> 𝕵𝖆𝖇𝖇𝖊𝖗

About half a year ago you had begun dating your boyfriend, Jason Todd. In your defense, you didn’t even think about that Jason Todd. While you knew some details about the Waynes, you didn't follow everything they did, and especially not back then. You were worlds apart. After all, who would assume that their boyfriend was the dead son of Bruce Wayne?

The idea had crossed your mind, but you didn’t give it any credibility. Many people have shared names and aren't related. In fact you had silently laughed at the coincidence. Oooh, what if your boyfriend was secretly hiding from the public because he was previously declared dead and can’t come back without making a fuss. Yeah, likely story.

Needless to say, it became a lot less funny when you started to actually figure out what was afoot. 

—

You stared at Jason’s phone, the caller was just labeled “B” with no other explanation. Jason had been looking for his phone after misplacing it, and you had found it on top of your shared dresser.

“Uhh, somebody is calling you.” You carefully grabbed the device, careful not to answer it. 

Jason’s footsteps grew louder as he approached the bedroom, the hollow floorboards echoing beneath his feet. “Who is it?” He asked casually, holding his hand out.

You shrugged, “I dunno, you just have then labeled ‘B.’” You placed the phone in his hand, and he froze. Immediately, he looked from the phone up to you.

“Did they say anything else? Texts?” He attempted to shield the phone from your view. A surge of curiosity washed over you, interested to know who he was talking to.

“Not that I saw? All I saw was the call.” You paused as the phone stopped ringing… before picking up again mere seconds later. “Anybody important? Boss or something?”

In hindsight, that was the funniest response you could’ve given. At the time you didn’t actually know what Jason did for work. When you asked, he’d just shrug, offhandedly respond “Security,” then quickly change the subject. Eventually, you let it go, realizing he was never going to go in depth about it with you. Which was understandable. Perhaps he wanted to separate his home life and work life.

However as time went on, you began to have more questions. His schedule was just too inconsistent.

There were days where he would just brush off his job, “I’m not the only one who works there, they can handle a night without me.” He would tell you. There were even times where he’d leave in the morning with no warning, just a couple messages on your phone telling you that "work called."

So you came to the conclusion: he must’ve been his own boss. 

It made sense, he seems to get paid relatively well. His work schedule is evidently flexible. It’s a logical conclusion for a person to reach. After devising your theory, you didn’t think much of it, despite the nagging feeling in the back of your mind.

Well, you didn't think much of it… until a week later.

“Please, just cover for me this once. I’ll make it up to you.” You pause at the doorframe, breath hitching as you lean against the wall. You had woken up and noticed that Jason was not with you in bed. It’s not uncommon for him to leave in the middle of the night, but usually he left a note, message, just something to let you know that he would return. This time he didn’t, so you went to go look for him.

“I know…” Jason continued, a long moment of silence in between his answers. “Yes, I know, but please? I promised her that she’d have me this entire weekend.”

Your finger tapped absentmindedly against the wooden doorframe, and your other hand rubbed your eye, attempting to expel the sleepiness from your body. Okay, so he’s talking to somebody— definitely work related— about taking time off for you. Were you wrong about him being his own boss?

“I don’t care what Bruce thinks of it.” He scoffed, and you could imagine him rolling his eyes too. At his words, you lean closer to the living room entrance, all whilst ensuring you stayed hidden from his view. “He can think whatever he wants.” He paused before continuing, his tone more unsure than the fiery scorn he spoke with seconds ago. “You haven’t told the others, right?” His words were soft, hesitant. He sounded winded, as if merely speaking the words left him drained.

There was a long pause, and you held your breath in anticipation.

Jason sighed, and it’s somehow quieter than his previous words. “Thank you…” You could hear the cushions of the couch squeak slightly as Jason sat down. His words sounded dry, but you could hear the sincerity backing them. “Yeah, I know… I’ll…” He paused, a soft huff escaping him, “I’ll bring her to one of the dinners before the New Year.”

You sharply inhaled, immediately scurrying back to bed and throwing the blankets over yourself haphazardly. You compelled your breathing to slow, attempting to feign unconsciousness. It doesn’t work, but Jason wasn’t finished with his phone call; you can distantly hear his voice still on the phone if you strain your ears. You know you have at least a minute to get your act together before he returns. You force your eyes shut, and attempt to sleep.

Except, obviously, that does not work. All you could think about was the implications of what you just heard.

