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"Here I was thinking your terrorising finally came to an end." Your voice echoes, a teasing tilt laced in its croak from hours of going unused. "It's nearly closing hour, Jay."

Despite the limp that accompanies his gait, clearly wounded somewhere beneath his large frame and thick layers of clothing, his own smirk greets your gleam of teeth. "Couldn't end a shit week without a recommendation."

Your heart skips, like the quick traitor it is. You feign a casual expression, as if you didn't have his next read hidden under your stack of orders you've yet to shelf.

"Bringing in blood to the floorboards again?" You raise a brow, gaze flickering to where his boots left imprints on the scratched-up wood.

"Nah." His smirk widens, stopping before you. "Wouldn't want you making use of free labour again to mop the dust off this place."

"Wouldn't be too difficult if we didn't have to use bleach, genius."

He shrugs, looking down at you with a pleased expression. "Useful skills I teach you, all without a price, sweetheart." His voice rolls over you like thunder, a low gravel for that mocking nickname he picked out for you like you're the only person he's ever given it to.

Your neck cranes to meet his gaze. "Right, next time I need help cleaning blood trails, I'll call my favourite potential vigilante."

"Oh, so I'm a favourite now?" His brow raises.

"You're so full of yourself." Your bite holds no mark, softening in its edge when your fingers trace over his next recommendation stuffed between the stack of new donations. Dragging it out, you hold it out with held breath.

It never gets easier, the silent exchange. The anticipation, the brief few seconds of waiting as his gaze assesses your pick. It had started out exactly like this, and like some idiotic, preening teenager—you had hoped with every right choice you made, it might heighten the chances of him coming back.

This isn't a library, an establishment where he had to return to at some point. No, he could very likely purchase your selection today, decide it was absolute shit, and never return. Yet, he always came back, and you began to lean on the crutch of a belief that he would continue to.

"Call it a profitable relationship." You joke, even as your heartbeat faintly thuds in the pads of your fingertips, digging into the spine of the copy you reserved for him.

He takes it, fingers brushing over yours. That lingering second of contact feels intentional, but the ghost of his touch disappears before you even have the chance to register its searing warmth.

His smirk dials down into something softer, more genuine. This is the part you love most, and secretly dread that you might not receive. That rare spark in his gaze, to receive something so personal based on the assumption of what he might like. All narrowed down from a history of ten minute exchanges every week in the dead of night, shared between an academic victim who likes spending too much of her time waiting for a suspicious individual to sneak into a local bookstore, and said suspicious individual.

"It's a local author." It spills out of you before you can stop it. "I know you've read most of the classics, but you haven't really delved into ones that relate more to home."

His lip curls, a hum stuck in the back of his throat, and you recognise its one of approval. It shouldn't affect you as much as it did.

"Literature that dives into the horrors of Gotham, should I expect an existential crisis tonight?"

"I'll leave the surprise to do its job.” Leaning in over the counter, your gaze drops to his cargo pants. “Any reason for the limp?"

“Jumped down from the fourth floor.” He shrugs. “Wasn’t sure you’d wait up on me.”

You stare at him wide-eyed, waiting for him to call upon a joke—and he merely returns your stare, amused.

“Jason, you’re joking.”

“I never joke about closing hours.” He muses.

You're ready to start, because his frequent disregard for closing hours is a whole other thing—but his gaze shifts instinctively to the clock hanging lop-sided by the ladder, before landing on you again. The crinkles of his gaze deepens, softening the shadows. "You better catch the train. Do me a favour and remember to lock your windows when you get back?”

"Yeah, so long as you come in uninjured next time."

"Worried about me? As long as you keep yours, I’ll keep mine." The point in his grin sharpens, fingers giving a lazy wave as his shoulder digs into the door. The bell rings once more, as if to signify the gravity of his departure. "More illegal activities to run. See you next week, sweetheart.”

His shadow disappears past the flickering street lamp outside the store, as if he never existed. Your heart does that little, traitorous sigh—and that’s all the physical evidence you have past the lump in your throat that the exchange even happened at all.

Your first encounter with Jason was less familiarity-conduced endorphins and more of customer service's worst nightmare.

"Sir, I'm afraid we're closed."

You don't know why you bothered with the 'we', when you're clearly the only staff here. Or why you bothered speaking at all. This man who's barged in through the door, despite the 'Closed' sign, is obviously on edge and possibly on the run? Gotham's unspoken law is to never stick your nose into other people's business, especially if the stranger radiates danger right down to his bruised knuckles. All you should be concerned about is the ten minute walk you have to embark on and how all trains in this district stops at thirty minutes past eleven.

His gaze shifts at the sound of your voice, distracted and hyper-focused all at once. You're struck by the illuminating green that disperses into pale blue, when he finally notices that he isn't alone. Intense, and otherworldly—a gorgeous lunatic who looks like he materialised out of the shadows, stepping into the night and ending up on the wrong side of Gotham.

His gaze doesn't linger for long before it maneuvers around, scoping his environment as his lips press together, some sealed sigh laced within the charged tension between you two. Eventually, a low rasp leaves his lips. "I'll buy somethin'."

Your brows furrow. "Excuse me?"

His hand shifts, waving you off impatiently. "Hand me a book, or two—whatever. I need more time."

The crease between your brows deepen, that soft irritation earlier rising again. Not only has he come in during closing hours, which is the worst of all experiences in customer service, but he had the audacity to be rude and dismissive about it.

