kiss. "what?"
"y'know? owen? do you think i should kiss him?" you shrug, pretending you know what the hell is coming out of your mouth.
jason's mouth opens for a beat, then closes. "...why? why do you want to kiss him?"
"i was just thinking, we accidentally kissed, and then i got all weird on the inside, and after i had spent so long burying all of those feelings, they came back, now every time you do anything i get all mushy." alarms are blaring in your head now, telling you to stop, but you can't. "and when you accidentally touched my finger i almost blushed. so i was thinking, maybe if i kissed owen, he would help me stop feeling things about you, so i wouldn't blow up out entire friendship. because i know you don't feel the same way, and i still want to be friends with you."
jason just stares at you, slack-jawed.
well, good on you, you ruined it even more. great work.
"so... you're feeling things... for me, and you want to kiss owen to stop them? because you think i don't feel the same way...?" jason says, keeping his voice as bland as possible. if you were looking at him you would see the panic in his eyes, that he tried to cover with questions.
"just for like an experiment," you say, a definite blush crawling up your cheeks.
"an experiment," jason repeats, swallowing.
"can i not kiss my friends experimentally? or is there some rule against that?" you ask getting slightly defensive at your stupid plan. what had you even been thinking bringing this up? its too late to take it back now, you're fully committed.
"im not going to tell you what you can and can't do. i justâ you think i don't feel the same way?" jason frowns. "how do you feel?" his book and cup of tea are completely forgotten on the coffee table.
well its go big or go home at this point. your unpredictable mouth has done its worst and now you've dug yourself into a very deep hole.
"uh.. like.. love-y," you mutter hoping that somehow adding the 'y' will make it less of a bombshell. "like, hopelessly in love-y style, like i've been in love with you for years styles."
jason's whole face goes blank, and you wrap an arm around yourself, you knew this would be the outcome. he had already done this earlier. you were foolish for thinking it would turn out different.
"i'm sorry, forget i said anything. i didn't mean toâ"
jason holds a hand up silencing you. "don't."
"im sorry," you whisper, looking down at the floor, worrying if you've just screwed up the best friendship you've ever had.
"please don't take it back. please don't give me hope and take it away." his voice is soft, calm compared to your raging heart.
"what?" your voice is shaky. "but earlier, youâ"
"i acted that way, because i thought it would weird you out. it was an accident â no matter how much i wanted it not to be â i said it would never happen again, which is true. it won't unless you want it to." he looks up at you with a shaky breath. "i have been desperately in love with you for years, i never wanted to pressure you though."
you exhale a breath you didn't know you were holding. "really?" the hope bursting through you in a tidal wave.
"really. you entrance me in every way, i can barely focus whenever you're around. i could barely read a sentence earlier, every thought i had was wrapped up in you, worrying you were going to kick me to the curb for accidentally kissing you." he twists his body and reaches for your hand, holding it tightly.
"i would never." you smile shuffling closer to him. "i think this may be the best day of my life."
"its definitely the best of mine." he pauses, slightly, pulling you closer again. "there is one thing i would fix though."
"my babbling about experimentally kissing friends...? which for the record i would never."
"okay there would be two things i would fix," he amends. "that and... i refuse to believe the tiny kiss we had earlier will count as our first." a smirk appears on his lips teasing you.
"well lets amend that then, yeah?"
an: im actually proud of this one !!! ending is a tad rushed bc i got busy but stillll
a/n: wrote this instead of sleeping idk if you can even understand my horrible late night thoughts
your new apartment had been a steal, one you were quite proud of if you were honest - if you ignored the strange amount of fingerprints on your windows on the fourth floor, the random loud noises from your neighbours at absurd hours of the night, and the uh... very questionable thing your other neighbour said when you moved in - it was great.
mrs marg - as she requested you call her - had cornered you in the hallway outside your door and informed you to ignore the noises late at night, and that eventually you'll either get used to it or move out like the last three people. something you are finding rather hard when it sounds like someone's either getting railed (positively) or has been railed (negatively). when you tried asking more questions, she simply placed a finger on your lips and shushed you???
you're still unsure of how to react to that.
its safe to say you've been avoiding both of your neighbours for the two weeks you've been living here.
you haven't caught more than a glimpse of your noisy neighbour, only a short moment, when you were getting out of the elevator and they were entering their apartment, dressed in a black hoodie and sweats. and that was your only proof of life. well that and the sounds but you prefer to ignore those.
entering your own apartment, you exhale, the stress of your nightshift falling off your shoulders the second you take your hair out of its bun, boxes are still littered around, and you dodge them as you make a beeline for a shower.
nothing is better than a rainy night, a hot shower, leftover take out, and movie.
you had been in the shower for a concerning undetermined amount of time when you heard a loud thump through the wall. at first you brushed it off, thinking it was your weird ass neighbour yet again, but then you hear someone curse and tumble to the floor, and you swear thats closer than the normal sounds.
hiding your trembling hand you wrap yourself in your bathrobe and pick up the closest thing that could be used as a weapon: hairspray. inching out the bathroom and past your bedroom you listen again for more sounds.
"ah, shit." another thud.
definitely in your apartment.
trying not to fully panic now, you creep further out into your living room, cursing yourself for trying to have a cozy night without lights and only using candles because you could really use some more light rn.
peeking your head around the corner, you muffle the gasp that jumps into your throat, slapping a hand over your mouth as silently as possible.
you had been living in blĂŒdhaven for long enough, to know that it was nightwing standing in your living room, window open behind him, cursing at such a rate that it would have your grandmother proud. that slightly eases you, but not enough. what on earth was he doing here???
lowering the hairspray slightly, you step out further, hearing the noise nightwing swings around, hissing through his teeth, and holding his side.
you try to find your voice, you really do, but all that comes out is a very high pitched squeak.
"are you okay?" nightwing, fucking nightwing, asks you as if this was a casual tuesday and you did this every other night.
"what are you doing here?" you ask, hating the way your voice stumbles slightly.
"uh, trying to go home?"
"right..." you hum, the hairspray, still in hand as you take another step closer. "but uh, correct me if i'm wrong here, this isn't your home, is it?"
the vigilante sighs, shooting you a 'thrilled' look, "clearly i missed my window."
"clearly," you echo. "if you don't mind me asking, how does one miss their own window?" you almost cough at your own confidence. where did it come from?
you can practically see the annoyance in his face as he squints at you. "have you ever been chased in the rain, with a stab wound, in the dark before? its not exactly easy to find things. besides its one window over, i'm not that far off."
it dawns on you then, the groaning and grunting from next door was coming from him, coming back from his missions(?) no wonder he sounded like he had been railed - he probably had been run over, multiple times.
"uh interesting.. choice of words there." nightwing's eyebrows have shot to his forehead, indicating you did not think that and in fact said it out loud.
heat blooms on your cheeks and your suddenly grateful for the lack of bright light. "sorry."
you both stand there for a moment in silence. its awkward. very awkward.
"are you going to leave?" you blurt out before thinking better. it was probably not the best idea saying that.
"yeah sure, just let me magically heal this wound real quick, and i'll be on my way," he huffs, hand still pressed to his side.
muttering an apology you, put the hairspray down and grab the closest thing that he can cover the wound with - it turns out to be a hoodie - and you shove it into his arms before grabbing his other shoulder and directing him to the couch.
"sit, sit, sit," you wring your hands. "what do you need? how can i help?"
"do you have a first aid kit?"
nodding you practically sprint to the bathroom and pull the forgotten kit from under the sink, racing back to hand it to him. he's already got parts of his suit ripped open so he can look at the wound better.
you hand him the kit and fight the urge to gag at the sight of blood. this just in apparently you don't do well at the sight of stab wounds.
"you okay?" the vigilante asks, his eyes watching as you turn away when he starts to clean the injury.
"don't do well with injuries."
"look at the candles burning okay? don't look at me." he grits through his teeth. "you're doing great so far, just don't look at me."
you do as he instructs, wincing when he makes sounds of discomfort, which only causes him to offer comfort as best he can. "it's okay, it'll be over in a bit."
"you're coaching me and you're the one who's being stitched up," you huff making light fun at yourself.
"yeah well, i'm sure this isn't something you usually do, so i don't blame you for not handling it well."
a few more tense moments pass and he exhales heavily, "you can look now."
turning back, you make a direct point not to look anywhere near his torso, or at the blood on his hands.
"can you walk?" you ask, fully prepared to have this giant of a man sleep on your couch tonight. but instead he nods and gingerly makes his way to his feet, holding onto your arm for support. you walk him to his front door and wait for him to fumble around for his key, unlocking the door and slipping inside, a soft thank you on his lips before the door shuts quietly.
you turn around fully prepared to head back inside to lock your windows and door, and continue on with your shower, but you're greeted with the creepiest sight ever:
marg standing at her door, a cup of tea in her hands. "that was the quietest night i've had in a long time. you should hang around, give him that extra helping hand." she starts to turn back to her door. "maybe he'll finally stop making all that ruckus each time he comes back."
she wanders away as if, being awake at two in the morning, and listening to her neighbours activity and saying things like that is normal.
you make sure your locks are done up thrice before you go to bed.
an: lowkey half assed ending but i could not think of anything better. i'll write something better soon guys i swear
all jason says is, âweâre stopping by the manor,â like itâs an afterthought, like itâs not the kind of place people prepare for. he doesnât look at you when he says it, eyes fixed on the road, one hand tight on the wheel.
you turn your head slowly. âyour familyâs going to be there, arenât they?â
a pause. then a shrug. âprobably.â
âthatâs not reassuring.â
âtheyâll behave.â
itâs said flatly, but thereâs something underneath it, something almost tense. like heâs already bracing for something that hasnât happened yet.
you study him for a second longer than you mean to. jason todd isnât nervous. he doesnât get unsure.
but his grip on the steering wheel is just a little too tight.
ââŠokay,â you say gently, letting it go. for now.
wayne manor is a bit overwhelming.
high ceilings, long hallways, polished floors that echo just slightly under your steps. it feels like history lives here. like everything you do might leave a mark.
jason walks ahead of you, familiar but distant at the same time, like he knows every inch of this place but doesnât fully belong to it anymore.
youâre still taking it in when a voice cuts through the silence.
âmaster jason.â
you turn to see alfred approaching, composed as ever, though his eyes soften the moment they land on you.
âand you must be the young lady weâve heard so little about.â
jason exhales sharply, already halfway to annoyed. âalfredââ
âitâs nice to meet you,â you say quickly, offering a polite smile.
alfredâs expression warms almost immediately. âthe pleasure is mine. anyone master jason brings here is someone of significance.â
jason looks away at that, jaw tightening just slightly, like he doesnât know what to do with the implication.
alfred notices. he always notices. but he doesnât push.
âshall i inform the others?â he asks mildly.
jason mutters something under his breath that sounds like regret.
it starts with dick, who appears like heâs been waiting for this exact moment.
âso,â he says easily, leaning against the doorway, arms crossed with a grin thatâs just a little too knowing, âthis is the mystery girl.â
jason doesnât even look at him. âdonât.â
âiâm just saying,â dick continues, stepping further into the room, his attention shifting fully to you, âweâve been curious. heâs been veryâŠsecretive.â
âbecause youâre all annoying,â jason cuts in.
âwow,â dick says, clearly amused. âand here i thought this was a special occasion.â
before jason can fire back, another voice cuts in.
âyouâre standing weird.â
you blink, turning to see damian, whoâs already watching you with sharp, assessing eyes, arms crossed like heâs conducting an evaluation.
jason drags a hand down his face. âyou are not helping.â
âi am making an observation,â damian replies. then, to you, âyou are his partner?â
âi am,â you answer calmly.
he studies you for a moment, head tilting slightly. ââŠyou are not what i expected.â
you canât help it, you smile a little. âi get that a lot.â
something in your tone seems to satisfy him, because after a second, he gives a short nod and steps back.
tim is quieter.
you almost donât notice him at first, sitting slightly off to the side, watching everything unfold with a level of focus that feels almost clinical.
when your eyes meet his, he gives a small nod. âhey.â
âhi.â
he studies you for another second, then glances at jason, then back at you, like heâs connecting something.
ââŠcool,â he says finally.
jason squints at him. âthatâs it?â
tim shrugs. âi donât see a problem.â
âwow,â jason mutters. âhigh praise.â
steph is not quiet.
âoh my god,â she says the second she walks in, shoving tim aside, eyes lighting up. âthis is her, isnât it?â
âsteph,â jason warns.
she ignores him completely, walking right up to you with a grin. âhi. i like you already.â
âbased on what?â jason asks flatly.
âyou look like you could handle him,â she shoots back.
âthatâs fair,â you say before you can stop yourself.
jason turns his head slowly toward you. ââŠreally?â
steph laughs, delighted.
cass appears beside steph so quietly it almost startles you.
she doesnât say anything at first, just looks at you, in a way that feels deeper than the others. then she smiles.
âgood,â she says simply.
youâre not entirely sure what she means, but something about it settles in your chest anyway.
duke is the easiest to talk to.
he leans casually against the wall, offering you a relaxed smile. âhey. donât worry, itâs not always this intense.â
âyes, it is,â tim says from behind him.
duke pauses. ââŠokay, yeah, thatâs fair.â
you laugh quietly, tension easing just a little.
bruce is the last to arrive.
you feel it before you see him, the subtle shift in the room, how the conversation quiets just slightly.
when he steps in, his presence is steady, grounded. his gaze goes to jason first, something unspoken passing between them, before it moves to you.
âitâs good to meet you,â he says.
his voice isnât cold. just measured.
âyou too,â you reply, hoping you sound steadier than you feel.
he studies you, not in the same way as the others. thereâs less curiosity in it. more⊠consideration. like heâs trying to understand what you mean to jason.
after a moment, he nods.
itâs small, but it feels like something.
somewhere between all of that, things settle.
conversation flows more easily. steph pulls you into a story that spirals into something ridiculous involving dick. duke backs her up. tim corrects details. damian argues about accuracy. jason complains the entire time.
at one point, dick dramatically reenacts something and nearly knocks over a decorative vase.
jason catches it without even looking.
ââŠi hate all of you,â he mutters.
âyou love us,â steph shoots back.
âthatâs debatable.â
---
when itâs time to leave, it feels⊠easier than you expected.
jason walks you out, quieter now, hands in his pockets like heâs still thinking about something.
ââŠthey liked you,â he says after a minute.
you glance at him. âyeah?â
âyeah.â a pause. then, more quietly, âyou didnât have to do that back there.â
âi wanted to.â
he looks at you then, properly this time, like heâs trying to understand something heâs not used to.