Everything you thought was wrong.

At first you were merely cataloging any important information he might’ve revealed: names, locations, anything that could clue you into what was going on. However, as you started listening, you came to a realization. 

This isn’t him talking about his shifts.

“You haven’t told the others, right?”

This isn’t about work at all.

“I’ll bring her to one of the dinners before Christmas.”

This was about his family.

Now, you may have just woken up at two in the morning and eavesdropped on a conversation that you had no context of, but the message was abundantly clear. He’s planning to introduce you to his family. If the distress he displayed at the notion told you anything, it must be something he’s thought about for a while.

You didn’t know much about his family, he was always super vague about them. However he did tell you about his numerous siblings, and that he— along with the majority of them— are adopted. 

At the time, your relationship was still new, and you didn’t want to pry into territory he was clearly uncomfortable with. You had expressed interest in meeting them, but assured him that if that’s something that makes him uncomfortable, then it can wait.

Now, usually you wouldn’t think too much about him being adopted, but there was one other thing that set off an immediate alarm in your head. The one name he mentioned, Bruce.

Now there’s probably millions of Bruce’s in America alone, but everybody in Gotham will immediately think of one man.

Bruce Wayne.

With literally any other person you know, you’d assume that they would be talking about a different Bruce. However, this was Jason. Jason took a while to share his last name with you, and you didn’t blame him. After all, when you found out his full name you had gone to search it up on your own soon after. You wanted to see if he has any social media posts, determine what kind of person he is online. Only, you didn’t find social media accounts.

You found articles.

Articles and articles filled talking about the death of “Jason Todd.” How he had died during a terrorist attack in Ethiopia in search of his mother. That Jason Todd had been adopted by— you guessed it— none other than Bruce Wayne.

Now, you were willing to chalk it up to an odd coincidence, after all that Jason Todd was dead. There was no way you were dating a dead guy when there are full on autopsies published detailing the horrific death of this child. It was an unfortunate coincidence. It makes sense why Jason wouldn’t want to share his last name if everyone immediately thought of a dead kid.

Now? You aren’t sure anymore. What are the chances that this “Bruce” is actually Bruce Wayne and Jason, your Jason, is actually the (previously?) dead Jason Todd.

With all that being said, you’ll be the first to say that you are no detective. Batman certainly won’t be finding competition with you…

However, this might be worth investigating. 

At the time, you didn’t even think to truly consider the consequences if Jason found out about your snooping. However, in your defense, it was less of an “investigation” and more “attempting to notice details that may or may not prove that your insane theory is correct.”

You didn’t actively search the house for evidence that your Jason Todd was the Jason Todd (but really how many Jason Todd’s exist in Gotham, and are adopted, and know a Bruce?). However, to your surprise, you didn’t need to.

—

Narrowing your eyes, you widen your stride to evade the puddle of a mysterious viscous liquid on the ground, almost oil-like in nature. Your nose scrunches up at the smell, and you avoid making eye contact with anybody. Walking with purpose, you speed up your pace to avoid any confrontations. 

You didn’t want to go through Crime Alley.

Jason had told you stories. He had made it clear that if you ever had reason to go there, you’d tell him, and he’d handle it. You weren’t about to argue since you never had a desire to go there.

You straighten your posture, walking with a confidence that you feel you currently lack. God, you absolutely hate the taxis in this city. All you asked was that he’d turn on the heater and close his window— it’s winter! 

The driver absolutely lost it. 

You had asked that he just stop right where you were, in the Upper East Side, but he didn’t. Instead, he drove north. It was only once you passed the Monarch Theater when you realized how screwed you were. The driver had yelled at you, threatening your life if you didn’t get out of the car.

So you got out of the car. Clutching your jacket and purse close to your chest as it speeds off, leaving you stranded in Crime Alley. 

Stranded and terrified, you tried retracing the path the car had taken, attempting to leave. However, every alley, street, and crevice looked sketchy. While you had lived in Gotham for a long time, you’ve always avoided this part of town. So like it or not— the territory was unfamiliar, something that isn’t working in your favor.

Eventually, you find a small abandoned alleyway. While it was dirty and practically screaming “DANGER!” you noticed that it was completely abandoned. Ducking into the alleyway, you pull out your phone. Dead. What are the chances? Groaning, you lean against the graffitied wall, rubbing your temples.

Then you hear it. Footsteps. Slow, unhurried, sounds like heavy footwear.