"Sir, I'm afraid you'll have to come back another time—"

"Lady." He cuts you off, gaze shifting back towards the streets before looking back to you in warning. "It's not a request. You can charge me however much you want, but I can't leave this store till the coast is clear... and neither can you."

Great, now he's holding you hostage too.

"Are you being chased?" You question impulsively. You have a bugging suspicion that he's prone to lying to you anyways, but his cutting tone makes you unfamiliarly bold. "You're a criminal?"

He snorts, finding something amusing. "In Gotham, some would say it's an honourable profession. There's worse bad guys out there, sweetheart. You're lucky it was me that came in here."

"I wouldn't call it luck." You frown. He doesn't bother with a response, clearly tuning you out, and your growing dislike finds something new to feast on. If you're going to waste a Friday night with some asshole, you may as well squeeze some money out of his pockets. Your gaze flickers over him, scrutinising.

"What are you looking at?" He murmurs, sensing your gaze even when his own is trained on the window, hand tucked under his jacket on what you hope isn't a weapon.

"Just wondering what kind of reader you are."

That finally gets his attention. He looks back at you, surprise evident in his gaze. Without that permanent furrow between his brows, he looks almost younger, erased temporarily of the self-righteousness buried in his bones and the weight of something deadly clutched in his hands.

A moment passes, his tight expression slowly unwinding into genuine amusement. "That's kind of you but you don't have to dial up your customer service. I'm not the kind of guy who leaves reviews."

Your brow twitches, frustration slipping past the cracks of your demeanour. "It's principle. I don't recommend books half-heartedly."

His smirk twitches higher, but you make the wiser choice of storming off, deeper into the shelves before he deigns you with another unfavourable response. Your mind is already slipping into its unfolding map of genres, of the books that encompass your pathway with what you think suits a jerk like him.

"Jackass." You mutter to yourself, opting between a self-help book or a literature pick for the jerk who acts so highly of himself. You decide on the latter, doubting the hunk would even understand the reference.

"Dorian Gray?"

"Yeah, heard of it?" You respond, unamused as you glare down at him.

He's made himself real comfortable, large thighs swallowing up your seat, swirling around on the creaky wheels as he eyes the store with that same assessing look he did when he first entered, as if he was used to mapping out any place he stepped into.

“Experience is merely the name men gave to their mistakes.” He mutters lowly, blue eyes landing back on you.

You blink once, then twice, wondering if you'd misheard him. "You're a reader?"

"Enough to know what you're suggesting, sweetheart." He mocks. "I know a thing or two about mistakes of men, so if you want to cause some real harm, you'll have to hit harder."

"I wasn't—" You falter, because that was exactly what you were intending on. "Fine. You forcefully extended a long, underpaid night shift, and I indirectly called you a jackass. Let's call it even."

His lip twitches involuntarily, not expecting your honesty. "Y'know being direct is what gets you places in Gotham."

"Yeah, gets you running into bookstores and terrorising their staff, you mean?"

"Well, I haven't been insulted through a book before." He shrugs half-heartedly. "I suppose you experience something new everyday."

"Anyone ever told you that you're infuriating?"

"Pretty too." He grins then, something striking and downright filthy. His hand taps on a copy of 'The Picture of Dorian Gray'. "That's what you seem to be suggesting, since you're clearly intent on being honest through your recommendations."

Your scoff escapes you, less annoyed than it should be. "I think my recommendation fits you just fine if that's the only thing you're willing to take from it."

"Oh, I'm more than willing." His grin sharpens. "That's sweet of you, but I'm afraid it's a little compromising, hitting on a customer this soon? You do this with all late night visitors?"

You're tempted to drop one of your heaviest dictionaries right on his skull to sort out the serious issues going on in that head of his. "Customer?" You raise a brow mockingly. "All I see is a stranger wasting my time after closing hours, raising this month's electricity bills, refusing to pay a single cent for his book, and getting out of here as promised."

"We still have—" His gaze glimpses to the clock. "—five minutes if you want to play it safe. You're doing a horrendous job at customer service by the way. Calling me a jackass, trying to kick me out. No wonder this place is—"

Your jaw drops. "You are not insulting the very place you're hiding in like a coward right now."

He raises both hands in surrender. "So charming. Was just going to mention how charming this place is."

Your lips quiver into an almost smile and you shut it down immediately, along with the quick decision that he is dangerous. Disarming with the quickness of his tongue, and unnerving in how he handles conversation like a chess board.

"This entire situation needs more tea." You grumble to yourself, turning your back on him.

There's nothing worth stealing on that counter of yours, unless he's crude enough to steal second-hand books worth cents if he even attempted to resell them in a city like Gotham. At most, he'd take the chipped mug rimmed with your tea. Oh, stupid you forgot your mug.

Your steps retract, a groan caught in the between your lips as you turn around with the anticipation to be hit with his mocking—only to find an empty seat in your view. Your head whips around past the shelves, but there was no sight of a worn leather jacket. Of course, he didn't even bother to announce his departure.

Coming back to the counter, you check for any missing items only to spot a bookmark poking out of one of your books, left in an ajar placement on the counter. On top of it, sat a pile of cash that was worth more than any copy in this entire store.

“Hey—”

He was already gone, you forget. You flip open the book, only to find there’s handwriting on your bookmark. Scratched in impulsively, like a lingering thought he had to put down.

“Jackass left you a tip for the trouble—and the rec. - Jason.”