ââŠthey didnât make you uncomfortable, did they?â
you shake your head gently. âno. itâs just⊠loud.â
he huffs a quiet laugh. âyeah. that sounds right.â
you smile a little. âi think i like them.â
he doesnât respond right away.
but when you start walking again, his hand brushes against yours, and he lets his fingers lace with yours.
cw: fem!reader, fluff, established relationship, banter
"I'm dying."
Thatâs the last text you had sent him. By now, heâs called ten times, left five voicemails, and sent twenty-five texts ranging from âsweetheart? you okay?â to âpick up the fucking phone.â
You arenât responding and his nerves are getting worse. He can feel it in the way a dizzying fear overtakes his senses. His mind races through every scenario you could have gotten yourself into as he makes his way to your place.
Knowing you, it could be something as simple as you tripping and losing too much blood. Or maybe you forgot to drink enough water, and now youâve passed out from dehydration. Which, he would like to add, has happened before, so his worry is completely valid.
Once he reaches your apartment, he shoves the key in and barges inside. Scanning the living room, he finds you passed out on the couch. His heart and feet stumble in sync as he moves toward you.
âBaby?â His voice hitches as he crouches down and shakes you. You groan.
Groggily, you squint at him. âJayâŠ?â Your voice soothes his rising panic.
âWhat happened?â he demands.
âHuh?â
âYou said you were dying.â Now that heâs calmer, he notices a can of soda and a box of doughnuts on the coffee table, along with an open bottle of pain killers.
âI was," you answer.
âBut youâre alive?â
âTo you."
He blinks at you, waiting for a better explanation. âBaby,â he urges, âwhat happened?â
âI got my period.â
âThatâs it?â
You shoot him a look. âExcuse me?â
His brows furrow, and his hands come to take yours in his own, holding them tightly as if heâs scared youâll slip away. âThought it was something more serious.â
âDude, Iâm literally bleeding out of myââ
âDonât call me dude,â he interrupts sternly. âFirst of all, you need healthy shit, not whatever youâve been eating all day. Secondly, tell me you didnât pop more than two painkillers, because I swearââ He sighs and stands up. âAnd where the hell is your heating pad?â
You stare at him until tears well up in your eyes.
âShitâsweetheart?â He sits back down on the couch and easily pulls you into his arms, pressing a rough kiss to the side of your head.
âYouâre so nice,â you say, voice wobbly.
âDonât cry over that,â he mumbles against your hair. âs'cause I love you.â
Those words only make your tears fall.
âFuck, Iâm sorry.â The pads of his thumbs wipe your tears away.
You sniff, curling into him. âLeave me, and you die.â
His lips curve up. âDying sucked anyway.â He smooths your hair back so he can look at your face properly.
âDoes it hurt?â he asks.
âFrom when I fell from heaven?â
âSweetheart.â
âA little,â you mumble. âThe cramps come and go.â
He offers his hand silently and you tilt your head curiously.
âA while ago, you said my warmth fixes everything,â he explains.
âI was drunk.â Still, your hand wraps around his wrist, moving his hand under your shirt so it rests on your lower belly.
Immediately, his touch helps, like a flame being snuffed out. Not gone. the pain still pulses beneath. But it's muted, like smoke curling in the air.
Swallowing, you glance up to see him looking at you, strands of white hair falling across his forehead, jaw working with worryâ even knowing you technically arenât dying.
âNext time, text me like a normal person.â
âAnd miss out on seeing you worry? no thanks, you're hot when you get worked up."
he snorts. âthat all you like me for?â he murmurs against your ear.
Your hand comes down to rest atop his larger oneâ the one on your lower belly. âI love your hands, too.â
âCourse you do,â he says dryly, his thumb rubbing slow circles over your stomach. Itâs quiet after that. You doze off in his arms. And he stays, listening to the steady beat of your heart.
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0. i do not support the use of AI at all. and i do not consent to my work being fed into any form of AI. at all ever. that being said i also do not wish for my work to be reposted or stolen, copied or taken for inspiration without credit or permission (credit specifically for inspiration if any other situation, its a NO)
I. i am still pretty new to the fandom so please bare with me while the list of characters i write for grows !!
as of now i write for: jason todd , dick grayson , damian wayne (platonic) , tim drake , and bruce wayne
II. please be patient with the time it takes me to answer your requests, writing is a hobby of mine and (unfortunately) i have a job i need to work at
III. i wont write explicit smut outright (most likely 17+, fade to black style) because im scared of writing smut.
IIII. i write for fem! and gn! reader as that is what im most comfortable with !!
V. i will not be writing any form of abuse, incest, concerning age gaps, or assault. if you request anything of the sort you will be blocked immediately
VI. what i do write: one shots, au's, drabbles, blurbs, smau's, headcanons, etc
VII. please be respectful of my boundaries and just in general, we're one big family here, dont tear down the trust tree okay?
ps: this is a side blog so i cannot follow from here/send asks but my main is @ your-mommy-ems (an inside joke i swear)
âč summary barbara gordon has had countless good ideas in her life, as the smartest person she knows it's not too difficult to figure out exactly what people need and how to get them there. So, without much planning, she decides the thing her pregnant roommate needs is somebody to walk her home--and thankfully she has somebody in desperate need of a friend. OR how barbara gordon gives jason todd a family.
âč pairing jason todd x reader
âč genre/tw fluff fluff and more fluff!! a little angst probably loll, afab!reader, reader is pregnant (the baby isnât jasons) jason isnât just the stepdad, heâs the dad who stepped up!! bsf!barbara, barb being the best wing woman around, canon gotham violence, slowburn (kinda but also not really at all) like it takes a sec but once theyâre in love theyâre in love i cant help myself, kisses and petnames, loser!jason >>>, insecurites, references to a changing body, references to a lame ass ex bf, my undying love for alfred, misinformation about pregnancy probably imsosorry. dick and tim cameo!! mostly unedited
âč w/c 19k words and some change (i am so sorry)
âč a/n okay so this came from the depths of my soul and took me so freaking long. i love this story and reader and jason and i hope you do too!! theyâre a bit messier than my other stories but i love them dearly. also this is for all my babies whoâve been requesting girl!dad jason. i hope you like it xoxox
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The thing about Gotham is that the fear never really goes away; it grows and grows until the parasite is big enough to feed, large enough to bite at your bones and feast on your amygdala. The city is a tapeworm, a carnivorous infection that will keep going as long as there are people to be afraid, and there will always be fear.
It grows in the darkness, vines suffocating the sunlight and roots locking you in placeâ the roads arenât a safe space to be walking around by yourself, there is no welcome mat, no comforting smile or hands to hold. Youâve heard stories of girls walking home alone in Gotham, how theyâd been snatched off the street or pricked by the pain of never Neverland.
It was an unfortunate truth to the city, that women and children would never truly be safe, a truth proved by the too many friends broken and mangled. Yet, you find yourself alone again, walking under buzzing streetlights and listening to the melodies of moaning and heckling and frightened girls. Even after all this time, youâre still not used to itâthe inherent violence of your hometown⊠maybe itâs because it happens with your eyes open, itâs not a secret or a rumor whispered on the street. Itâs all true, a dazzling insectile truth that feasts on it staying in the darkâthus, youâve tried not to give it enough of yourself to do anything to you.
Instead of cowering in shadows and waiting with your blanket over your head, you brave the storm, stepping out into the shivering city with a smile on your face. Itâs just passed seven, your shift at Pamelaâs ending in a heap of fry grease and spilled coffee, eating you up and spitting you out into the dangerous night. The sun has just now passed the tower of Wayne Enterprises, taking away the one thing that could potentially keep you safe on the hefty walk home. Your apartment in Chinatown isnât too far from the financial district, yet the moon settling itself content and hefty in the sky, makes it feel miles and miles away.
You wish you took Barbara up on her offer to get her dad to take you home, wish you didnât have a complex that forced you to be so independent all the time. She asked every day without fail, a text accompanied by countless happy faces and a promise that she would keep asking, but you always said no; you wouldnât let your issues give Jim another job to do, you respected him to much for that. Though, the way the night is going you really wish you didnâtâeverything would be so much better if you had somebody to take you home.
The Diner had been busyâhot and sweaty due to the people and the new weight pulling you down, an obnoxious phenomenon youâre still not used to. Youâd been there all day, covering for one of the other girls so she could take her sick kid to the free clinicâYouâd been happy to do it, happy to be asked, and for the opportunity to make some extra cash, yet the creeping exhaustion urges you to never pick up another shift. Itâd been long and strenuous, hours and hours of unsolicited advice and advances from greedy businessmen and dirty cops.
Three months ago, that kind of shift wouldnât have caused anything than an eyeroll, but a lot changes in three months.
The summer night is just chilly enough that you feel goosebumps growing beneath your work dress, itâs probably just the breeze, but a treacherous voice inside your head tells you that youâre just scared. Itâs different now, it says, the city is vicious to women and children, a traitor to all the lovely innocent things in the world.
The streetlights flicker above you and you think you can hear glass breaking⊠somebody breaking into some poor bastardâs storefront to be sure. Downtown is full of dangerous lullabies: break-ins, chaos, violent barking â the sound of Gotham tangled into one awful song. You feel a little afraid, a healthy dose of paranoia working its way up your throat, panic forcing your steps to grow faster and faster.
You know if you run, someone will be there to chase, so you force your shoes to stay grounded on the concrete; wait a couple seconds before your left heel follows your right.
Youâre halfway home when the bravery leaves you, courage leaking out of you like a watering can. Gotham is never pitch black--always neon and incandescent under the starlight-- but it does nothing to make you feel better: the city at night will eat you alive if you let it.
Fear is familiar in a place like this, your oldest childhood friend and the lover that will never leave you; itâs as much a part of you as the skin that wraps around your bones. You really wish you had somebody to walk you home, a warm hand to fit itself around your waist and help carry some of the weight⊠strong eyes to look into when the alley grows too quiet. Itâs a dangerous wish in a place like this, but one you make anyway, a quiet hope that heâll come to you again.
You only take a couple more steps before you hear him, whistling a jaunty tune and making his steps heavier and louder so you wouldnât be scared. You will never forget the first time you heard that sound: the thunderous stomping of combat boots on cement, the top 40âs hit listlessly falling away in a whistle, the clicking sound of violence being strapped away in a holster. It was a melody thatâs grown quite familiar, the sound of nighttime and dreams, wishes and bad decisionsâa melody that is ever contrasting the sound of his voice,
âNow, whatâs a pretty thing like you doinâ all alone?â The voice says, modulated under the muzzle like mask youâre sure heâs wearing. Itâs robotic and angry, yet thereâs a piece of Gotham hiding away in the vowelsâliving in the consonants and the space between words.
âIâm not alone now am I?â you respond, sweet and saccharine.
âWhy donât you turn around and see for yourself,â the voice whispers. âIf youâre brave enough.â You feel your head turn before you really urge it to, falling into his dare like a little kid at a sleep over. Your neck almost snaps in the speed of it, yet when you find yourself looking behind you thereâs no one there: just the empty air youâd left behind. âMade you look.â He laughs.
âThatâs not nice!â You say as you turn around, jumping a little at the image in front of you. Itâs obvious itâs been a long day for him too, his armored form slouching a little⊠his chest moving up and down in a heave. You wonder what he left to meet you here, you wonder how he knew where youâd be⊠you wonder a lot of things.
âIâm not nice, darlinââ He responds, scrambling up to follow you as you regain your earlier speed.
âOkay, then stop following me.â
âMaybe youâre following me, have you thought about that?â
âHood, either walk me home or shut up.â You tell him, your tired workworn voice cutting like glass. When you first met him, you would never have dreamed of talking to him this way, yet time and time again he rewards you for being mean. It seems like he likes you better when youâre tough and angry, rather than the sickly-sweet version he first met.
Itâd been on a night just like this, sleepy and battle-worn, and youâre sure he could see just how scared you were, but he had brought you home without a word. All he did was follow, a silent soldier in the chilly night, heâd said nothing until you reached your doorâeven then it hadnât been much, just a reminder not to go home alone (a lecture you surely could never listen to).
Your friendship, (f you could even call it that), was built under streetlights and in between fragments of conversation. He was nice to talk to, funny in a way that reminded you of boys you went to school with, and kind like a street cat. It was odd, how sometimes you felt like he was your closest friend, yet you didnât really even know himâyou had no idea what his name was or what he looked like, but you felt like you could share anything with him and he wouldnât judge you, not really.
âMan, you just get meaner and meaner,â he huffs, but even through the modulation you can tell heâs happy.
âItâs from all the times I have to see you.â
âOh my, why are you so feisty tonight?â
âMy shift was terrible,â you sigh. âIt was full of gangster wannabes and shitheads who work at the WE.â
âThat sucks. Want me to go and rough âem up for ya?â He laughs.
It sounds like a joke, like something you just say to impress a girl, but you know with every part of you that he would go and hurt those men if youâd asked him to. You can see it in his body, how his muscles tense under all the Teflon and leather, how his masked eyes fall onto your still shivering form.
âNah, theyâll get whatâs coming to them one day.â
âYeah, Iâm sure.â He sighs, the distaste seeping out of his lips.
His steps are heavy and slow, but thereâs something in his posture that tells you heâs holding himself back, like heâs forcing himself to slow to your pace. From the news, youâve seen what heâs capable of: headless bodies and gunshots and mangled corpses⊠you know he is a loosely contained weapon, yet thereâs something about him that makes you feel unduly safe rather than scared.
Youâre almost home, just a block away and some change, and finally you feel just a little lighter. Youâre not sure if itâs his elusive company or the knowledge than in just a few minutes youâll be surrounded by the dim lights of Barbaraâs countless lamps and the shower heating your skin, but some of the fatigue seems to be easing its way off your shoulders.
It's when youâre a few paces from your apartment steps when the Red Hood speaks again, interrupting his silence for another lecture. âYâknow I thought I told you to stop walking home all alone.â
âYou did tell me that, and I ignored it.â You huff.
âCâmon, beautiful, itâs not just you anymore.â He says, pointing his masked stare down at your belly. The reminder of your baby is an unwanted one, as is the way his gloved hand sweeps its way atop the slightly swollen flesh. The sight of the grisly fabric around your tummy provides silken butterflies to make their way to your chest, a feeling of both tenderness and panic. You remind yourself that you donât know this man, that he is an unknown weapon built for war and murder, yet the view of himâarmored and masked and unknowableâtender and soft at the sight of your growing child, warms you from your head to your toes.
âTrust me, Iâm glaringly aware of the little monster.â You smile, the tender shape of it giving away your true feelings.