Tensing up, you find an empty dumpster, using it as cover from the new figure. Fuck. You should’ve just kept moving. Now you’re just a sitting duck.

“You know I can still see you, right?” A heavily modulated male voice calls out, his voice echoes across the narrow backstreet. You press yourself further against the wall, knowing that it’s futile, but still desperately trying to stay hidden. You clutch your purse close to your chest. If you get out of here unscathed, Jason is going to kill you.

The newcomer is definitely not small. You aren’t able to see him, but just based off of his footsteps, you reckon that definitely somebody who could beat the shit out of you. 

The footsteps get closer and closer, your heart pounds in your chest. Then, the sun vanishes. You look up to the looming figure above you. Red Hood.

It seems you both startle each other because both of you immediately jump back once you meet each other's eyes. 

“What—” He calls out.

You hold your hands up in surrender. This guy only kills criminals, right? “I didn’t steal anything, I swear.”

It seems Red Hood is just as stunned by your presence as you are. He remains frozen, continuing to look down at you on the ground. You get up very slowly, making no sudden movements. The last thing you want is for him to think you have a gun.

“I…” His voice is quieter… Something about it is familiar. The tone. “I never said you did.”

You nod, slowly adjusting your clothes, “I didn’t kill anybody either…”

He nods slowly, “I would never assume you did.” He speaks slowly.

You blink taken aback. “Killers come in all shapes and sizes. Not saying I would— I would not. I’m just clearing my name.”

He releases a small huff of laughter, “…Fair enough.”

The two of you stare at each other for a long moment before you avert your gaze. You swallow, shifting uncomfortably. He is still looking at you.

“Do you—”

“How did—”

You both pause. Clearing your throat, you gesture at him, “You first.” 

He shakes his head, “No, go ahead.” He mirrors your gesture, and you have to hold back a laugh at how ridiculous the situation is.

You pause before continuing, “Do you know how to get out of here? My phone's dead,” you hold up the device to show him, “I can’t really look up directions.”

Red Hood stares at you for a long moment, you’re curious what he’s thinking. “Of course.” He responds a lot softer than you thought he would. “I’ll guide you.” 

You open your mouth to decline, but your brain tells you to accept the offer. Normally, you wouldn’t accept strange offers from men in Crime Alley.

However, it’s Red Hood.

While he’s technically a strange man from Crime Alley, Gotham’s vigilantes typically don’t harm innocents. So, against everything you’ve been taught since you were a child, you accept his offer. It seems that he is relieved at your acceptance, nodding before moving to your left. You blink at him as he holds his hand out expectantly.

“What?” You ask, looking from his hand, up to his mask, and back down to his gloved palm.

“I’ll hold your purse for you.” He says stoically.

You should get an Oscar for the poker face you gave him. Red Hood— feared vigilante— carrier of purses. 

“Uh, it’s fine… I can carry it.” You purse your lips in order to refrain from laughing in his face. You don’t want to laugh at him for being kind. You’re reminded of the times where you asked Jason to hold your purse for you. Red Hood offers his services in a way that makes you wonder if he does this often.

The eyes of his helmet stare into your soul, “That’s your bad shoulder.” 

Your smile falls, slowly turning to face him. “What?”

“You’re going to injure your shoulder.” He corrects.

You pause, feeling suspicion rise in your chest. That is not what he said the first time. He was telling you that your shoulder was injured. You had slept on it strangely all week, and you had complained to Jason about it. How could Red Hood know that?

A rush of adrenaline shoots through your system as you connect the dots of the situation. The tone of his voice. The casualness of how he offered his help to you. The shoulder comment. The odd work shifts…

You smile politely at Jason, “I suppose you make a good point.” You give him your purse.

—

Figuring it out hadn’t been the difficult part. Jason had been practically begging you to put the evidence together. Just by knowing his identity, you were able to piece the rest of the puzzle together.

His family? His work? The Bats? The Waynes? All of them were one in the same. 

Now, while you figured it out, you still wanted him to tell you on his own. Perhaps you’d act a little surprised, and tease him about finding each other in Crime Alley. Then in a few years you’d tell him you figured him way before he told you.

Then one day, a week before Christmas, he asked you a question.

“Do you want to meet my family?”

You blink, looking away from the ads playing on the TV, “What?”

He shifts, tugging slightly at your shared penguin blanket. “They’re hosting dinner tonight.” He looks at you, “They’ve been wanting to meet you for a while.”