His condescending tone somehow translates into pen on paper. It should irritate you. Yet, when your fingers lift to trace over the drying ink, you find yourself smiling involuntarily again. Jason. What kind of a man was he? It's a useless question, as you doubt you'll ever see him again.

A likely criminal, a guaranteed jerk—and probably the most exciting visitor of your entire summer.

Jason comes back not a week after. Covered in blood, which after your initial fright, is believed to belong mostly to the other guy. That particular fact he thought to include does little to soothe your nerves.

“You should’ve seen him.” He rambles, in what you could only hope wasn't his disgruntled attempt at impressing you, whilst laying flat on the desk. “Makes mine look like child's play."

The first-aid kit, hidden somewhere in the store cabinet, is squeezed haphazardly onto your office chair. There’s nothing more nerve-wracking than your first attempt at stitching a cut, not anything close to your caliber. If his arms weren't wrecked, you suspect he wouldn't have come all the way to you, an actual stranger. His voice distracts you, and you miss your aim.

Jason hisses, half-shirtless with his black tee tucked between his canines. "No, I said you have to turn it as soon as the point disappears."

Your hand is splayed over his stomach, fingers shaking slightly as you try to focus. "Stop shifting, and just keep quiet for a second. I can't focus with you nagging me."

"Forgive me for being concerned about my wound—"

Your hand comes up to shove the t-shirt further into his mouth, muffling his words. He raises a brow, almost amused, and a trickle of sweat brushes past.

"I'm trying my best to help, when this is clearly something hospitals exist for." You huff, focusing back on the stitch. "Give me some grace, and shut up."

His muscles flex and contract, but eventually, he listens. Your work becomes easier after that, despite it being the worst position you've ever been put in, neck cramping to avoid blocking your only source of light, the flickering lamp above the surface he's laid on, his blood dripping onto the wood.

"You owe me at least five purchases to make up for the blood stains." You grumble. "That requires you to stay alive."

He grunts through the fabric, and you take it as agreement.

“Why’re you back here anyway?” You question, trying to distract yourself. “Of all the places you could’ve gone, you thought that a bookstore keeper would have medical expertise?”

“Not medical expertise.” He mutters, voice too raw to not be honest. “I wanted..”

Your hand places a cloth over his wound, soaking the fabric red. “Wanted what?”

His gaze lingers over you, somehow more haunting with how the blue shade's grown darker, pupils expanded. He winces when you accidentally put too much pressure on the stitch, but that doesn't seem to be all to his sudden stillness. “A recommendation.” He answers eventually.

You stare at him, tempted to laugh. “You came all this way bleeding out, barging in through the door, past closing hours again—for a recommendation?”

He stares at you, and your laugh slips through when you realise that he’s at least half-serious. “I knew you'd be infuriating, but I didn't expect insanity.”

He ends up buying eight later just to prove his point and to make up for the blood stains, only after you promised that they'd all be your recommendations.

The hour's long past operating train schedules, and with the quiet acknowledgement of traumatising your uneventful Friday night, the second time he's reinvented what a normal shift should have been—he offers to walk you back once warmth seeps back into his skin.

Somewhere between sitting cramped behind the shelves as you pick out his recommendations and his tracking gaze over your frame as you rant on about how he desperately needed a self-help book or two, the unspoken tension gradually fades. Eventually, your frustrations die down too—and you realise his company, minus the blood and sharpness of tongue, wasn't the worst thing in the world.

You come to expect Jason’s presence, late in the night although he does begin to respect the concept of a ‘closing hour’. He's usually your last visitor regardless—leaving the two of you alone to... continue on your charade of recommendations. Even when he begins to linger longer than any customer should, offering to walk you back, or make you tea when you're too busy shelfing to bother with a new mug to replace your over-steeped one from the afternoon. Except for today, because Margery, your least favourite customer in the whole of Gotham, decides to pick the one night Jason's visiting to start her practiced act.

Clearly intending on slithering her way into getting something for free, Margery drones on about how important her niece's education is to her, and how anything contributing to children's education should be free of charge. All over a book set costing a measly seven bucks, but you suppose to dear Margery, supporting small businesses in Gotham isn't in her check-list.

“I’m sorry, Margery.” Your voice remains perfectly levelled. “I can't hand the set to you for free, because it's against our policy."

“Can’t you understand my situation?” She huffs, annoyance flared in the fine lines of her cheeks. “No one's even interested in that set, I've surveyed it for days.”

“Which by all existing policies, still requires a purchase, ma’am.”

She scoffs, nails drumming impatiently against the counter. “I want to speak to your manager.”

Your lips quirk up. “Jason.”

Jason shifts then, his gaze lifting from the book in his hand, one which he hasn’t turned the page since he conveniently perched himself right next to your counter ten minutes ago. He places the book down gently onto the wood, bookmark slipping into place, though the slight sneer of his lips conveys none of that delicate care as he slumps against the counter, shoulder brushing against yours.

“There a problem?”

Margery blinks, affronted by his attitude. Or his sheer size towering over her. "You're the manager?"

“Policy’s law.” Jason shrugs. “If you’d like to take this further, to save yourself—“ His gaze flickers to the book set, and his smirk quirks up higher—the perfect composition of a jerk. “Seven bucks, we'll be more than happy to call the authorities.”

“I have never experienced such horrible service!” Her cheeks grow warm, sloshed with embarrassment. “Acting as if I'm in the wrong—you’ll be receiving the worst review!”