âJust,â he sighs. âIf youâre gonna walk home, keep going the same way okay? I almost didnât find you, when you turned left at Pearce and Hyacinth instead of the next block over.â
âYeah, okay Hood.â You laugh, turning away from him to climb up the steps to your home. You know heâs still breathing behind you, you know he wonât go finish his patrol until heâs sure youâre safely inside, so you stall for a minuteâholding your hand on the handle without turning it and allowing yourself a few more minutes with your white knight. âThanks again, Hood.â You whisper before letting yourself in.
ËËË â ËËË
At 7 AM you are awoken to the urge to throw up, your stomach contents rushing upwards in a cascade of acid and bile. Having passed your first trimester a few weeks ago, this certain friend has become fortunately more sporadic, yet it stills decides to sneak attack you like this. You make it to the bathroom in time, but the retching leaves you desolate and once again frustrated at past youâs decision to be a mother.
It was all awful, but you do what you gotta do, so within a fortnight of realizing your body was housing another you were moved into Barbaraâs place in Chinatown and taking prenatal vitamins that were pathetically expensive.
As your head falls back to hit the tile, you ruminate on all these horrid symptoms and remind yourself that at fifteen weeks your baby is starting to grow eyelashes. A silly, miraculous thought that brings a smile to your clammy face, itâs the size of an appleâa fruit full of goodness that will be entirely you.
Itâs the one thought that keeps you trekking through every vile day of pregnancy and Gotham living; youâre sure the women of Metropolis have a better time having babies, what with Superman there to kiss their foreheads⊠all you have is Batman, and youâre not convinced heâd even like babies.
âAre you okay in there?â you hear from outside the door, Barbaraâs sweet voice full of concern. Sheâd been so worried about you lately, anxiety creasing her eyes and compassion coating her voice every time she saw you. She loves you; you know that better than you knew anything, yet youâd rather her get back to the blunt and humorous way she used to interact with you.
Youâd been friends since your brother started work at the station, an alliance made in defiance of male dominated barbeques and the senseless worry of your male family members. Sheâs your best friend, your older sister and closest companion⊠there is no one else youâd rather be worried about you, but you really wish she didnât have to be.
âYeah, B.â you sigh, letting out a heavy huff of breath. âJust throwing up again.â
She knocks one more time against the door before it opens, jostling a little as her chair wheels into the little bathroom. Sheâs bright eyed and beautiful, her red hair glinting a little from the window above the tub and smiling even as the concern worries its way at her brown eyes.
âTeeny still giving you trouble?â she asks, pointing her gaze at the little bump peeking out of your nightshirt.
âYou know it.â You groan. âIâm starting to think this mom thing isnât all that itâs cracked up to be.â
âYeah well⊠at least youâre glowing!â Barbara exclaims, her freckled arms coming out to wave around your silhouette. Youâre still slouched on the ground, your skin itchy and sweaty, muscles aching and eyes rollingâyou can see yourself in the mirror, pathetic and gasping still⊠glowing your ass.
She leaves you with a laugh and a promise to bring you a glass of water, and you feel so lucky to be someone somehow deserving of Barbara Gordonâs friendship. She is unfairly good, a woman full of nothing but hope and well wishes, and sheâs been here for you more than anyone else you know. Over and over again, she has been here to hold your hair and take you to appointmentsâshe was there when you first heard the babyâs heartbeat, starry eyed and smiling like you just hung the moon.
She was your best friend; you really hope one day youâll make it up to her.
Once the water is consumed and a shower is graced upon your skin, you feel almost brave enough to live another day. It might be the smell of your shampoo or the sound of Barbara watching reality TV in the living room, either way you have more confidence in yourself than you did before.
Maybe your shift tonight will be better than yesterdayâs, maybe it will be quiet and easy--hopefully youâll get out of there before the sun goes down and Barb goes to bed, and everything will be perfect.
Your contraband coffee sits steaming on the kitchen counter, a gift from the girl grinning at you from in front of the TV. Her show is yapping off a petty argument between two women, (something about wanting the same pair of Louboutinâs), and the hazy glow from the TV ignites her smile into something wicked.
âSo how was your date with destiny?â She asks, her fair eyebrows raising and a silly wink blinking from her right eye.
âI have no idea what that could even mean, Barbara.â You laugh, one of your hands lifting to brace your back as the other brings the sweet caffeine to your lips.
âYou know,â she giggles before lowering her voice into a whisper, âRed Hood.â
Oh, so thatâs what sheâs on about. You love her, really you do., but since you let it slip that Red Hood walks you home sometimes, sheâd been giddied and annoying, like a school child singing about sitting in trees.
You set a dull look upon her, rolling your eyes with a smile as she chants a refrain of âtell me, tell me, tell me!â
âIâm telling you itâs not like that, Barb.â
âWhat? you donât get hot under the collar for your caped crusader?â Barbara giggles, the sweet sound filling you with fondness for the older girl.
Her question rings in your mindâitâs true that you find yourself enjoying the vigilanteâs company more and more, and yes: when he calls you sweet names and dares to touch you with his leather gloves you get a little warm and dizzy⊠but that doesnât matter. A crush on the Red Hood will bring nothing but pain, and youâre supposed to be toughening up for your little monsterâs arrival.
âIt doesnât matter how I feel, B.â you say, âThe only thing that matters now is keeping us all safe and happy, okay?â your hands come to wave around the three of you, encasing your bodies in imaginary fairy dust.
âOkay,â she says, drawing out the last syllable. âIf you say so.â
âI do say so.â You tell her before laughing out, âAnd Red Hood doesnât even have a cape.â
âOkay, okay!â she laughs before coughing and sweeping an awkward hand through her unbound hair. âHey, listen, I know I told you Iâd come with you to your next appointment, but something came up.â
âOh, okayâŠâ you tell her, your voice a little quiet. âDonât worry about it, Babe. Iâll just go by myself itâs fine.â
âBut you were supposed to find out the sex!â
âI can wait if you want to find out with me?â You really mean it, if she wanted to find out with you youâd wait, no matter how badly you wanted to know. In truth it wouldnât really matter, at the end of the day all you wanted was a healthy baby, but you canât deny wanting to know more about the little person youâre growing.
âNo, no, no,â she huffs. âYou shouldnât go alone; I can get someone else to take you?â
âYeah? Like who?!â You exclaim. âYour dad? I love Jim, but no thanks to having Commissioner Gordo at my OB/GYN.â You can see it now, Jimâawkward and lovelyâand doing his due diligence as a father. Heâd be sweet of course, but the thought of showing up with the cityâs police commissioner sends anxiety down your spine.
âNo, babe! I can get Dick or one of his brothers to go.â Thereâs something about the way Barb says it that makes you suspicious, the glinting look in her eye and the slightest shrug of her shoulders on the word âbrother.â
The inclusion of Dick in this conversation isnât too strange, he was one of her closest friends and regular intruder on all things girl talk and gossip. What was odd was the way she brought him and his family up, like sheâd been waiting to talk about them all morning.
Her relationship with the elusive and famous Wayne family was one you didnât really understand, there was a closeness between them that seemed way more than being at the same bougie Gotham government parties with their fathers. Yet, she kept the mentions of them to a minimum, a reality that seems to be in direct contrast to the way sheâs offering them up as her understudy now.
âWhat are you planning, Gordon?â you ask her, your eyes squinting and your left index finger rising to point at her chest.
âNothing! I just thought it would be nice to have some company.â She sighs, her eyes rising to meet yours as she settles her features into a pout.
âDonât look at me like that! You know what it does to me.â
âPlease, let me get one of the boys to take you! I worry about you! please, please, please!â
God, that poutâyou could really never deny her anything, since meeting youâd wanted to do anything to make her happy: to impress her like she really was your cool older sister, and she knew it. She really was feeling wicked this morning, if she was this ready to use your love for her against you.
You guess it wouldnât be too bad to have one of them there, you donât really know any of them as well as Dick, but B. obviously trusts them and youâre sure it would turn out okay eventually. God, you must love Barbara a lot for even considering this.
You canât even imagine the way the nurses at your clinic would look at you with one of the Wayne boys trailing after you, a sight almost to good to be passed up. This thought paired with the ever-growing pout on your best friendâs face is what cracks you, so finally you tell her:
âOkay, fine.â Â Sighing out the last word with a big huff of breath.
âOh my god! Yay! You must love me!â Barbara giggles.
âYeah, Barb. I must,â you tell her, smiling as she gets her phone outâsurely, to text Dick. âJust make sure, theyâre not late okay?â
âI promise, scouts honor.â
ËËË â ËËË
Youâre going to murder Barbara.
After two weeks of heinous shifts, migraines, and relentless promises, youâve officially lost any semblance of patience for some guy being late to pick you up. After agreeing to have one of her boys take you to your appointment, Barbara swore up and down that it would be just like if she was there with you, but this was proving more and more untrue as the clock ticked farther away from the time she told him to arrive.
When she told you which boy was free to come with, you were unconvinced and a little weary of seeing him. Barbara rarely spoke of him, and when she did it was with a soft sadness that reminded you of how your older brother looked at you when you were disappointing him. When his name came up in conversation with Dick it was hushed like a secret, like a rumor passed in high school hallways or a ship in a bottle. You didnât really know anything about him other than his name, and even that was a tiny thing in the sea of unknowable things.
Youâd only met Jason Todd once, a year ago on a hot summer nightâdreams were at the touch of your fingertips and the tequila buzzed through your veins like gas thrown in the ocean; everywhere it touched the waves burned. He was massive and looming, yet his baggy sweater and the wired headphones dangling from his collar made him look more like a schoolboy than a soldier. He had come to take Barbara home, smiling a little at the sight of the two of you spinning in spirals and giggling through Miley Cyrus lyrics. His grin was loose and noncommittal, as if it could be taken away far faster than it would be given.
You can remember thinking he was handsome, the sleepy look of himâcurly hair a mess and under eyes purpleâhe had a shiner over his left eye and his lip was split, a look that brought a sweet little warmth to your drunk tummy.
He hadnât really said anything to you that night, just nodded and asked if you needed a ride home too, swiveling the car keys around his index finger. Youâd said no then, the creeping presence of your boyfriend lurking back at your apartment convincing you it would be a better idea just to walk or get a taxi. You canât remember much more, just that heâd given you an unconvinced stare and a promise that if you called Barbara she could get him to come back for you.
You wish you could go back in time and take him back up on the offer, the rest of the night was awful: like when a dream suddenly becomes a nightmare, or the feeling that comes after waking up and remembering that real life was still going on.
That night was all you had of Jason, a daydream that kept you up sometimes as you thought about the mystery of him. Youâd liked him then, but as your body grows hotter and hotter in parking lot of Pamelaâs, all that fondness turns to distaste as he gets later and later.
The August sun is unforgiving, humid and gross from all the smog, and the black pavement sends waves of heat to wrap around you. Youâre already hot all the time, sweaty and uncomfortable; knowledge that Barbara has, and one of the reasons she promised you she would make sure whoever she got would be there on time. Youâre really going to kill her when you see her⊠you love her to death but whatever plan she has cooked up is causing you more grief than anything else.
Itâs half past twelve when he finally arrives, his car sweeping into the parking lot in a rush of smoke and noises an engine really shouldnât make. If you didnât see it driving you might think it was nice, a rich boyâs bright orange Camaro with two black stripes running up the hood. You know intuitively that it was expensive, yet the smoking and the clacking and the way he looks a little frustrated behind the wheel tells you that the price might not have been worth it.
Jason looks a little shocked to see you waiting outside for him, a surprise that he hides faster than it stayed on his face forâhe looks handsome again, messy in a way youâre beginning to think is native to him, baggy clothes nestling him in too many layers for this summer heat; youâre getting hot just looking at him.
He looks happy to see you though, eyes bright and mouth upturned, his hand rising to flick a little wave at youâmoving his index and middle fingers back and forth, beckoning you closer like a king at his throne. This, paired with the already growing annoyance from the heat and his lateness, aggravates you into a fully formed bad mood.
Barbara Gordon is really lucky sheâs your best friendâshe should feel loved without measure for you going along with her stupid plans, because this has already graduated to awful, and youâre not even in the car yet.
âHey, Câmon in!â Jason yells, his voice less gruff than you remember it being.
You make your way to the car, fanning yourself with one hand as the other reaches out to open the door. The handle is hot to the touch, and upon opening the smell of cigarettes and stale bat burger assaults your noseâyou know heâs doing you and Barb a favor, but surely the boy knows that pregnant women could throw up at any moment.
âHey,â you say, a little colder than you intended.
âHey.â He smiles, a warm living thing that wakes up the rest of his face. In pictures he always looks angry or boredâcountless newspaper headlines featuring the worldâs most annoyed stareâbut here and now he looks alive and joyous, like a dog after a long walk. âSorry Iâm late, Barbie told me your appointment was at one and for some reason I thought that meant I was supposed to pick you up at one.â He says this in a rush, like it was imperative to get all the words out, so youâd understand faster.
âItâs fine, Jason,â you sigh. âletâs just go okay, the clinic is uptown, and the lunch traffic is gonna be crazy.â His eyes widen a little at the sound of his name, but itâs probably just because you sound so dejected; youâre sure itâs not often that Jason Todd has to placate sweaty pregnant women. He starts driving once you get your seatbelt onâstaring wide and weary as you pull harder and harder to get it to wrap around your still growing bellyâspeeding off the same way he arrived: in a cloud of smoke and noise that canât be good for the environment.
He looks handsome driving, his right hand holding onto the gearshift with all the lax of someone practiced and precise, and his left beating out the rhythm to a 90s RnB song. He keeps looking over at you and apologizing againâfor being late, for the mess, for the lack of ACâHe seems unpracticed in the art of apologies, the âsorrysâ foreign on his tongue and weak compared to the rest of him, yet he continues, nonetheless.
The drive uptown is hot and full of music you havenât heard since childhood bus rides; Jason isnât full of conversation, but he is in constant movement. His fingers tap on the steering wheel, and his left knee bounces up and down; when his hand isnât on the gearshift its in his hairâpulling at the mess of curls.
âIs that real?â you ask him the next time you see his slender fingers make their way into the inky ringlets.
âUh, is what real?â He responds.
âThe white in your hair, is it real?â you ask again, eyes pointing up at the impossibly white streak falling into his eyes. You remember seeing it that night outside the club, how the curliquecurlicue cascaded over his forehead in tufts of ice white. It looked so soft that night, fluffy and mussed about, now itâs inky and coiled: a little wet looking from the gel tangled into the curls.
âOh, um. Yeah, I started going grey a little early I guess.â He laughs, but thereâs something pained about it⊠some secret story buried beneath deep giggles.