You nod in acknowledgment, “Do you want me to meet them?” It’s happening. This is what he was talking about on the phone.

Jason is silent for a moment, “I can’t hide you forever.”

You snort, “That’s not what I asked.” You reach for his hand, it’s warm.

He looks from your hand up to you, “Yeah,” he exhales, like it takes effort to admit.

You smile, “Then we’ll be there tonight.” You raise your hand to rub his shoulder. Normally, you’d be panicking over what to wear, especially to meet the Waynes, but you had already planned for this two weeks ago.

Jason’s anxiousness is evident throughout the day. You reassure him that you won’t be scared off. He laughs like he doesn’t believe you. Each time he brushes your reassurances off, you find yourself smiling. He doesn’t know that you know.

Tonight comes sooner than expected. You do your makeup nicely, taking your time with the familiar routine. Satisfied with your appearance, you meet Jason out in the living room. He’s glaring down at his phone. 

“What’d it do to you?” You smirk, eying the object. 

He turns it off, “Everything, and not enough.” He sighs, avoiding eye contact with you. “Hey, I should tell you about them…”

You blink, “You already gave me the rundown?”

“Yes— Well,” he releases a breathy chuckle, “a different rundown.” Sensing the seriousness of the situation, you drop your smile, nodding.

“Remember how I waited a long time to tell you my name— my full name?” He swallows, gauging your reaction. “You know the kid who has the same name as me?”

You nod slowly, “The one Bruce Wayne took in.” You feel your heart speed up, he’s really telling you. 

“Yeah,” he huffs, “I know… I know it sounds crazy, and there are like dozens of articles saying that kid died…” He inhales, “But those rumors were exaggerated, and I don’t think it’s fair to drag you into this without telling you— Why… are you smiling?”

You chuckle softly, grabbing his hand. Before you even think about the consequences of revealing part of your knowledge, you begin speaking, “Jay, I’ve known that for a while.”

His hand stiffens in yours, “What?”

“I mean… You told me your name was Jason Todd.”

He furrows his eyebrows, “Both are common names.”

“Give me more credit than that.” You roll your eyes, the smile on your face growing. “It was hard not to notice after a certain point.”

Jason gapes at you, and you laugh at his shocked expression. Then he laughs softly, “This was supposed to be a big moment.” He sighs, “You aren’t… mad?”

“It is. I’m glad you trust me enough to tell me.” You lean to kiss him on his cheek, he relaxes under your touch. His shoulders droop as your hands reach to fix a few stray strands of hair. “I could never be mad. I understand that this is a big deal, and that trust isn't easy to come by.”

He returns the kiss, light, smiling through it. “God, I don’t deserve you. I was planning that speech for weeks, you know.”

You laugh at him, brushing a few stray strands of hair out of his face. “It was a very good speech.”

“Yeah?” He smirks at you.

“Yeah.” You reaffirm, grinning at him.

—

“Thank God you are here.” A young man— Duke, you recognize— throws the doors to the manor open before the doorbell is even rung. You don’t mask your surprise as he gestures for you two to get inside. “They’ve started making bets.” 

Jason raises an eyebrow, “And you’re thankful for us being here why?”

“‘Cause I bet you’d show up with her!” He gestures between you two, before politely smiling at you. “Nice to meet you by the way, Duke Thomas.”

You shake his hand, introducing yourself as you remove your jacket. “Jason told me quite a bit about you guys.”

Duke laughs awkwardly before eying Jason, “Hopefully not too much.” He smiles.

You smirk, pretending you don’t understand the underlying message, “He said you were particularly tolerable.”

Duke shakes his head, a smile on his face, “The greatest of compliments.” He leads the two of you into the massive living room, probably one of many seeing as this manor is huge.

At your entrance, the room goes silent. 

You scan the room, attempting to put names to the faces. Sitting on the maroon velvet couch you see Dick Grayson and Barbara Gordon. Standing behind them is Stephanie Brown with Damian Wayne and Cassandra Cain on her sides. Tim Drake is settled casually on the armrest of the couch. 

The table in front of them is littered with pieces of paper, empty energy drinks, a couple Batman mugs filled hot cocoa, and a black top hat. You turn your attention to Bruce Wayne, seated in a singular armchair with a poised elegance only somebody raised with wealth could have. At his right, is an older gentleman— Alfred, Jason told you.