"All’s fair in Gotham, ma’am.” He calls out with a grin as he watches her turquoise skirt catch onto the end of the door hinge, releasing another shriek from her lips.

The door slams shut, bell ringing dramatically with the impact, and Jason turns back to you, smile slipping into something familiar and reserved for you. “The review will be wiped the moment she hits post.”

You snort, leaning back against the shelves. “Should I be concerned about your illegal activities invading its way into my work?”

“Nah.” He shrugs. “Last place the GCPD will look into is some shabby bookstore.”

“Shabby.” You feign offense. "Our most repeating customer doesn't even hold a shred of respect for this place."

“Oh-no, I’m beginning to like the sound of being manager of this fine establishment.” He humours, glancing around as if he hasn't already memorised the interior.

You frown, suspicious of his change in tune. “Why, cause you’ll be the boss of me?”

His smirk deepens. “One of its many perks, I imagine.”

“Oh, get over yourself, Todd.” You glance back towards the door, still unable to rid yourself of the satisfaction of watching that entire fiasco go down. "Though I suppose a thank you is in order."

"Couldn't get her out of her fast enough." He shrugs. "She was taking up our time."

"Our?" You raise a brow, almost teasing as you look back at him. "Didn't realise this was our thing now."

His gaze lingers on you, as if he knew his response would be the deciding factor of acknowledging the thinly veiled string that's begun to loop itself around the both of you. Something about your dark circles, the oil on your nose bridge, or the mess of your knotted hair—whatever he saw in you, seals his decision.

"Yeah." His voice rasps, the most unguarded you've ever heard him. "It is."

It's an instantaneous kick, one that nearly leaves you breathless as you try to regain your composure. He could’ve said nothing. He could have thrown this to the side and said that his weekly visits for recommendations during your shifts, no matter if he was bleeding or bruised at the knuckles coming from a life clearly separate from yours—meant nothing.

Yet, it does mean something. Not just to you, but to him as well.

"Oh." You mutter, because you can't think of anything appropriate to say to that.

"Oh." He echoes, a genuine smile lingering at the edge of his lips. "Haven't received my recommendation of the day, sweetheart."

You blink, feeling strangely light, as if your body has regained all the energy zapped out from long hours of rearranging shelves and stacking boxes. It doesn't help that he's looking at you like that, soft and disarmed in a way you've begun to realise he's let himself be, only around you.

You should've trusted your gut that he was dangerous, but never in the way you expected. Your heart skips traitorously, the little thing already knowing something that you refuse to admit aloud. So, you do what you always do and dig out your recommendation, waiting for that spark to light in his gaze and pretend there's nothing more to why you love it so much.

Weeks turn into months, and Jason becomes your one constant even as your shifts lessen in hours to accommodate your academics. If anything, there's something comforting now about leather jackets, the faint scent of pain ointment, the certain knowledge that Jason is most probably a vigilante, after you noticed his constant vigilance over the district you work in has significantly lessened crime rates.

His shelf at home has built its steady collection, every book representing a particular week, an ever-increasing memoir of the thing shared between the two of you, from the first time he stumbled into the store. You don't know what to call it, only that you wish for it to never stop.

He knows the store like the back of his palm, including the exact hour in which you would get up for a tea refill, or when you need a steady hand on the ladder to reach the highest shelves. It's strangely intimate, the way he slots himself into the quiet mundane of your shifts, but he never complains of boredom or having something better to do with his time. If anything, the slower the day, the more he seems to uncurl like a satisfied feline—accompanying you by your side when there's nothing more to do, catching up on his reads while you have a read of your own.

"I have a recommendation for you." Jason mutters offhandedly, legs resting on the desk, as much as home as you are now, seemingly unbothered that he's randomly switched up the unspoken rules of the thing that's shared between the two of you.

You raise a brow, gaze peering over your current read. "You—Mr. I Can't Read Without Your Recommendations, has one for me?"

He shrugs, taking something out from the inner pocket of his jacket. You never understand just how much he's able—and willing to fit inside the leather confinements, and you swear half of it belongs to his side of the world you're privy to only in the latest of nights, when his hand is gripping yours knuckle-white, and he lets you stay by his side before muttering his review for his latest read.

In his hand, is a book, one in which you recognise immediately.

"Dorian Gray." You muse. "Is it your turn to call me self-conceited?"

His lip twitches into a half-smirk, but it buries itself under what you only recognise now to be nerves.

"Jason?" You murmur, slightly startled as you place down your book.

His own hand, scarred over the knuckles and engulfing the book, places its weight gently in your hands, as if offering something sacred.

"I wrote something inside." He mutters, voice softened.

Your brows furrow, but you oblige—flipping open the very first copy you've ever recommended to him, and find a handwritten note on the first page. It's unmistakably his, and there's a few scratched out lines that you can't make out, clearly something he pondered over for a while.

"I think you've probably figured it out by now, that I am not good with my words, no matter how many books I've read with greater speeches or declarations. Still, you deserve to hear something honest, and I've always conveyed myself better through my actions than I do with my mouth.

When I first entered this store, I never expected to run into you. Fate or whatever people call it, has never been considerate of my path, or who I encounter along it. Yet, you stood right there, clearly out of place with the world I know, and I don't think I'll ever truly comprehend how our paths aligned. I told myself to forget you, but you had given me a piece of you in the book you placed in my hands, and I couldn't stop thinking of that, of you. I tried convincing myself, after considering it for seven days, that seeking you out would make the curiousity dissipate, and not because I wanted to hear your voice again.