âIâll say⊠what are you like twenty-four?â
âTwenty-two.â He answers, smiling at you for a second before his eyes turn back to the busy Gotham streets. âHow old are you? Barbie said you around my age.â
âYeah twenty-two,â you tell him. âyâknow you seem like you could be any age⊠like you could tell me you were thirty or eighteen and Iâd believe you.â
Your words seem to make him a little sad, the repetitive tapping stalling for a few seconds before he speaks again.
âI get that a lot actually, Bruceâmy dad,â He says, scrunching his nose a little as he does. âUsed to tell me I was an old soul, and Alfred would tell him that that couldnât be trueâhe said I had to be on my first life, I was so young.â Heâs smiling as he says this, but his spine is still stuck in that tense form that betrays how relaxed he really is.
Itâs interesting how he reacts the same way about his family as they do about himâthat quiet separation that is more telling than you think any of them realize.
You make casual conversation after that, filling up space until you make it to the clinic. The way he took you was full of impossible shortcuts and illegal turns, he drove like an assholeâfast and selfish as he cut people off and sped up to not let anyone in. Youâre not sure if this was just because he wanted to get you there on time, or if he always drove like this, but there was something sort of appealing about it. Your mom did always tell you to be careful of the bad boys⊠and you get the feeling that it doesnât get much worse than Jason Todd.
You arrive at your doctorâs office nine minutes before your appointment was supposed to start, something that causes anxiety to seep into your belly. You only have a few minutes, but you find yourself clutching at your bump and sighing into the hot leather of the Camaroâs seats. Â Youâve been able to hide behind the easy conversation and the hot irritation running over your skin, but now with the doctorâs office looming in front of you the familiar worry creeps back into your veins.
Itâs like this every time, the massive paranoia reaching into your skull and telling you that thereâs something wrong with your babyâthat you messed something up with them without even trying to. This is the main reason why Barbara comes with you to these things, so that somebody will hold your hand and tell you youâre doing everything you can to make sure the little guy is happy and healthy as it grows. You miss her, you really do, and the thought brings tears to begin welling at your eyes. You donât really have time for this, but you canât help it, youâve been wanting to cry since last night when you felt the baby press a little foot against your bladder.
âHey, you okay?â Jason asks, his neck bringing his head down so he can see your eyes better. Heâs so big, itâs almost comical seeing him lower himself to your level, but he does it anyway no matter how uncomfortable it looks.
âYeah, yeah, Iâm fine.â You sniffle, wiping your nose with the back of your hand.
âHey, donât do thatâŠâ He whispers before stretching out the sleeve of his sweater and offering it to you like it was some sort of hankie. âYou donât have to pretend to be fine, Iâm sure everything is really stressful for you right now.â Jasonâs eyes are piercing you, green as a lake and beautiful in their concern. Thereâs no part of his current worry that seems inauthenticâheâs so earnest, sincere in his worry and his panic, he looks sort of funny: this version of him, obviously stressed and not used to dealing with sobbing women.
The thought makes you laugh, sending you into quick giggles that break off into periodic weeping.
âLook at your face!â you laugh, wiping more tears with his still extended arm. âYouâre so freaked.â
âWell, Iâm not really good with tears or emotions, or girls.â He sounds a little embarrassed at the last part, like this wasnât something he wanted to admit to you though it was more obvious than anything heâs got going on.
âWhy did Barbara send you and not Dick then?â you ask, âheâs good with tears and girls from what Iâve heard.â Jason looks a little put out at the mention of his brother but doesnât do more than let out a little frustrated breath.
âheâs too busy in BlĂdhaven.â
âWell, what about Tim?â you ask, just to see if it would annoy him moreâit does.
âThey were all too busy! Okay?â He exclaims, his voice dull and exacerbated. âYou got me, sorry if thatâs not what you wanted.â He whispers, but it has no heatâjust little and wistful.
âNo, Iâm glad youâre here, Jason.â You tell him, finally coming down from all the laughter and crying, though you still have slow tear tracks trailing down your cheeks.
Your words graze over him like the worldâs best present, bringing a charming and childish smile to his handsome face. âI gotta go in now, though, you gonna come? Or are you staying out here?â you ask as you unbuckle your seat belt and begin lifting yourself unsuccessfully out of his car.
âDo you want me to come?!â He asks, wide eyed before he scrambles to help you out of the passenger seat: leaping out of the car with more grace than you thought a guy his size could have and jogging towards your side of the car.
âIf you wantâŠâ You mumble, unconfident in your response. In truth, youâd like nothing more than for him to come with youâit was scary being back there all alone, with no one but a doctor and the quiet beating of your babyâs heartbeat. âI mean you can leave and come back or whatever, you donât have to come back with me if you donât want too.â
Jason looks unconvinced from his place above you, lowering his eyes down to yours as his spine brings his body down to reach your hands. His skin is cold to the touch, a sensation that seems impossible in the 100Âș heat, itâs nice and cool and welcoming to your sweating skinâso nice you almost want to snuggle against him and burrow like an animal on a sunny day.
He lifts you fast and easy, like your weight is nothing too him, and it probably was⊠what with how big he seemed to be. Once he has your feet on the ground and your hands back to your sides, he looks at you againâevergreen eyes squinting like two winking moons.
âIâll come with you,â He says, âIâll do anything you wantâjust donât cry again.â
ËËË â ËËË
Of course, you couldnât really keep your promise of not crying again, not when the Doctor squeezed cold gel on your swollen belly and proclaimedâŠ
âItâs a girl, Jason!â you cried happily, bringing your hand out to playfully slap at his bicep. Heâd been great, albeit a little panicky: standing by your side and averting his eyes when it seemed like you needed some privacy. He had smiled the whole time, a lazy happy thing that only got bigger as he stayed in the little roomâhe whispered to you through it all, telling you how cool everything was and how cute the âlittle monsterâ was cradled in the sonogram.
He'd been a little embarrassed when the Nurses Assistant thought he was the father, but he rallied fastâhis smile returning, soft and lovely, before he told her: âoh no, maâam, just a friend.â Â
When the doctor told you the baby was a girl, he brought his hand to your shoulder and squeezed, grinning down at you as you beamed. It was obvious how excited he was, but nothing could beat the joy you felt; youâd been saying for months that all you wanted was a healthy baby, but secretly you wanted a little girl so badly.
Maybe it was all the Gilmore Girls you watched or the non-relationship you had with your own mother, but the idea of having a daughter was a dream you couldnât stop having. From that very first day you saw those two little lines confirming every suspicion you had, all you wanted was to be able to think about pink floral onesies and princess dresses.
Youâre just so happy, and you canât stop crying even though you promised Jason you wouldnât.
The appointment didnât take very long, but the afternoon sun has only gotten hotter and youâve only gotten hungrier: two aspects that cause you to dread getting back into Jasonâs treacherous Camaro. This makes you cry harder, clutching at Jasonâs arm harder, before you say again:
âItâs a girl!â
âI know!â Jason laughs, grinning big and happy, his hand coming up to cup yours where it squeezes his muscle. âThat was all so exciting, I get why Barbie is always talking about the baby⊠she really is just tiny in there.â
âBarb talks about me and the baby?â you ask, a little surprised though you guess you shouldnât be⊠Barbara talks about him and his brothers to you, so why wouldnât she talk about you to them? Still, the knowledge brings a sweet shiny smile to take over your pouting face (as well as his use of âsheâ, itâs a girl!)âyou take back all the things you were thinking about her earlier, you love her so much.
âAll the time,â He smiles. âSheâs really excited for you, yâknow? She talks about it every time I see her⊠itâs almost like sheâs the one having a baby.â
âYeah, well, sheâs kinda been the little thingâs dad since I moved inâI wake her up to order me pizza in the middle of the night, and she has to rub my shoulders while I cry or Iâm a nightmare to live with.â You laugh, giggling at the truth of it.
He laughs louder than youâve ever heard from him, a massive laugh that moves his whole body: his head falling back and his Adams Apple jumping. Heâs really, really pretty, you think; so handsome its almost crazy⊠boys really shouldnât be this pretty, itâs not good for poor girls like you who really need to stay away from them.
You can feel his hand still clutching yours from your hold on his arm, cold and rough against your own. It seems impossible that he could be this cold, heâs swathed in layers and standing under the steaming August sun⊠so how is he still so chilly?
âHey, are you feeling okay?â you ask him, moving your hand from his arm and moving it up to his foreheadâhis hand still holding yours, moving up, up, up until it reaches his face. The skin there is cold too, chilly like a Gotham winter. Is he sick? You ask yourself, trying to think back to how he acted when you first got in his car⊠did he do anything that seemed unwell, or does he just run at this impossible level of chill.
His eyes find yours, intense green shining down at you with a wide gaze. You realize how close youâve been standing, chest to chestâyour belly being the only thing to cause some sort of separation between the two of you. Your hand is settled on his forehead, centimeters away from the white curls waterfalling downâyou want to touch it, pull at it and make it fluffy like it was that night last summer.
You feel crazy, a little dazed and breathless, but that was probably just because of the sun and the ever-flowing hormones running through your veins. Jasonâs still staring at you, his other hand sweeping down your form and finding a place on the middle of your back, his touch electric and freezing.
âIâm just fine,â He whispers , saying your name softly as his green eyes rush out blinks, like heâs clearing his eyes over and over again to make sure this is really happening. His voice wakes you up, bringing your sight down from the shock of white down to his green gaze, you really are so close to him.
You jump away as if youâve been stung, stumbling back and holding your belly to protect it from invisible dangers. He looks as shocked as you feel, like he never thought heâd get that close to you. âYou hungry?â he whispers, his tummy moving up and down rapidly--the only thing other than his eyes that give anything away.
âSure,â you breathe, your voice so soft it almost gets lost among all the cars parked in front of the clinic.
âOkay,â he nods, finally giving you back that beautiful little smile. âI know a place.â
ËËË â ËËË
Heâd taken you to some diner outside the city, it was dim and smelled like pancake batter and stale coffee, but it was perfect. He let you talk to him about the baby, about Barb and Pamelaâs, about anything and everything that came into your head. He didnât say much, you were learning that about himâhe was still water, a crystalline lake with endless depth beneath sunlit ripplesâthough, every now and then his husky Gotham voice would rise over the timeless soundtrack of the restaurant to ask you something.
Jason was constantly turning the conversation back onto you, to names you like and where you work, what you did the day before and what did you wanted to be when you grew up. He rarely talked about himself, but you were finding hidden truths in his pauses and phrases, truths that you could bet he didnât want you to find.
That was weeks ago now, and you really couldnât get him out of your head. You tried, albeit not hard enough, to rewrite the day into something else⊠Yet, the truth of the strange intimacy and the way it felt like youâd known him, (or some piece of him) before filled you with warm, loose feeling in your bones.
You remember how Barbara looked at you when youâd come back home that afternoon, starstruck and suspicious, like she knew something you didnât. When you told her the baby would be a girl, she cried and giggled and clutched you to her chest as tight as she could with your belly in the way. She kept telling you how happy she was that Jason could be there for you, so so happy⊠the way she said it gave way to deeper feelings that you arenât sure you fully understood, but you were beginning to; it seemed like Jason was that unknowable force to everyone in his life, even to Barbara who usually could sniff out truth like cadaver dog.
After that day Jason orbited your life like a second sun: showing up in the morning to drive you to work, bringing you little treats in the form of nasty cravings you happened to mention to him, smiling when you let him feel the baby kick.
It seemed to you a little odd how closely he was tying himself to you, but you comforted yourself with the knowledge that he didnât have many friendsâmaybe he was just lonely, and your particular brand of irritation had done something for him. It didnât really matter though, you liked him, oddities included; he was truer than most people youâd known, earnest in ways you hadnât really knew existed.
For all the chattering about the black sheep-troubled Wayne boy, Jason Todd was sweet and helpfulâa few weeks ago he helped you buy a crib and when you wouldnât let him splurge for an expensive stroller, he showed up with one a couple days later under the guise of someone âleaving on the street.â He offered himself up as a helpful hand: filling in for Barbara when she couldnât be there for you, taking you to the grocery store in his abominable car, or helping you baby proof the apartment.
Heâd done so much for you, and you arenât quite sure why⊠Everything youâve ever heard of him paints these actions in a strange light, knowing that the boy is perceived to be uncaring and cruel, yet in the moments youâve shared with him all heâs ever been is kind.
Last week you had been sitting in his garage, covered by a light sweater and baggy maternity overalls, as you listened to him huff about how you shouldnât be working so much. All you could see were his legs, grease covered cargos inching out from under his car, and all you could hear was the sharp metallic sounds of metal on metal mixing in to his dissent. Youâd been surprised by how much he sounded like he cared, how frustrated he was when you told him youâd be working another twelve hour shift the next dayâhis eyes turned into little crescents and his mouth became impossibly pouty before asking you, âwhat about the baby?â
Youâd been so struck by him, this sweet man who had no reason to care but did. You remember wanting to see his face, how you yearned to seen the sweat trickling down his forehead and trace the grease covered lines of his hands.
Currently, you were replaying what he said to you this morning as you refilled coffees and dodged wandering hands. Heâd driven you to work, pretty and sunlitâmiles and miles of tan skin splayed out under his T-shirtâit was almost hard to pay attention to him, he was so radiant, like a statue being built right in front of your eyes. Heâd gotten warmer over the weeks youâd spent with him, more and more teeth shining on display as he smiled⊠more stories lifted from his lips.
His voice even got warmer, sweeter and happier as he replied to your questions and asked his own. This morning heâd been so lovely, a hundred-watt smile burning your retinas and that one stubborn curl teasing you from where it fell over his eyebrow. You canât erase it from your head, the way heâd asked if youâd thought of any names yet. His fingers tap-tapping against the steering wheel as he waited for your answer.
âIâm not sure,â youâd told him, âI feel like maybe I need to wait for her to be born so I can read it in her eyes⊠do you get what I mean?â
You were sure he wouldnât, not even Barb understood and she knew everything. It seemed so important to you, this idea that your baby would tell you herself, yet you canât stop thinking that maybe it was some sort of denial. Like maybe you were refusing to think of a name because then it would all be real,) (as if it wasnât now what with her limbs stabbing all your internal organs).
âNo that makes total sense,â He surprised you. âLike what if you pick out a name and she comes out looking completely different than you thought she wouldâa Brooke doesnât look like a Peyton.â
âIs that a One Tree Hill reference?â
âIt doesnât matter,â He laughed, taking his hand off the gearshift to wave his hand around. âI just mean, you shouldnât feel like you have to defend yourself to meâor anyoneâsheâs your kid, you could wait until sheâs like six and have her name herself if you really wanted to.â
You were so surprised; this boy continued to shock you with his endless waves of understanding and empathy, this boy who was becoming someone quite special to you.