Bleeding out over your counter, I knew that I was done for when I realised I was willing to buy the entire store if it meant getting to spend a few more minutes by your side. Every book I carried home, was me getting to keep pieces of evidence, of this thing we share that feels like it's completely ours. Proof that a person who thought about what kind of reader I'd be despite every reason not to care—actually existed.

I'll probably regret this, I do have a talent of screwing up with people, but keeping silent has never been my forte, and I would regret not telling you what I've known since the first, which is that there hasn't been a single book where a line has crossed my mind without thinking of you. That there hasn't been a day, where I don't hold myself back from wanting to see you again. I'm offering you my honesty because I do believe that's the only decency available in Gotham, and I'd like to offer you at least that."

Speechless was an understatement for the shaking in your fingers, the weight of the page in your hand when you finally look up and meet his gaze.

He's nervous, pupils dilated—body locked with tension. He's just poured his heart out to you through the page of the very first book you've given him, and he's staring at you like you’ve changed the entire trajectory of his life, and not the other way around.

“Jason.”

“I’ve never done anything like this.” It spills out of him, as if he can’t contain himself. “Our thing, falling for someone. So, before you say anything—I just want to state that I'm not expecting anything. That's the one of the hardest lessons I ever had to learn a long time ago, so don't feel you have to say something you don't mean. I just can't go on pretending that meeting you didn't change something in me—that it hasn't rewired what genuine happiness feels like. I began to read again, after all these years, because books which I once found comfort in now reminds me of you. That in every line I read, I searched for something to bring back to you."

"It scared me." He admits, and even the act seems to cost him. "To care that much. To have this lack of control over how I operate, how I should feel. You disarmed me in a way no one else ever had, and I didn't think I even had that in me anymore. To feel this terrified and to still want someone this much."

His hand lowers to the note-filled page, the book still gripped between your hands and his expression steadies. "I considered it countless times. To stop this, before I start something I'll never be able to take back. Then I looked at you, and I realised I can never go back to my life 'before' you. That I was already in this, and I'd be willing to do anything if you are too."

"Jason." You call out, and he stops with a trained halt, as if he expected the worst. That was your last straw.

"I didn't even need the note." You burst. "If you had simply told me you wanted me, I would've already said yes. Our thing, I've always wanted to be a part of it."

Before, he was tense—but now, your words seemed to have hit him like a truck. You continue, not wanting him to doubt something you realised should've been obvious from the moment you kept that very first note he left you in your wallet.

"I want to be in this with you, Jason." You confess. "You're the one person I wanted to see every night. I don't know how to say this without sounding like a mess but—every book in this store, I constantly look for something that screams you and I wait in the hopes that you'll like it, and that was the most scariest, intimate thing I've ever done for someone. So—you're an idiot if you think I don't want this as much as you do."

"...You mean I didn't have to feel physically ill to write that note out, and you would've said yes?" He mutters after a moment, a low huff of amusement leaving his lips.

“I thought you said being direct is what gets you places in Gotham.” You quote.

His smile gradually reappears. “Yeah, I suppose it got me places. Running into a shabby bookstore, getting hit on the first night.”

You raise a brow. “You and I remember that encounter very differently."

"Yeah?" He murmurs. "That'll be a problem if we aren't on the same page. Just to give it a test, what if I said I wanted to kiss you right now?"

Shock registers faintly to you, even if that thought's been circling your mind for months. A little smile pulls at your mouth. "Yeah, I think we might be on the same page there."

When he leans in, you smell faintly of gunpowder, something warm and smoky—so distinctly Jason. You don't think you'll ever tire of it, and you love it more when his fingers tangled itself into your hair, brushing against the nape of your neck. When he finally kisses you, a low rumble in the back of his throat in content, you find he was half-right that night you both met. Maybe there was luck involved after all.

"I am keeping that note." You murmur after he pulls away to press something softer against your temple.

His lips curl into a smile, and you feel it against your skin. "'Course you are."

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dc masterlist -> jason + other dc works

Zatanna was your assigned anchor. She sought you out after every mission, every spar, every slip when Enchantress’s whispers got too loud.

“She feeds on your isolation” Zatanna explained one night, the two of you sitting cross-legged in the dim glow of the library. “If you wall yourself off from everyone, she wins. You need balance.”

You stared at the spellbook between you, not meeting her eyes. “You think making friends will fix this?”

“I think not being alone might” she said softly.

Her words lingered, even as you tried to shove them aside.

It was Robin who made ignoring the team impossible.

He had a way of appearing at the edges of your silence, slipping past walls before you realized they were breached.

When you chose the shadowed corner of the training room, he was there stretching beside you, cracking some joke about how broody corners were “his brand.”

When you avoided debriefs by standing against the far wall, he leaned back near you, flipping a batarang between his fingers, mask turned your way.

He never pressed. Never asked questions you wouldn’t answer. But he was there. Constant.

On your first mission, an infiltration gone sideways, you found yourself cornered by armed mercs, their tech-resistant armor shrugging off M’gann’s psychic blasts. Enchantress surged, hungry for release, clawing at your control.

Let me out. I will reduce them to ash.

Your fingers twitched, the spell on your tongue burning. But before you could break, Robin dropped from the rafters above, disarming two men in a blur of motion, smoke pellets filling the room. He didn’t even look back as he moved, trusting you to handle the rest without losing yourself.

And somehow, you did. You held the line.

Later, when the mission was over and the others were regrouping, Robin brushed past you. “Nice control back there.”

Just that. No fear. No suspicion. Just a quiet confidence, like he already knew you could handle it.

It left you shaken in ways the battle hadn’t.

The days blurred. Missions, training, debriefs. You kept your distance. But you started to notice things, small things.

Robin never flinched when Enchantress’s whispers slipped through your lips.

He didn’t edge away when your magic crackled too close.

When the others stared at you like a weapon barely contained, he looked at you like… like you were still a person.

And that was dangerous.

Because sometimes, when the lights dimmed and the team’s voices faded, you caught yourself listening for his laugh. Watching the way he spun a staff through his fingers. Noticing the curve of his grin when a plan came together.

And Enchantress noticed too.

From that day, you made a rule for yourself: avoid Robin.

Not because you disliked him, far from it, but because he was the one person who never looked at you with fear. Everyone else, you could read their hesitation clearly.

Artemis didn’t trust you, Wally couldn’t stop blurting nervous comments, even Conner and M’gann kept a subtle distance when your aura flickered green. Zatanna tried her best to guide you, but you could still see the sharp edge of worry in her eyes whenever Enchantress pressed through. They had every reason to be cautious, and you welcomed it. Distance kept people safe.

But Robin… Robin wasn’t cautious. He was curious. Bold.

Every time you caught his gaze across the room, his mask glinted with that infuriating spark of amusement, as if he was daring you to do something unpredictable. He treated you less like a bomb about to detonate and more like a riddle to solve, and that unsettled you more than anything.

So you kept out of his way.

If he was in the kitchen grabbing a soda, you made a sharp detour down the hall.

If he lounged in the lounge with his boots kicked up, you suddenly remembered you had to find Zatanna.

If he entered a room where you were already sitting, you’d gather your things quickly and leave, pretending you hadn’t even noticed him. It was easier that way.

You told yourself it was for his protection. Because deep down you knew: no acrobatics, no clever one-liners, no perfectly-aimed batarang would matter if Enchantress decided to rip through. If she set her eyes on Robin, he’d be gone before he could blink. The thought of that, of his laughter, his sharp wit, his brilliant mind, extinguished because of you, was unbearable. So you stayed away.

But avoiding him didn’t mean ignoring him. Not really. You noticed everything.

The way his laugh carried down the halls, sharp and quick, filling the cave with life that even M’gann’s sunny voice couldn’t quite match. The way he fought in training, every move sharp-edged and precise, the easy grace of someone who had been moving like this since childhood. The way he tapped at the holographic computers, fingers flying faster than your eyes could follow, mask tilted in concentration.

And you noticed the way he looked at you. Always too direct. Always too knowing. Like he could see more than you wanted to show.

Enchantress noticed too.

Oh he thinks you’re interesting she’d purr inside your mind when his gaze lingered too long. The little bird isn’t afraid. How delicious would it be to break him?

You’d clench your jaw, fists curling tight, and mutter under your breath where no one could hear: “Shut up”

But she never shut up.

Snap his bones like twigs. Crush that laugh in his throat. Paint the walls with his clever little tricks. Wouldn’t it be beautiful?

And every time, your stomach twisted with equal parts nausea and fear, because some terrible, traitorous part of you knew Enchantress could do it. And if she ever did, it wouldn’t matter how much you cared, it would still be your hands, your body.

Robin had no idea.

Or maybe he did, and that was worse. Because if he knew, he didn’t care.

He kept pushing, kept appearing where you least wanted him. He’d lean over the back of the couch where you sat with M’gann, mask gleaming, and drop some teasing remark just to see if you’d answer. He’d wander into Zatanna’s lessons, pretending to look bored while you struggled to hold Enchantress at bay, only to grin when you snapped at him. He wasn’t afraid of your sharp words, your cold exits, or the way your aura flared green for half a second when you were too tired to suppress her.

He wasn’t afraid at all.

That made your chest tighten in ways you didn’t understand at first.

Maybe it was anger, maybe it was admiration, maybe it was something else entirely. But every time you caught yourself watching him, every time you felt heat crawl up your neck because he’d caught you looking, you shoved it down. You couldn’t afford to feel anything toward him.

You were a human with a monster inside. He was a hero with the world on his shoulders. The line between you wasn’t thin, it was carved deep and brutal.

Still, you remembered moments you couldn’t shake.

The time Wally muttered “time bomb” under his breath and Robin cut in with that maddening grin, calling you “a puzzle box with teeth” and you couldn’t stop the way your lips almost twitched at the corner, almost a smile.

The way he leaned against the railing above the training bay, arms folded, mask tilted as if you were the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen, while you deliberately focused on Zatanna’s spells until your head ached. The way he walked into the lounge one night while you were reading alone, glanced at you, and for once said nothing, just nodded in that subtle, easy way that made you feel, against your will, like maybe you weren’t a monster after all.

That was how it began. Not with love, not with trust, but with fear.

Fear of yourself, fear for him, and fear of what it meant that out of everyone, he was the one you couldn’t stop noticing. He was too bright, too alive, too fearless, and no matter how much you avoided him, he was already finding his way past your defenses.

And no matter how hard you tried to starve it, it only grew.

During training, when you took the farthest mat to spar alone, he somehow always ended up across from you. Not in a way that drew attention, he’d joke with Wally, trade quips with Artemis, but then, without fail, when partners were called, he was in front of you, staff spinning in his hand like it weighed nothing.