âWhat would you name her?â You asked him without really thinking of the consequences. âIf she was your baby?â
He looked so shocked by this question, a little embarrassed it seemed by the rising pink on the plains of his face and the way his rapid tapping became impossibly faster. Yet, he answered honestly anyway, like you knew he would⊠You couldnât really count on Jason Todd for anything other than being honest.
âI donât know if Iâve really thought of it,â he told you. âI donât think I ever really imagined myself with kids, but if she was my babyââ he coughs, â well if she was my baby Iâd name her after someone I really loved, someone who I knew would look after her if I couldnât.â
âDo you have someone like that?â
âYeah, um. My kind of grandpa Alfred⊠heâs really the only person I trust completely.â This stuck you as something painful, this boy with tons of brothers⊠with his sister Cass and his friend Roy he sometimes talks about. Theresâs so many people who love him, who canât help but be wrapped up in his elusive energy, yet there is only one who he feels it from. What a lonely boy, he is, lonely and beautiful and something daring.
âYouâd name her after Alfred?â You had asked softly, âHow would that work?â
âWell, his last name is Pennyworth,â he smiled a little, like there was some joke you were missing. âSo, I guess Penny.â
The way he said it, soft and electric, had circled your head all day. He had looked so incredibly fond, so happy to be asked and to have an answer, the image of it wouldnât leave you, and youâre not so sure you wanted it to. Not when you got out of his car, not when you waved goodbye and got that last quicksilver smile⊠even now as you mopped the floor for the umpteenth time today could you really think of something else.
In truth, you had a little crush on himâthe way you liked strangers or characters on TV, like he was imaginary⊠unknowable. How couldnât you, with his straight teeth and his loser boy charm. He seemed like something out of a teen drama, like he would only emerge if The Fray started playingâa boy made for mood lighting and cigarettes, night and truth.
It was all a little teenage and silly, more than a wish and less of a dream, a reality that you were sure wouldnât come true but wanted it too all the same.
The word âcrushâ seemed apt to you, a violent word for the dangerous way you feel about him⊠like he could squeeze your heart between his cold hands and youâd still give him a starry eyed smile.
It really must be the hormones, or the wish to have a family to bring your baby home to. Sure, you have Barb and your little apartment, yet there was a large piece of you that still wanted her to have a father. It seemed like an important thing to have, a pillar to hold you both up when the world was falling apart⊠you hadnât chose the right person to create her with, but you want so badly for her to have someone to grow withâsomeone other than you and your constant neurosis, someone strong and resilient; kind and miraculous.
You couldnât get it out of your head that Jason could be this person, what with his soft smiles and comforting eyes. He would be a great father, you just knew it, strict sure but oh so amazing. The kind of dad that sneaks her ice cream and have dance parties to Selena Gomez and Hannah Montana; heâd surely let her paint his nails and play with littlest pet shops and barbies, perfect and sweet and everything you wish you had as a little girl.
It was just a little crush, a blooming want that took seed last summer and has only grown since seeing him again. A little crush that kept you up at night and buried stars in your belly, tremors in your fingertips and knives in your heart. It was just a little crush, yet you couldnât stop thinking of your baby being hisâof your little girl being Penny, this miracle grown from the two of you, shiny and darling and lovely like him.
But you canât change the past, and there was no way Jason would have you. Not with your stretch marks or the way you were agitated all the time⊠there could be no way heâd desire someone who was always crying, who wanted to eat celery and raspberry jam for breakfast and was always sweating. He was young and handsome, and more alive than anyone youâd ever met beforeâthere could be no part of him that wanted you, no piece that yearned for a baby in a couple months, or a commitment that was longer than your lease.
You wanted him, it was trueâa terrible truth that youâd deny if/when Barbara askedâbut it wouldnât do, he deserved a life much more than you could give him, even if all you wanted was the opportunity to give him one.
ËËË â ËËË
 The night was a looming ghost.
It was quieter than usual, summer heat cooling into a slight autumnal chill; the sounds of the city were dimming with the season, all signs of life disappearing with the warmth. Gone were the block parties and high schoolers giggling up and down the street, contraband fireworks and friends smoking on their stoops⊠It was quiet, hushed like a dying personâs last breath; It was terrifying.
 A Gotham that is silent is a city lying in wait.
You had just left your brotherâs house; you had made your way there after work instead of going straight homeâa split second decision that had invaded your thoughts after getting off early. You had taken three steps out of Pamelaâs and remembered the last time you called him, how he had seemed a little sad and nervous.
It was a little bittersweet seeing him; sure, it was always nice to sip on sweet tea and chat with his wife, but your brother wasnât the happiest about your decision to have a baby by yourself. He was even less happy about your indignant dismissal of any kind of help he could offer, which he reminded you of every time you made your way into his home.
Youâd left a little after seven, the sun only a sliver in the sky, making way for the indigo of blue hour to cascade over your skin. The quiet scared you more than the darkness, Gotham was always dark (whether it be smog or stars, or some villainous plot), but it wasnât always hushed.
You werenât too far, just a couple blocks farther than your usual walk home but coming from the opposite direction threw off your bravery. As well as the lack of your midnight companion⊠youâd gotten so used to having Hood be your shadow, it felt odd being without him. Itâd been so long since you walked alone, since you felt true fear creep up your back and eat at your heart. It was different now, being scared, having your childâs heart beating with your own and knowing that if something happened to you theyâd be hurt too. It was this thought that brought you to your apartment faster, your steps thunderous on the concrete in their urge to be home.
The fear was scratching at your skin, every sound making you jump and clutch at your belly tighter and tighter. Maybe you could call Jason, maybe heâd come get you like he came for Barbara last summer, curls fluffy and sweater donnedâhis smile electric and painful. But you were almost home, so close there would be no pointâŠ
You were walking so fast it felt like you were flying through the neighborhood, your footsteps taking you closer and closer to your front doorâyouâre moving quicker than youâve been able to since your pregnancy reached around the fourth month mark, faster than youâve ever moved maybe. You were just so scared, but your apartment was so close all you had to do was run and youâd be there.
Crossing the threshold felt like arriving on a different planetâfor every dead zone thereâd been outside, your home was alive and vibrant. Sure, it was still quietâBarbara was probably still at workâbut the color and mingling smells of the two of you brought you out of your stupor. You willed your heart to slow down, every exhale felt like a blessing; youâre home, youâre safe, youâre homeâŠ
Yet, you still couldnât turn from your place at the front door, your forehead heavy on the wood, and your fingers still clutching the deadbolt. There was something a little amiss in the apartment, a slight change in the oxygen, but maybe thatâs just the residual fear still eating at your brain matter.
You stay there for what feels like forever, willing tears not to fall and murmuring comforts to yourself and your baby. Nothing had even happened, it was childish and irrational, like a little kid asking their father to check the closet for monsters. Yet, you canât get it out of your head that something could have happened to you, to your daughterâand no one would have known.
You find yourself going through the motions for the rest of the night, cleaning up and listening to happy music just in hopes that the fear will ease from your bones.The apartment was warm and cozy, still sweet smelling from the candles lit earlier in the day. The heavy curtains were drawn tight and the deadbolt latched, and your corny show was static on the television. It was a perfect night, warm and breezy, youâd walked home by yourselfâwithout the familiar company of the imposing vigilanteâitâd been so long since you walked alone, in a way itâd been sort of nice.
You still havenât checked your phone since you left your brotherâs, the residual fear forcing you to glue yourself to the couch; itâs been buzzing like crazyâmessage after message that you just canât seem to motivate yourself into looking at. Youâre sure whoever it is will forgive you tomorrow, but tonight you have to be aloneâitâs the only thing you think will disintegrate the anxiety still sitting in your stomach.
An anxiety that seems to only worsen as the night goes on and Barbara doesnât come home, and your baby seems awfully still. Anxiety that grows and grows until the imaginary monsters donât seem too imaginary anymoreâŠ
You found yourself humming a little to your baby, caressing the skin around your swollen belly just to feel her tiny foot pressing back. It was everything, a feeling you would never get tired ofâeven when the day was horrible, when all your wants were miles and miles away from you and you just canât catch a break, this feeling is all you really needed.
Itâs this comfort that draws you into sleepâs sweet embrace, drowsiness invading all your senses and clouding your thoughts with dreams instead of desires. You never go to bed this early, but lately youâve been needing more rest like your baby is a body snatcher corrupting you and stealing your energy.
It is these thoughts that you dream about, alien parasites and children who siphon energy from their mothersânot so much nightmares⊠itâs more like old cartoons; the voices a little sinister from being out of time.
You wake to a dull pain in your back: a symptom of falling asleep sitting up, it moves up and down your shoulders and into your spine. At this point, aches and pains and general comfortability was becoming a closer friend to you than you thought was possible. Yet, you could never get used to the burning feeling of waking up in pain.
The living room hadnât become any darker than it was before, but that couldnât really tell you anything⊠Gotham had only two light settings: sunstroke and city lights. The only thing that really told you how long youâd slept for was the next episode playing and the crick in your neck.
Also, you really had to peeâbut that was your factory setting these days so.
It took you thirty minutes to become comfortable again: going to the bathroom and finding a little snack in the refrigerator and rewinding your show to see what you missed.
It starts with a quiet clang on one of the windows, the only one that faces the street and not the alleyway next to the complex. A sound like a rock hitting a windshield, fast and shocking amongst the fearful evening, a sound that would be meaningless if it didnât happen again.
You had just lit the candles and found the perfect lumpy corner of the couch when the glass clinked again; It was incessant and obnoxious, a clacking on the southernmost window that became louder and louder the longer it went unanswered. In the rest of the world, somebody throwing rocks at your window might be romanticâRomeo and Juliet and the likeâ here in Gotham it could only mean pain and horror,. There was no way youâd be opening up that windowânot for anything or anyone. Your show was just starting to get good, and there was no future that would have you missing petty revenge and corny romance to see to whatever Gotham nonsense decided to make itself your problem tonight.
The problem was the tapping was moving, shifting to other windows before finally becoming a knock at your door. It was booming and worrisome, a knock someone gives when thereâs danger on the other side. This had you creeping to the door, your hand on your belly and a bat being grabbed by the other oneâyou were trying your hardest to be quiet, but your heavier stature transfigured your easy steps into hard and heavy ones. It took almost all the bravery in your bones to look through the peep hole, inching closer and closer as you held your breathâ it was becoming painful now, how quiet and courageous you were trying to be.
But what you saw at the door wasnât some scary murderer like you were expecting⊠rather it was the one scary murderer you were sure wouldnât hurt you.
âWhat are you thinking?!â He asked you when you finally opened the door. He was lightning clashing in your living room, walking around you in circles like a predator closing in on his prey. Youâve become so used to his presence, so sure of the fact that he was safe that you truly forgot this man killed peopleâmaybe it wasnât a good idea to invite him up to your home. âHuh? Do you have an answer or are you just gonna stand there?â
âIâm confused,â You say. âWhat is it that you want me to say?â
âWhere were you?â He huffed. âI waited but you never showed up,â
âI was at my brotherâs house,â you whisper, feeling the anxiety filled night ease itâs way back up your throat. He wasnât helping, his voice modulating into a tough robotic sound and every inch of skin covered up. What you needed tonight was human comforts, not this predatory creature. âI just got home, I⊠what do you want me to say?â
âWhat do I want you to say? How about sorry, how about you say you wonât do it again,â
âIâm sorry?! Why do you even care so much?â
It was strange to be arguing with someone when you couldnât see their face or hear the true timbre of their voice. Stranger still when that person didnât have any right to argue with you anyway, you donât owe Red Hood anything, you donât even know him.
Sure, sometimes he spoke to you when he walked you home, but usually it was just you twaddling on about nothing for forty minutes. This seemed so odd, him showing up here in the middle of the night and yelling at you.
âWhy do I care?! Why donât you care? Youâre pregnant, youâre alone, and this is Gotham.â He sneered, his shoulders stooped low and his hips swaggering as he moves closer to you.
âI donât see how any of this is your business.â Your voice is sharp now, growing more and more irritated as the night goes on.
âItâs my business to care about civilians who continue to endanger themselves.â
âReally? So you go to every pregnant womanâs door and yell at them for walking home alone.â
âMaybe I should,â He says, still huffing closer and closer to you. âBut I donât know why anyone would walk home alone when Scarecrowâs sent a letter to the Gotham Times saying heâs gonna fear gas the whole city.â
âWhat? What are you talking about?â you ask, feeling that familiar fear settle over all your internal organs. Your hands shoot to your tummy, cradling the little baby residing under all the muscle and skin. Is that why the city was so quiet? Were you the only person in the city who didnât know not to be on the street?
âScarecrow. Fear Gas.â He sighed, his gloved hands moving to sweep over his steel helmet.
Tears start welling again, stinging your eyes in their urge to fall. The nights just been too much for you, too much fear and anxiety and now youâre hearing that all you were feeling wasnât just in your headâsomething terrible really could have happened, and you would have been all alone.
âHey, donâtâdonât cry.â Red Hood whispers, the words coming out scary from his mask. It just makes you cry more, the gruff tone and the attempted comfort. Its much more natural for this creature to be yelling and huffing and lecturing, the sight of him making himself small and quiet and comforting is just too much to bear.
It isnât long until real tears are falling faster and faster, all your nightmares coming alive in your head. You turn yourself around, facing the kitchen rather than the leatherbound man, you canât stand to look at him and see all the alternate tragedies that mightâve happened.
âIâm sorry for yelling at you, please just donât cry.â He says again, finally closing the distance between you. His heavy leather jacket breezes your arms as his hands come out to clutch at you, his tactical gloves rough against your skin. Heâs turning you around to face him, gentle despite how rough his exterior seems to be. Itâs almost like all the heat has run off of him, gone is the anger in his voice and all that remains is a nervous rustle.
You allow him to turn you around, your face falling into his armor as more tears fall.
âIâm sorry, I didnât know,â you cry.
âItâs okay, sweetheart.â He whispers. âReally, itâs okay. I shouldnât have yelled at you, are you okay? Is the baby okay?â He asks, moving is hands from your shoulders to slide off one of his gloves. He brings his ungloved hand to your face, using his thumb to sweep away the tears off your cheek.
It shocks you, feeling his skin on yoursâhis hands are so cold, rough and freezing, and he is so tan. It surprises you so terribly that you feel the tears drying up on their own, your eyes locked on the little scars twining their way across his wrist and palm.
âIâm alright,â you whisper.
âAnd the baby?â He asks again, his hands are still cradling your face, and he uses them to angle your face to look up at him. Heâs so cold, unknowable and unreachable, but you could almost imagine how he might be looking at you through his maskâwith concern and compassion.