“Don’t go easy on me” he said once, mask glinting with a smirk.

“You couldn’t handle it” you replied before you could stop yourself.

His grin only widened. “Guess I’ll have to prove you wrong.”

It was small, but it stuck with you. You’d expected fear, hesitation, or at least annoyance. Instead, he treated you like any other opponent, no more, no less.

And when you nearly landed a hit that would’ve knocked his staff clear, he only laughed, breathless. “Not bad. You’ll have me paranoid in my sleep."

The others heard it too, his easy humor with you, and it chipped away at their own tension, even if just slightly.

It happened again that evening, after another grueling training session. The others had left the gym, voices echoing down the hall, but you stayed, sitting on the floor with your back against the wall, sweat cooling on your skin.

Robin lingered too. Of course he did.

He tossed his staff in the air, caught it effortlessly, and finally dropped down beside you, stretching his legs out. “You’re getting faster.”

You didn’t answer at first. Then “Or you’re getting sloppy.”

He chuckled, low and warm. “Harsh. But fair.”

Silence settled, not heavy, not sharp. Just there.

You glanced at him, mask catching the dim light, his mouth curved in that faint, ever-present smirk. And for the first time, you didn’t look away immediately.

You didn’t speak, but you didn’t ignore him either.

It was a small crack in the walls you’d built. But for Robin, it was enough.

Time had a way of dulling sharp edges. Weeks passed, and though you still kept your distance, it wasn’t quite the same iron wall it had been. You didn’t laugh at Robin’s jokes, but sometimes you didn’t shut him down either. You didn’t seek him out, but you didn’t move away when he ended up near you. And when Enchantress whispered that he was dangerous, that you were dangerous, you found yourself fighting her with more strength than before.

Because somewhere in the back of your mind, a dangerous truth was taking root: you cared what he thought of you.

You tried not to. You kept it buried, unsaid, hidden. But it was there all the same.

Training started normally that day. The gym buzzed with energy, Artemis and Wally bickering over technique, M’gann floating gracefully as she dodged Conner’s heavy swings. Kaldur guided them all with his usual calm authority, while Zatanna lingered near the edges, watching you with quiet vigilance.

You had been partnered with Robin again. Of course. It was almost expected now. Staff against staff, strike and counterstrike. He moved with precision, with speed, each blow a test, each dodge an invitation.

“You’re holding back” he said between clashes, his tone casual but edged with challenge.

“You don’t want me at full strength” you shot back, deflecting his strike with a twist of your wrist.

He grinned. “Try me.”

And maybe it was the grin, or the way your pulse had been running faster around him lately, or maybe it was the whisper that slipped too deep inside your head.

Show him. Break him. Let me out. Enchantress hissed, silk and venom.

You stumbled, just a flicker, just a crack in concentration, but it was enough. The shadows inside surged forward, green light sparking at your fingertips before you could swallow it back.

Robin froze, his staff lowering a fraction. “Hey. You okay?”

That single hesitation was all Enchantress needed.

The room warped. Your vision blurred, your limbs heavy and light all at once as her voice roared through you, no longer a whisper but a scream. Mine. My turn.

Your body convulsed. A gasp tore from your throat, then it wasn’t your voice anymore.

Enchantress straightened, rolling your shoulders like testing an old, familiar coat. A cruel smile curved your lips, eyes glowing sickly green.

“Well” she purred, voice layered, echoing through the gym. “Finally.”

The Team snapped into motion instantly. Artemis raised her bow, Conner’s fists clenched, M’gann’s hands sparked with psychic light.

“Back up!” Kaldur ordered, his voice steady but tense. “Do not engage until we know—”

But Enchantress laughed, low and sharp. “You think you can order me, little fish?”

Green magic crackled down your arms, sizzling against the mats. The others instinctively shifted back, forming a wide circle around you.

All except one.

Robin didn’t move. His staff lowered, his stance grounded, but he didn’t step away. He was still in front of you, no, in front of her.

“Robin—” Zatanna’s warning was sharp, fear edging her voice.

“I got this Zee” he said, eyes never leaving yours.

Enchantress tilted your head, studying him with mocking curiosity. “You don’t flinch huh? Not even now, brave little bat.” Her smile widened. “Or foolish.”

The green light surged higher, burning the air between you.

Robin didn’t blink. “Because you don’t scare me.”

Foolish, Enchantress hissed in your mind. He thinks he's talking to you. He thinks you can hear him. Let me show him how wrong he is.

But you could hear him.

His voice cut through the chaos, threading its way past the storm in your head.

“Hey” he said firmly, and for the first time, his voice wasn’t joking, wasn’t casual. It was grounded. Certain. “I know you’re in there. You can fight this. You’ve fought it before.”

Your body moved without your will, magic crackling at your fingertips, aimed at him. You screamed inside, trying to stop it, but Enchantress reveled in the power, in the way the Team tensed, ready to strike.

Robin didn’t raise his staff. He didn’t move to dodge. He just stayed where he was, mask locking on you like nothing else existed.

“You’re stronger than her” he said, voice sharp “I’ve seen it. You don’t let her win.”

Lies. Enchantress snarled, her control slipping, your hands trembling with the force of holding back. You will break. You always break.