âSheâs okay, I thinkâsheâs been really quiet tonight, she hasnât been kicking as much, but I think its okay.â
âOkay.â He says, moving away from you and stepping back closer to the window. He doesnât look at you again until heâs about to step back into the night, turning his head to look through you one last time. âCheck your phone,â he tells you. âand donât ever walk home alone againâIâll know if you do.â
As he falls into the darkness all you can think about are his hands, the scars and the cold, how pretty the honeyed skin was.
He was freezing, colder than the night and lovely, and as you find yourself tucking into the covers for the night, you canât stop thinking about another boy with cold skin. Â
ËËË â ËËË
âBabe, you have to come! I canât be liable for what I will do if Iâm there all alone.â
âBarb! Please donât make me go, Iâm gonna have to pee a million times and there is no way Iâll get my swollen feet into any of my heels.â
âPlease, please, please!â Barbara whines, âif you really loved me you would come with me!â
âBarb!â
âDick is gonna be there! And Timmy! And Jason will come if you goâŠâ
âBarbara, I donât want to go,â you tell her, laughing at the way she circles you in her wheelchair. You donât know how she does it, youâre getting dizzy just watching her.
âWe donât have to stay the whole time! Just long enough for my dad not to give me any lectures, okay? Please?â
Maybe itâs the way her big eyes ogle you or her continuous pleading, or maybe you just love herâbut you feel yourself slipping farther and farther into agreement. It would be nice, you think, to dress up and make yourself pretty: painted nails and sparkly eyeshadow.
Itâs this thought, (and Barbaraâs owlish eyes) that lead you to saying yes. However, you really werenât thinking of the consequences, nor the true reality of finding a dress that would fit you, or shoes that could be both pretty and fit over your swollen ankles.
Youâre sure Barbara will look beautiful, (she always does) youâve seen her all dressed up for galaâs and governorâs partiesâlast time she looked like Thumbelina, beautiful and wispy as she left with Dick. Youâre not sure if you could measure up⊠you didnât have any beautiful clothes or any secret charm you could conjure up. Yet, no part of you wanted to disappoint Barbara, so when she dragged you to department stores and insisted on using her âonly for emergenciesâ credit card on a new dress and shoes and grossly expensive makeup, you let her.
She was so excited, she kept yapping on and on about how excited her dad was to see you again and how happy Mr. Wayne was happy you finally said yes to an invitationâLike seriously, Bruce Wayne!âand as much as you didnât want to ruin her vibe, you couldnât help but feel as though you were harboring a secret.
Your crush on Jason was surely too obvious to hide, but you wished to keep it away from the eyes of your friend for as long as possible⊠It could never work, especially now with all the suspicion youâve built up since last Saturday; When Red Hood took his glove off and you felt his skin, the delicious icy feeling of it, you couldnât stop feeling as though it was achingly familiar.
The revelation felt heavy in your bones, and denial was creeping along your skin like goosebumpsâif Jason Todd was Red Hood, there was no way that Barbara didnât know (she knew everything), and that reality hurt worse than you thought it would.
You share everything with Barb, every little nagging thought that eases its way into your psyche, and you thought that she did too. But if your masked vigilante was your friend, it would surely mean that she had a whole other life that you knew nothing about⊠youâre not angry, (you could never be mad at her for real), just sad; emotional at the thought of being excludedâlike a little girl being skipped over in volleyball.
So instead of thinking about thisâabout all the coincidences and similarities youâve been discovering about the two boys in your lifeâyou let your best friend dress you up and paint your eyes with sparkly eyeshadow. The dress she chose is a pretty light blue, a shimmery fabric that made your skin shine when you stood in front of the dressing room mirror, and left a trail of glitter through the mall.
Youâre helping her with her hair now, braiding the fiery strands with practiced precision as she sings along to the speaker. Sheâs so lovely, milk soft skin and eyes like emeralds, and sheâs smiling at you through the bathroom mirror; it breaks your heart, thinking of her keeping secrets from you⊠maybe youâll just never bring it up, keep your suspicions safely locked up in your head till one of you is on your death bed and it wonât matter.
Though you canât stop yourself from worrying about her, when she had her accident you were still in high schoolâmoony eyed and ridiculous fifteenâyou remember Jim calling your brother, how you wept until your sinuses burned and your skin itched from the salt. Youâd been worrying about her until last year when you had to start worrying about yourself, now youâre thinking maybe you shouldâve been paying more attention.
âWhatâs on your mind, goose?â Barbara asks you, looking a little more concerned than she did a few minutes ago. Your childhood nickname shocks you, unused to hearing anyone but your brother refer to you with itâits full of childlike memories, dreams of fudgesicles and the smell of fireworks in the city, your brother tucking you into bed and Barbara taking you to get your nails done for the homecoming danceâŠ
Itâs warm and comforting, but among all the worried thoughts and disguised anger, all it does is make you more upset.
âNothing, B⊠just thinking about how pretty youâll look, like a princess.â
âMe?! Iâm amazed by your beauty every day, youâll be like-glowing around the dance floor.â
âI wonât be dancing, Barb.â You laugh, âIâm so pregnant I can barely walk without waddling and you want me to dance⊠In front of photographers and journalists? Youâre insane.â
âHey, Iâm gonna get you on the dance floor!â Barbara giggles, the sound twinkling into the music. âIâll get Jason to sweep you off your feet in no time.â
You laugh, but the reminder of the boy makes it a little weak. You havenât spoken to him since that night the Red Hood came knocking on your window, leaving his hundreds of worried text messages unansweredâyouâre not upset with him, how could you be? Jason doesnât owe you anything; if he is the Red Hood, all it means is heâs been taking care of you longer than youâve knownâŠ
âHave you met him?! Jason is not gonna wanna dance with me.â
âI actually have met him, my love, and I know heâll dance with you if I scheme it right.â
âSave your breath, Barb.â You giggle, âIâm just going for the finger food, I gotta see what Bruce Wayneâs money can do.â
She laughs and starts humming along to the speaker again, sitting still for you as you tie off her braid. You trade places, her sweeping in front of you so you can sit on the toilet as she does your makeup. Itâs nice, reminiscent of weekends long past and facetime calls as she taught you how to put on eyeliner; You find it funny how she has to adjust for your tummy, settling her elbow on the swell of it as she sweeps blush along your cheek.
âI love you, you know.â She whispers as she passes a mirror to let you see her creation, sparkly and bright like a firefly or a disco ball, her pretty smile all teeth. âIâm so happy youâre coming with me tonightâI know itâs not your scene, and that youâd rather just stay here and watch Real Housewives of Coast City, but Iâm really so excited about dancing with you.â
âI love you too, Barb.â You tell her, setting the mirror down so you can cage her in your arms. Sheâs so slight, familiar and comforting, maybe you can let everything go; live in ignorance and allow her to make her own mistakes without worrying about her, but you know you wonât beâŠ
Youâd never been good at letting things go; ignorance might be bliss, but paranoia is a parasite.
ËËË â ËËË
The Gala is in full force when you arrive: City Hall lit up and encased by black cars and women in fur coats. You recognize Jasonâs Camaro instantly, parked somewhere definitely illegal and out of place amongst the shiny sedans and silver sports cars. From this vantage you finally understood why Jason deigns to drive it aroundâwhy heâs spent so many afternoons laying underneath it and fiddling with gears and pipes that you canât begin to understand⊠You come to realize the silent protest the orange car represents, how obviously he tells the world heâs not what you think he is.
The thought makes you smile as Barbara leads you into the party, jostling her way through men in expensive black suits and ladies covered in diamonds and pearls. Her neck is craning up to look for one of the boys, youâre sure, her orange braid glinting shards of fire as it jostles back and forth.
You try to keep up with her, but the smell of Chanel No. 5 and arrogance floods your head and makes it difficult. Everywhere you look there is someone you only know from the news, people whoâve controlled your city one bad decision at a time, and your best friendâsweet silly Barbara who you once saw snort soda pop up her noseâlooks right at home amongst them.
Itâs all extremely overwhelming; this must be how Cinderella felt, you think, to step out of her rags and into the limelight knowing she could never truly be drawn to it.
The room is lit up by bright crystal chandeliers and the music is something out of a Keira Knightly movie, timeless and slow. Theresâs people dancing to it, twisting and turning around stately menâs arms as the viola sways and laughing to themselves when their feet stutter.
You feel very much out of place, youâre one of the youngest people here (a sight that feels a little shameful paired with your swollen belly), and seemingly one of the most underdressed as well. You left the apartment feeling whimsical and pretty, yet now the familiar insecurity seems to bubbling its way back up to the surface.
The silk of your dress doesnât seem to stand toe to toe with all the tulle and chiffon, and you are blatantly aware of your necklaces inauthenticity next to the politicians and billionaires young wives. Suddenly you feel like an imposter, like a little girl playing in her motherâs closest, or Carrie at the promâjust waiting for the blood to pour.
âOh, thank god, youâre here!â You hear, before feeling a warm hand settle on your shoulder. You turn to see Dick Grayson, warm and brilliant in blue suede and silver cufflinks. His smile is full of straight teeth and his eyes are huge lakes of cerulean; on first glance he looks every part the prodigal son, yet thereâs something debauched and mischievous in his glance. âYou ladies, look gorgeous,â he tells you both, looking side to side to take in your and Barbaraâs outfits.
He moves his hand off your shoulder to lean down and hug Barbara, tugging on her braid a little as he says something in her earâyouâre always a bit struck by their closeness; the way they move like littermates seem to have telepathic conversations. After all these years youâve learned not to be jealous of him, but the sight of it now (when youâre full of insecurity and concern) ignites some of that old pain you used to feel when she was too busy with her older friends to hang out with you.
You can remember old school days when sheâd have to turn down your offers of slumber parties and Chad Michael Murry movies because she was spending the day with Dick. You think she had a little crush on him then, always pink cheeked and giddy when sheâd tell you: âIâm sorry, babe! Iâm gonna be with birdy tonight.â The way she said it, like he was Elvis or something, used to bring your prepubescent self to disgust. Some of that old feeling rises now, seeing him handsome and obviously wealthyâa socialite from another time.
You shake the thoughts off as you allow Dick to lead you somewhere less crowded, he walks in-between the two of you: his hands hovering along Barbaraâs chair and your back as he continues complimenting you both. âReally I am so jazzed you guys are here. I was going to have to start planning my brotherâs downfall if I had to spend another minute of him whining.â
âJason?â you ask.
âNo, Timâbut I love that heâs the first one to come to your mind.â
âHer and Jason are gonna get married,â Barbara says, singing out the words in a taunting jaunt. The tone of it brings back sullied memories of days past, of homecoming dates and first boyfriends. You hadnât realized she felt so strongly about you and Jason, maybe it was foolish of you to not see it (what with all the teasing and knowing glances), but you truly thought she wouldnât want you to date one of the boys she grew up with.
âBarbara Joan Gordon!â You yelp, laughing out a scoff as your ears are clouded by the Dickâs booming laughter. You can feel a heat blooming on your face, and you hope to god that the piles of makeup Barbara forced unto your skin hides it well.
âWhat?! Dick knows all about your crush on his little brother.â
âI canât believe this,â Dick says, still laughing. âYouâve been here for five minutes and youâre already betraying each other. I must be a bad influence.â
âOne of these days, Iâm gonna kill you both.â You sigh. Youâre already exhausted, emotionally and physicallyâyou really do wish you stayed home to watch real housewives.
âWho are we killing?â You hear, the cozy timbre of the voice lighting your skin on fire.
You look up to see a suit covered Jason Todd, the black blazer snug on his shoulders and his tie loose around his neck. You feel yourself looking him up and down, your eyes flickering down to his boot covered feet and up to his fluffy curlsâthis makes you smile, imagining Jason getting dressed for his fatherâs gala in the laziest way⊠hell he looked more put together the day he drove you to the clinic. Heâs smiling back at you, but you canât seem to miss the slight twinge in his green eyes: it turns them into watery kaleidoscopes.
âDick and Barbara.â You tell him, watching as his hand rises to tug at his white strands. The movement brings your attention to his ears, noticing the cigarette tucked at the top of one and the other shining with gold hoops.
He truly embraced his role as the black sheep tonight, it seemsâa look that brings a warmth to sit over your skin and a shy smile to play at your lips.
âHmm, well Iâve been trying to get rid of this guy since I was fourteen, but Barbie seems innocent,â He jokes. âSo you might have to convince me.â
âDonât act like you wouldnât do anything she asked you too, Jay.â Barbara giggles, her eyes growing more devious as a little blush rises to Jasonâs cheek.
You take a minute to drink him in; you rarely get to see him embarrassed⊠youâre so used to seeing a careful confidence stitched around his skin like the seams on his suit, that seeing the red bloom on his skin fills you with a sweet adoration.
âMind your own business, Barbie.â He huffs, yet his warm gaze betrays his true fondness. His eyes turn to look at you again, never leaving your face. âYou look beautiful.â He tells you, and you can tell he means itâthereâs something about his gaze that is just so sincere, it brings a shiver to whisper over your skin. âAre you hungry?â He asks you, his hand pointing somewhere in the distance.
You canât trust your voice not to betray you, so you nod and try to ignore the wolf whistles and mocking from dumb and dumber, as you follow him back into the fray.
The hors d'oeuvres were placed lovingly on an old banquet table, tiny sandwiches and macarons stacked in pretty pyramids urging on your appetite. Jason pours you some punch as you make up a little plate, looking on fondly as you sip at the ruby liquid.
âSo, I didnât think you really liked these things.â You say, leaning back onto the wall in a mirror of his body language.
âI donâtâ
âOh, well then why did you come?â
âBarbie said you were gonna be here,â He starts, his voice a little nervous and unsure. âand I thought you could use a friend.â
The smile he gives you is a thousand fallen meteors; itâs every sunrise and the first rain of autumn. Heâs so handsome, unfairly so, with his blushed pink cheeks and lazy glanceâitâs getting harder and harder to deny yourself truths. Not when he sits with you through the gala and creates funny stories and ridiculous accents to go along with all of his fatherâs guests. He speaks more now than he usually does, oddly more comfortable in his familyâs world than any of them will let you believe; he plays the part of the billionaireâs son with expertise, armed with a smirk and a thousand-dollar watch.
Still, you can hear the dissent rise up in his diction: how he looks at the men and women in their fancy clothes, and the way he sneers when one of them look at you a certain way. Youâve become disappointingly comfortable with these sort of looks since your belly began growing and your hair became shinier and your smile dimmer: it has become almost impossible to miss the way people decide they know everything about you just from the missing ring and swollen stomach donning your figure. It wasnât something you really thought of anymore, but the sight of Jason coming to your rescue one glare at a time makes you feel a little hot under the collar.