Robin’s voice cut in, louder. “You don’t scare me, because I know you. Not her. You. The one who holds back when you could destroy. The one who still fights to stay in control.” His jaw tightened, words slicing the air with certainty. “That’s not weakness. That’s you winning.”

Your chest heaved, every muscle shaking, torn between the weight of her power and the anchor of his words.

And in the silence that followed, for the first time, you felt Enchantress falter.

He believes in you she whispered, not mocking now, but seething. Foolish girl. Weak. You would throw away power… for him?

Your vision blurred. Your hands dropped an inch. The green light sputtered.

Robin stepped closer, slowly, carefully, but without hesitation. “I know you’re scared. I know you think you’re dangerous. But you’re not alone in this fight. You don’t have to be.”

His voice softened, steady and real. “Come back.”

And somehow, you did.

The glow shattered, the storm collapsing inward. Your knees buckled, the world tilting, and you fell, straight into Robin’s waiting arms.

Your breath came in harsh gasps, sweat damp against your temples, your voice barely a whisper. “You… shouldn’t…”

“Yeah, well” Robin said, his tone low but unshaken, “I don’t scare easy.”

The others slowly lowered their guard, tension still high but edged with relief. Zatanna moved forward, eyes full of concern, but Robin didn’t let go of you.

He just held you steady, his arms firm, his gaze still locked on you like he hadn’t doubted for a second you’d come back.

And for the first time, you realized what terrified you most wasn’t Enchantress’s power.

It was how badly you wanted to believe him.

The team had dispersed in uneasy silence: M’gann ushering Conner away after his fists had clenched tighter than necessary, Kaldur promising they would debrief later, Artemis muttering under her breath about “walking time bombs” but not unkindly, more shaken than cruel. Zatanna lingered the longest, pressing your arm with a gentle squeeze before following her father through the Zeta tube.

And then it was just you. And him.

Robin didn’t leave.

You sat on the edge of the training mat, knees pulled to your chest, hair falling forward like a shield. The taste of ash still clung to your tongue, and the whisper in your head, the one that wasn’t yours, curled like smoke.

You dug your nails into your palms, willing her down. Willing yourself steady.

“Y’know,” Robin’s voice broke the silence, lighter than it had any right to be, “most people, after unleashing a centuries-old witch spirit on their friends, don’t just sit around.”

You didn’t lift your head. “Go away.”

“Mm. No.”

The mat dipped slightly beside you. You didn’t have to look to know he’d plopped down cross-legged, his cape pooling around him, his mask angled toward you with that impossible calm. Not fear. Not pity. Just… him.

You gritted your teeth. “You should at least be smart enough to keep distance.”

“And you should be better at ignoring me by now.” He shrugged. “Guess we’re both stubborn.”

Your breath hitched, and you hated that he heard it.

Robin leaned back on his hands, gazing up at the ceiling like you were just hanging out, like you hadn’t nearly lost yourself to Enchantress in front of everyone. “So. Wanna talk about it?”

You turned sharply, finally meeting his eyes, or the white slits of his mask. “What’s there to talk about? You saw it. They saw it. I can’t control her.”

“Correction.” His head tilted. “You did control her. Eventually.”

“That was you.” The words slipped out before you could stop them. Heat rushed to your face. You turned away again, fists curling. “You pulled me back. I don’t even know how.”

He was quiet for a beat, and when he spoke again, his voice had lost that teasing edge. Lower. Steadier. “Maybe you do.”

You swallowed hard. “You don’t get it, Robin. Every second I spend here, every time I try to train, or… or laugh, or pretend to be normal—she’s waiting. One slip, one crack, and I’m gone. You saw what happened.”

“I did.” His tone sharpened, cutting clean through your spiral. “I saw you fight her.”

You blinked, stung.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees now, every word deliberate. “Don’t twist it. You didn’t just… disappear. You wrestled her back. You’re still here.”

Your throat tightened, the weight of it pressing down. For the first time in a long time, you wanted to believe someone. Wanted to believe him. But—

“And what if I can’t next time?” Your voice cracked. You hated it. “What if she wins?”

Robin didn’t flinch. He shifted closer, until his shoulder almost brushed yours. You stiffened, but he didn’t press. He just sat there, warm and steady.

“Then we deal with it” he said simply.

You turned to him, searching his face for some sign of hesitation, some crack in his ridiculous confidence. But there was none. Only that impossible steadiness.

“Why?” The question slipped out raw, your defenses thin. “Why aren’t you afraid of me?”

For once, he didn’t answer right away.

He looked at you, really looked, like he could see past the mask you wore, past even the shadow of the Enchantress curled in your bones. And then, soft but certain “Because I don’t think you’re the scary one.”

Your breath caught. Enchantress snarled in your mind, furious at the vulnerability clawing up your chest, but you couldn’t stop it, you laughed. Broken, shaky, but real.

It startled him, a grin tugging at his mouth, quick and boyish. “See? Not that scary.”

You shook your head, wiping quickly at your face. “You’re an idiot.”

“Genius, actually.” He leaned back, hands behind his head, like the whole cave wasn’t still humming with the memory of what you’d unleashed. “But I’ll let it slide.”

The air shifted between you, quiet but not heavy anymore. Tentative. Something fragile but alive.

For the first time, you didn’t want to ignore him.

Didn’t want to shut him out. You wanted, dangerously, to stay right here, where he wasn’t afraid, where you didn’t feel like a monster waiting to break.

You didn’t say it. You couldn’t. But Robin didn’t need the words.

He just stayed.