He'd been sitting with you for some time now, giggling with you as you watched Barbara roll her eyes at journalists and stuff her face with crab rolls. He brought you plate after plate of food and seemed happier the more you filled your tummyâtugging at stray piece of hair and calling you a âgood girlâ as you bit into another cucumber sandwich. Heâd been so wonderful, handsome and good natured in way you never thought youâd see with his father hiding somewhere in the room. Maybe thatâs why you said yes when he asked you to dance⊠How could you say no to that glint in his eye? How could you say no when he asked you so sweetly, under his breath like he just knew youâd say no, but had to ask anywayâŠ
He took your hand shyly, freezing you with the touch of his fingersâa dangerous reminder of current revelationsâand led you to the dance floor with a quiet surprise.
Youâre not sure how to dance to this kind of music; youâre much more accustomed to thumping club classics and mid 2010s glitter pen hits, the kind of melodies made for jumping and screaming along, rather than this lilting symphony. Raising your left hand to sit on Jasonâs shoulder is a little bit more than awkward⊠you feel watched and messy, full of insecurity about where to put your feet and the weird space allotted between you to fit your leave room for your belly. Yet, when you look up at his wide green eyes, all you can feel is safety emanating from the evergreen hue.
âDo you know how to dance to this?â you ask him, your voice hushed into a whisper.
âYes.â He whispers back. âAlfred made me take cotillion lessons when I was a kid, can you imagine it? little boy straight off the street and into polite society? It was awesome.â He says, drawing out the last word.
The image makes you laugh, a big huff that makes more than a few people to stare at you, but all you can see is Jasonâs smile. Heâs beaming from ear to ear, laughing at you or with you it doesnât matterâyouâd do anything to see this smile, warm and hungry and all him.
He proves the authenticity of his story quite quickly, sweeping you around the waxed floors with an elegance that always shocks you. His hands are only warm from holding your own, and his eyes never leave yoursânot onceâhe spins you around and grazes a hand onto your belly when you turn a little fast. Jason is gentle and lovely and he doesnât even grimace when you step on his toes, just smiles and uses the arm on your back to lift you gently back into step. Youâre out of rhythm and ridiculous, giggling as he tells you more about the rich boy lessons of his youth, and time moves faster and faster around the dance floor.
When the song shifts into a slower waltz, Jason moves you closer to his chest, pushing you as far into him as you can be with your tummy in the way. He smiles down at you like you hung the moon, and you would if it would get him to look at you like that.
You bite your lip and lean into him, promising yourself that youâll tell him what you knowâlet him in on the secrets you discovered. You know you should, if you had a secret identity and my friend found out youâd want to know⊠but the feel of his arms around you and the sight of his fluffy curls breaks your heart too much to find the words. Maybe later, you think, youâll let yourself open up the chasm after the dance; itâs too wonderful now, the knowledge that youâve heated him up and made him smile and blush, youâll let yourself ruin it later.
âYouâre so pretty,â He whispers into your hair.
âYou too,â you giggle.
âIâm serious.â
âSo am I.â
âNo, I mean it.â He says, pushing away from you a bit so he can see your face. âYouâre the prettiest girl Iâve ever seen, really sweetheartâI canât believe someone as beautiful as you is dancing with a prick like me.â
His accent is harsh and thick as he says it, inundating the words with home and late nights in the Cityâits might be your favorite sound, his voice⊠the sound of it calling you his âsweetheart.â
âI..â you start, âI mean it too, Iâve thought you were cute since the first time I saw you.â
Youâre barely dancing now, just swaying along in place as he looks at youâawe-full and irreverent.
You feel like you should tell him now, break the illusion before it gets too far. Youâre not sure how heâll take the news of your knowledge, whether heâll be angry at your discovery or proud of your detective work, either way you know he deserves to hear it from you. Youâre about to confess when he pulls away, shattering the intimate moment with one glance over your shoulder.
âJason, what?ââ you begin to ask, turning around to see Bruce Wayne looking right at you. He looks different in person, scarier and larger than the Gotham Times makes him look. If you didnât know any better youâd think he was more than Jasonâs adoptive father: they looked alike⊠same judging stare/same intimidating stance.
âHey,â Jason whispers, turning your body back around so youâre looking at him rather than the harsh glance of his dad. âHow about you say goodnight to Barbie and Dick, and Iâll take you home, huh? I just gotta talk to the old man.â He sounds more at ease than he looks, an old panic glazing over his eyes.
âOkay,â you nod, smiling at him before stepping away; shivering a little as your manufactured warmth leaves your skin.
ËËË â ËËË
Barbara was very excited when you told her Jason would be taking you home, eyes fiery and devilish as she wished you luck and bid you to be careful. You worried as you waited for Jason to remerge, barely listening to Barbara and the Wayne Boys as they giggled bits out at youâteasing their missing brother in his absence. If you werenât so nervous youâre sure youâd be laughing along⊠Timâs impression of his older brother was a brooding mockery of a 90âs love interest, a caricature of a heavy Gotham accent heavy on his tongue. You found yourself nervously smiling along, breathing out a tiny giggle at Dickâs booming laughter, the boy positively beaming at his brotherâs expense.
The gala had barely waned, and you were a little shocked at how much energy everyone still seemed to have. Youâre exhausted, bone tired and ready to rest in your regular people comfy clothes. You can feel your little girl stirring under your dress, bouncing around in the way she always does before you close your eyes to go to bedâit hurts a little, but the feeling of her alive inside of you brings a little peace to your ailing heart.
âOh, I hate everything âcept batburger and my beautiful car! Iâm gonna marry the orange monstrosity!â Tim groans, dropping to his knees in a mock confession.
âHow will I survive without the loving touch of my camaro?! I have to marry it so we will never be separated!!â Dick cries.
âI can never live without the sound of her engine screaming and breaking down!â Barbara pouts.
Their performances are well crafted, good impressions only because of the undercurrent of fondness underneath the teasing. A sight that brings little giggles to escape you, laughter that only grows as the man of the hour shows himself again. Heâs walking up behind his brothers, his eyebrows furrowed so deeply theyâre almost touching, thereâs a smile propped up on his face but itâs one thatâs unfamiliar to youâdevious and affronted at the same time.
He sees you looking at him and winks, his eyes alight with mischief as he brings his index finger to sit over his smile. Quietly, with surefooted steps and a battle stance to rival Ares, he sneaks up on his brothers and grabs them both by the neck: clutching at them like their two scruffy dogs.
âWhat are you two morons doing now?â He asks, looking into their shocked faces with a suspicious one of his own.
âJust giving your friend some entertainment before you whisk her away.â Dick smiles, grinning at his brother like a mad scientist.
âUh huh⊠Letâs go, hon.â Jason says, directing the last part to you.
âOOOO! Hon!â The three stooges coo at him, giggling at his annoyed glance and whistling at the sight of Jason placing his hand on your back.
âAlright, alright⊠enough with the peanut gallery!â He shouts back at them. âYou okay?â He asks you, leaning down to hear your answer better.
âJust fine, Jason.â You smile, âYou?â
âIâm perfect, are you kiddinâ me?â He smiles, âI got a pretty girl on my arm and Iâm leaving my idiotic brothers in the dust.â
âI like your brothers,â You say, just to see his eyes get all squinty again.
âYou donât like âem better than me though, do ya?â
âCourse not, JasonâŠâ You tell him, smiling as he leads you out of City Hall and back onto the Gotham streets.
Youâre much more used to the rain ridden concrete and humming danger of the city than the illustrious top shelf of the cityâs elite. Familiar with what it means to be out here with Jason, even if this time heâs himself rather than the leather coated version of him you met first. The rain makes his curls all frizzy and his smile more at ease, falling back into the daydream image you have from last summer, except this time you know him: you can recognize his exhaustion and the slight shyness he tries so hard to hide.
You like him more than anyone youâve ever met, not just because of your infatuation, but because of the friendship youâve built on Fridays at the diner and walks home; created in the spaces between a squelching engine and the struggle of putting together a crib.
He leads you to his Camaro, the black stripes looking more dangerous than usual under the dim streetlight. His hands only leave you to open the passenger door, waiting for you to sit yourself down before his cold body comes to lean over yours; pulling the safety belt as far as it can go before locking it in place and tightening it around your belly.
âGood?â He asks, his face close enough to feel his breath fan over your lips, close enough all you can do is nod.
The drive home is quiet, an environment that would be peaceful if not for the rumbling thoughts circling your mind. You know youâll have to tell him before you say goodnight, you have to let him know you discovered his secretâyouâll make him understand that youâre not afraid, keep him as your friend forever and deal with the fact that your best friend might be up to no good. Nothing has to change, yet you feel as it will⊠thereâs a part of you that knows without a shadow of a doubt your life will not look the same tomorrow morning, and youâre not sure if you want it too.
He takes you back the long wayâalmost like heâs stalling tooâleading his car through neighborhoods youâve never seen and up hills where the old Gotham mansions sit growing ghosts. Halfway home he inches his hand away from the gear shift to clutch at yours, grasping it until he had to move it back. Youâre sure he can tell youâre a nervous wreck, anxious with his skin on yours and anxious without itâyou really like him so much, and youâre not sure you can stand if tonight ruins it all.
It takes an hour to get back home, but eventually his orange monster is sidling up next to the curb in front of your apartment. It takes all your strength to ask him to come inside, and even more prayers when you see him amongst all your things. He looks like he could be one of them, another thing you could put up on your shelf and keep safe and sound.
âIâll never get tired of you ladies little girly apartment,â He giggles, picking up Barbaraâs prized High School Musical throw blanket and analyzing it like a piece of evidence at a crime scene. The lamp light bathes him in a pretty angelic glow, painting him into the princely figure youâre not sure anyone but you really seesâhandsome and magnetic and entirely yours⊠if he wanted to be.
âDonât make fun, Jason.â You advise, âThe house is perfectly cultivated to show the young womanâs experience.â
âSure, hon, donât mind me.â He says, grazing his hand on the counters and smiling at you from your place in your bedroomâs doorway. âThere was something you wanted to talk to me about right? Thatâs why Iâve been allowed in the inner sanctum?â
âYeah, just⊠why are your hands always cold?â Your question obviously surprises him, the words causing his eyes to grow wide and his lips to separate.
âI donât know, I run chillyâyou know that.â
âAnd the Scars?â
âI had cats as a kid,â
âCats with five-inch claws?â You ask, your voice raising just a little.
âI donât know what you want me to say, sweetheart.â He whispers. âI donât owe you anything.â
âHmm⊠Well, did you know you tug at your hair when youâre nervous?â You ask him, catching him with his fingers entwined in the inky black locks.
âWhat does that have to do with anything?â He scoffs.
âThe other night you kept grazing your helmet, like you wanted to grab at your hair.â At your words all the frustration falls from his face, replaced with a sadness you didnât expect. He looks crestfallen, a man awaiting the gallows with a quiet submission you didnât know he contained.
âHuh, I knew you were a smart girlâŠâ
âYouâre not gonna deny it?â You ask, confused at how easy he accepted defeat. All youâve ever heard of Red Hood is that he never backs down, how heâs inescapable and unknowable, but the man in front of you now has fallen into your hand easier than you wouldâve expected from him.
âWhatâs the point? I like ya cause youâre smart.â His words bring a heat to your stomach, your blood rushing through your body and encasing you in a warm fluttery feeling. Though, you canât let yourself step away from the line of questioning thatâs been assaulting you since you saw him last.
He walks closer to you, his head angling down and his eyes searching yoursâheâs trying to figure you out, or he already has and heâs searching for something deep inside your irises, either way his face comes closer and closer until you can feel his words touch you. âAsk me anything and Iâll answer you, I just hope youâll listen.â
âAre you the Red Hood?â
âYes.â
âDoes Barbara Know?â
âYes.â He whispers, âShe knows everythingâshe could see the future if she wanted to.â He smiles a little, his grin moving closer to your lips.
Youâre gonna kill Barbara, you think, after Jason kisses you youâre gonna go back to city hall and kill her. You already knew, but the confirmation turns all the poison into vitriolâshe canât help herself from getting in trouble, canât step away from it even when all it does is cause her pain.
âIâm gonna kill her.â You whisper to him, âAnd you⊠for keeping it from me.â
Heâs getting closer to you, his body encasing you in a cool chill and his sultry sweet smell. Heâs smiling, a little grin that looks a little too happy for the threat you just gave.
âTomorrow.â He breathes. âDonât be mad at Barbie, she keeps herself and everyone else safe.â
âHow safe?â You ask him, your words coming out so quiet you almost canât hear them. Heâs moving impossibly closer now, his hands wrapping themselves around your back/his nose caressing yours/ his breath releasing right into your lungs.
âSafe as life,â He sighs, his words whispered against your lips. His kiss is gentle, like him, and he tastes like eclairs and champagne and he holds you like a glass vase. His lips are so cold, icy like a slurpee on a hot dayâyou want so badly to warm him, to consume the sugary sweet taste of him and get brain freeze. It brings a rush to your gut, the knowledge that all his heat his stolen from you, the idea of your kiss bringing him back to life like heâs Aurora.
He pushes you farther into your room, lifting you up to hover over the ground and reach his lips better. His hold is stable and strong and his kiss is still so gentle, only getting headier as he lays you on the plush of your mattressâhis body hovering over yours and smiling as he moves away to breath. Still, he is only a kiss away, smiling above you as he moves to kiss you again. His tongue moves along the seam of your lips, slipping into your mouth and drinking you in like youâre another glass of starry champagne.
âYouâre so pretty,â He sighs, bringing his hands to hold onto your cheeks as you break away.
âDonât lie to me, Jason.â You whisper.
âI never lie, sweetheart, youâre the prettiest girl Iâve ever seenâI donât say things I donât mean.â
âEven with⊠yâknow?â You ask, wiggling from underneath him to bring your hands to sit on your belly. His eyes soften, and his hands slip from your face to rest against yours. He looks so soft, lovely and warm like youâve never seen from him before.
âIâve had a crush on you since last summer you know?â He huffs.
âWhat?â
âLast summer, when I picked Barbie up from that club and you were spinninâ outsideâI thought you were so pretty, like a little nymph or something. It broke my heart to hear you had a boyfriend, even though I wasnât sure I would even do anything about it if you didnât⊠I asked Barbara about you over and over again, hopin that one day sheâd say youâd broken up with him; she told me how he sucked, how he didnât deserve one ounce of your time, and you just looked so free that nightâa little bird flyinâ around,â He laughs. âI actually jumped up and down like a little kid when she told me you were free again⊠my free girl.â He smiles, his eyes looking down where your hands lay, and moving to rub his fingers around the stretching silk.
âI thought you were cute that night too,â You smile, sinking into the feeling of his hands caressing your tummy.
âI know.â He laughs, âBarbara told me that too.â
âThat witch!â You squeal, smiling bigger when you hear his booming laugh.
âI donât care that youâre pregnant, sweetheart.â He says when heâs done laughing, raising his eyes until theyâre looking into yoursâin this light his irises seem like vials of poison, glowing and dangerous as they seep into you. âI never really thought about babies, whether I wanted them or not, but I know I love ya and I would do anything to share this with you⊠if youâd let me.â
âYou love me?â You ask, searching his bright eyes for some kind of trick.
âIsnât it obvious?â He giggles, âI donât baby proof just any girlâs apartment.â
âYou love me?!â You laugh, giddy and insatiable.
âI love you, sweetheart.â He whispers, kissing you again and again as you giggle. âAnd Iâll love your baby, however you want me toâI just want to help you.â
âI love you⊠I love you.â You say against his kisses, gasping and giggling as it becomes heavier and headier and more lush.
You never thought this would happen; were sure all your daydreams would stay hidden under the cover of desire and want. But Jason is kissing you like heâll make all your dreams come true, like youâre clay awaiting his hands to be formed into a masterpiece.
You canât think when heâs touching you like this, when his hands are squeezing sighs out of you and his lips are stealing your breath. Youâll remember to be angry tomorrow, youâll prick and prod questions at him and beg to know everything there is to know. Youâll pick a fit with Barbara and hug her until youâre sure sheâs safe and sound. Youâll take Jason to get a car seat for the Camaro, and make him throw away all his cigarettes.
Tomorrow life begins, but here in this moment youâve never felt more aliveâthis moment with Jason Todd and creation in your bones.
Life is just beginning.
ËËË â ËËË
EPILOGUE⊠one year later.
The night surrounds you for miles around, and all Jason can hear is the screaming whine of your little baby. She sounds so angry, screaming pitiful little cries that clutch his heart in paternal misery. It woke him up out of a deep sleep, shocking his body to move in closer to your sideâyour arm holding him tight and keeping you locked against him. His rustling wakes you up, forcing your sleep ridden eyes to openâlooking at him like heâs betrayed you in the worst way.
âIâll get her,â He mumbles, sleep coating his voice in a brilliant heavy nectar. He presses a kiss to your forehead and smiles at the way you shiver, scrunching your nose and sinking back farther into the comforter before he can leave.
He approaches the nursey with the quiet steps he usually only uses for stakeouts and ambushes, pushing the door open and greeting his baby with a pout. Sheâs so angry, her little hands tight against the bars of her crib and her big eyes squeezed closed. She whines more at the sight of him, sobbing out loud gasps as he moves closer.
âNow, Now honeyâDaddyâs here.â He coos, shushing her as she weeps. âOh, youâre so sad, my love. Whatâs got my little monster so upset, huh?â He reaches for her with his scarred hands, reaching under her bottom and around her neck to keep her safe until sheâs in his arms.
At the touch of his cold skin she quiets, her screaming whines becoming less and less until her wide green eyes meet his own. Every time he looks at her heâs shocked at her beauty, your smile placed on her tiny lips and your attitude living in her voice box. He loves the both of you so much, heâd kill or be killed for you.
âThere she is, my little girl huh. Youâll go back to bed now, wonât ya?â He whispers, giggling at her sleepy eyelids. âGive mama a break, okay? Even heroes need to rest. I would know.â
He holds her to his chest and sways back and forth, just like he did that night you danced with him for the first time. He waits until sheâs in the sandmanâs cradle before he puts her back in her crib, kissing her goodnight and watching her rest for a few minutes.
âMy baby.â he whispers, sweeter than he wouldâve thought possible from himself. âMy little Penny.â
He steps away from his daughter quietly, shuffling back into your arms with all the reverence of a worshipperâkissing your skin until you fit yourself back into his side. Youâre always so warm, lush and beautiful and everything heâs ever wanted. Heâll never stop thanking you for loving him, for giving him his whole world.
Tomorrow heâll have to tell you⊠write it into your skin and around your heart so you never forget.
Heâll have to thank Barbara, thank her again and again until she knows how grateful he is, but of course⊠Barbara Gordon knows everything.
pt. 2 to touchstarved!jason now turned clingy!jason cause i need that man religiously
touchstarved!jason todd who is now one of the most affectionate people you know (at least with you).
touchstarved!jason todd who has now turned into clingy bf!jason.
clingy bf!jason todd who canât stop touching you now that he finally feels comfortable.
clingy bf!jason todd who lets his hands linger on your waist while the two of you stand in the kitchen together.
clingy bf!jason todd who doesnât take his eyes off you for a second when the two of you are outside. he always has to have you near him.
clingy bf!jason todd who links his pinky with yours while you two sit next to each other, him reading and you watching your show.
clingy bf!jason todd who silently moves your legs into his lap, gently massaging your calves just for his peace of mind.
clingy bf!jason who clings to you when falling asleep, holding you tight as your back lays against his chest.
clingy bf!jason who nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck while hugging you, breathing you in deeply and taking in your scent.
clingy bf!jason who glares at you when you ask him if he just sniffed you, replying with a quiet ânoâ while his whole face flushes. he absolutely did.
clingy bf!jason who sits on the closed toilet seat while watching you get ready, just staring at you and occasionally asking a question about what youâre doing now.
clingy bf!jason who insists on helping you comb/brush your hair before bed.
clingy bf!jason who gets so overwhelmed sometimes with how much he loves you that he will just randomly hug you and wonât let go for a while.
clingy bf!jason who loves trapping you under him, laying his whole body on yours, essentially crushing you while he ignores you insisting he get off cause heâs âtoo heavyâ. whatever.
clingy bf!jason who slides his cold hands underneath your shirt, pressing them against the warmth of your skin, even though youâve told him off countless times.
clingy bf!jason who just mumbles a quick âsorry, babe.â in response while kissing your cheeks. he doesnât feel sorry at all.
jason todd has a soft spot for you | fluff | part two
Soft Boyfriend! Jason Todd, who loves to watch you stand over the stove, humming a sweet song while you stir over a decadent composition of ingredients. Itâs your turn to make dinner tonight, and, ever so eager to help ease the burden off your shoulders, he hovers wth questions:
âBaby, what can I do? â; âCanât have you doing all this work for me, can I?â; âNeed me to stir?â But you see the tiredness in his eyesâthe slack in his shoulders weighing him down with exhaustion. You shush him with a feathery kiss and tell him to sit, that you can handle it.
Soft Boyfriend! Jason Todd, who is still unsatisfied that he couldnât be helpful. So he washes the dishes after carrying you to bed. Not because you were tired; in fact, you were laughing infectiously, telling him he was being ridiculous and to put you down. Because he knew you would try to stop him once you saw him inching toward the kitchen sink. Especially after you told him you had it under control.
Soft Boyfriend! Jason Todd, who thought heâd grown numb to love-starved hunger pains after years of emotional malnutrition. But after meeting you, he feeds on every sweet morsel of affection you provide him with a âGod, what did I do to deserve you?â
You trace the sharp outlines of his face and remind him of how good he is to you. His pupils are blown so wide you can barely see the emerald of his eyes peeking through. Â He falls asleep like thisâholding onto you as if you could readily disappearâand slips in repose. You realize how quickly the years melt off him when his fluttering eyelashes finally close.
Soft Boyfriend! Jason Todd, who annotates and dog-ears the pages of novels containing excerpts that remind him of you. Â Heâs a bit embarrassed about it at first, but sheds his shame to read each highlighted quote aloud. Ever so often, his eyes trail back to yours, wondering if you can recognize your beauty in the ink the way he does.
Soft Boyfriend! Jason Todd, who becomes glossy-eyed when you meet his bruised and cut knuckles with a soft kiss and tender hands, soothing each tensed muscle without the inflection of a question or accusation. He coils an arm around you and drowns in your scent, satiating himself until heâs full on every drop of you. Rubs the corners of his eyes raw, each tear imprinting itself on his cheeks as splotchy but tangible evidence of his vulnerability.
Soft Boyfriend! Jason Todd, who gets greedy for skin-to-skin contact. He mumbles into your neck in the morning, eyes still shut and hair mussed from the night before. âWhy do you have so many layers?ââhe trails his icy hands underneath the thin fabric of your shirtââsâwarm. Wish I could crawl into your skin.â You chuckle, mouthing small âweirdoâ. He responds by pecking sticky wet kisses on the expanse of your neck up to the softness of your cheeks.
Soft Boyfriend! Jason Todd, who doesnât get jealous in a possessive or controlling way. And when jealousy does ariseâwhenever someone flirts with you or gets a hand too touchyâit festers internally and heavily. The clunk of his boots rings louder in your apartment; his black fringe weighing at the front of his eyes.
But he doesnât voice it, not explicitly. You think his methods of reaffirming his role as your boyfriend are so subtle itâs almost silly. Especially when he asks you to wear his leather jacket more often, claiming it looks better on you than it does on him. Or when he publicly asks you to check the time on your phone, which, so conveniently, has a photo of the two of you smushed together in a photobooth as its wallpaper.
Soft Boyfriend! Jason Todd, who swallows the thick lump in his throat when you tell him that you love him. Because you see him. You understand that he is not always tender; youâve heard stories of his violent bite. But you also see that his empathy and care are not anomalous but a testament to the person heâs always been. Even if the world suggests otherwise.
a/n: apologies if itâs messy, this came to me while i was half asleep. also someone needs to pry the keyboard from my hands once i start writing over 500 words.
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bestfriend!jasontodd who is outraged that you went to a mechanic when he was RIGHT THERE?!?
bestfriend!jasontodd who is beyond reason when he hears that you paid $600 for something that shouldâve been half that
bestfriend!jasontodd who rolls his eyes when you say you didnt come to him because you wanted to do it by yourself âand look how that turned outâŠ.â
bestfriend!jasontodd who demands you tell him who the mechanics were and may or may not make a quick visit during an âearly morning snack runâ (he didnt hurt anyone - at least thats what he told you)
bestfriend!jasontodd who returns with $700 dollars
bestfriend!jasontodd who ignores your very skeptical look and says he just âfound it on the side of the roadâ
âyou just found it on the street?â
jason shrugs putting his hans in his pockets, âyeah, it was lying there, so i thought..â
âyou thought, what? that it was finders keepers?â you ask.
âwell no one was using it!â
bestfriend!jasontodd who insists you take the money and gets grumpy when you dont (its all an act heâll just slip it into random places around your apartment when you're not looking)
bestfriend!jasontodd who jumps at the suggestion that you take a âstand in boyfriendâ next time you want to go to the mechanic, screw doing it himself he wants to do that
bestfriend!jasontodd who DOES NOT accidentally break something in you car so he can take you to a (reliable-ish) mechanic that was 100% dickâŠ.
bestfriend!jasontodd who hesitantly holds your hand as you enter the shop, and at your confused look murmurs that heâs getting into character
bestfriend!jasontodd who cant stop himself from calling you love and enjoys the way it makes you pause each time he says it
bestfriend!jasontodd who wanders off to inspect your car while its being fixed but still watching you carefully while youâre left alone for a few moments with the other mechanic
âyou got yourself a mighty fine man right there,â the old man says nodding to jason who is sticking his head into something he probably shouldnât. still keeping his eyes on you occasionally
âoh⊠thank you,â you blush not sure what to say, and ignoring the warmth in your gut at his words.
âhe looks at you like you hang the stars, give him some time and iâm sure heâll be spewing out a confession in no time.â the mechanic says, a smile on his face. you look over to jason who is listening so intently to what the man is saying you think he might trip over something as he follows him around the car.
âoh no, no its-â
âi used to have a friend exactly like him, and you know what i did, dear?â the mechanic shoots you a knowing look. âi married him.â he pauses. âonce he screwed his head on first and told me.â another loaded pause. âgive him time.â
he then wanders off as if he didnt just drop the bombshell into your life
bestfriend!jasontodd who sees your stunned face and walks back over and asks whatâs wrong, looking between you and the mechanic who just winks at you with confusion
bestfriend!jasontodd who did not let you pay for anything but as it turns out, it was given as a freebie, the mechanic at the counter (the same one you were talking to) cheerfully saying it was on the house
bestfriend!jasontodd who has the decency to look sheepish when you tell him to give the $700 from earlier to them, only to find out he already gave it to you (and you know he hid it)
bestfriend!jasontodd who weeks later finally tells you about his feelings and confesses that the mechanic he was hanging around told him to man up and d something about it.
you canât help the grin on your face. âthats the same thing the other mechanic told me.â
bestfriend!jasontodd who walks in to the mechanic later that day with your hand in his (this time not pretend) to give them the $700 you eventually found in its entirety. the mechanics both noted the goofy smiles
I think Jason is definitely the kind of boyfriend to break down from seeing your cars damage after a wreck.
Somehow, you made it out practically unscathed but by the grotesque way your car is bent and wrangled, no one would have guessed at first sight. The fear paralyzes him when he arrives, he knows heâs moving but he feels stagnant. The seconds it takes him to reach you feels like a millennia, he canât get there fast enough. And the uncertainty of your condition is unlike any fear heâs ever known- he thinks heâll just about die a second time.
But the relief that washes over him from seeing you alive shakes him so violently, his body reacts before he fully digests the sight. The sight of you wrapped delicately in the back of an ambulance, his girl. Safe, unharmed.
His body fights to crawl to you, to smother you in his worries until youâre sick of him. But the sobs that pierce through him are so unforgiving, he canât move. You hear him before you see him. Youâve heard his cries before. Nights spent locked behind closed doors- the soft sound of choked sobs bleeding from just under. That sick habit of hiding himself away, not wanting to be seen. Or the quiet sniffles towards the end of a movie with no happy ending. Quick to wipe his tears before the lights come up. But this is different. He doesnât have it within himself to hide away. His biggest fear almost came true tonight- the grief of almost losing you ruins him completely. Jason knows he should pull himself together. He knows he needs to be strong for you but tonight, heâs inconsolable.
Just short of a few feet away, grasping at anything around him, stands your sweet boy. Clutching his chest, trying to ground himself. Jay doesnât know what to do in this moment. Heâs more shaken up than you are. But the relief of being given a second chance is what gets him.
From the day Jason was left for dead, he decided miracles werenât for him. Rarely had he been shown grace, and what kindness was extended to him was just as quickly ripped away. Heâd become compliant to the seclusion that found its way into his life. Isolated behind closed doors and shadows, thinking heâs doing everyone a favor. But the ease at which you made your way into his life had thrown him off course. Patient and kind, honeyed words melting him to mush- he stood no chance against you. Before he knew it, he found home within his very own miracle.
And as if the universe were laughing at him, saying âwrong againâ, he had been given a second one.
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