Each person in the room is staring directly at you with varying degrees of surprise. Stephanie and Dick look thrilled at your appearance. The former looks ready to hug you, and you have a feeling that they bet money that you’d show up. Tim looks at you incredulously, staring at you as if you’ll disappear at any moment. Damian looks you up and down with a touch of distaste, as if assessing your value. You feel yourself straighten your stance under his examination. Cassandra Cain similarly appraises you, but you feel as if her judgment is less harsh. Barbara looks amused at your arrival, casually sipping one of the mugs on the table.

What truly unsettles you is Bruce Wayne.

You’ve heard stories of Brucie Wayne, how could you not? Those stories portray him as a ditzy billionaire playboy. Well-meaning, but frivolous. The eyes that stare into you aren’t the eyes of such a character. His gaze pierces into your own, and you find yourself faltering as you attempt to match the intensity. This isn’t some foolish playboy.

This is Batman.

Who knows what he’d do if he figures out you know about their secret? Jason, as if sensing your distress, situates himself at your side. He clears his throat, “This is my girlfriend,” he introduces you, offering your name to them.

The silence is palpable, an uneasy fog that rests in the atmosphere of the room. In spite of that, you offer them your best smile. “I know who you all are.” You nod to each person in the room. “Jason has told me about you. It’s a pleasure to meet you all.” Jason places a hand onto your shoulder, squeezing lightly.

For a moment, nobody says anything. Your eyes flicker between everyone, gauging their reactions. You take a gamble with your next comment, “I’m sorry for any cash lost at my appearance.” You smile softly, turning towards Tim and Damian. The two are staring at you as if you've personally wronged them.

Dick follows your lead, standing up from the couch to greet you. He mirrors your smile back at you as you shake hands, “I’m definitely not sorry. They could stand to get humbled every now and then.” He gestures his thumb back towards the couch.

You smirk, “Well, I’m glad to be of service then.” You release his hand, turning to Stephanie who approached you as you were greeting Dick.

“I’ve never been so happy to prove them wrong. Thank you for existing.” She shakes your hand gravely. 

You can’t help the snort that escapes your mouth, “Of course, I will make sure I continue to do so.” She smiles at you, pulling you over to the couch to meet everyone. The tension dissipates as you begin to meet everyone. She brings you to meet Bruce first, after all it is his house.

You give his hand a firm shake, a small smile on your face masking your inner trepidation. He doesn’t offer much more than a polite smile and obligatory nicety, but Steph— she insisted you call her that name instead— reassures you that he’s just like that. She also introduces you to Alfred, who you match the politeness of. It seems that he approves of you. Soon after, she drags you over to the couch where the rest of the group resided.

“Does she know?”

Jason stares at you, laughing at something Cass says. Animatedly, you gesture as you speak, telling some story to the small group gathered near you. Steph laughs in response, grabbing Cass’ arm for support. 

“Know what?” He asks. He doesn’t tear his gaze from you as you explain your story. For a brief moment the two of you make eye contact, and your eyes glint mischievously. You lean closer to his siblings positioned near you, whispering something to them. Jason can’t hear what you say, but whatever it is causes Tim to immediately perk up curiously. Steph matches your smirk, and even Cass and Damian lean closer to hear your words. Faintly, Jason can hear your soft whispers to them. In the middle of your storytelling, you look up at him. Your smile grows as you wink at him, he can’t help mirroring your expression.

Dick snorts, “So that’s a no.”

The smile falls from his face, Jason eyes Dick from the corner of his eye, “It’s harder than you think.” He swallows, watching as Steph covers her mouth at something you say. “Too much will change if I tell her.” He responds quietly.

Dick hums, crossing his arms, “Are you serious about her?”

Jason, affronted, spins to face Dick. “Yes.” He exhales slowly, nodding somberly.

Dick smiles gently, “Then tell her.”

Jason scoffs, “It’s not that easy.” His eyes veer to Bruce, who is pretending he is not listening to you from his chair. 

Dick follows his gaze, “Since when did you care what he thinks?” He grins at Jason, glancing between him and Bruce.

Jason narrows his eyes at Dick, “I don’t. I just…” He huffs, his mouth set in a straight line. “I don’t want her getting involved.”

Dick’s gaze softens, a forlorn frown on his face. “It’s inevitable given what we do.”

Jason grunts, “I’m aware.”

Dick tentatively raises a hand, placing it on his shoulder. “I don’t say this to pressure you—”

“—Sure feels like it.” Jason interrupts, glaring down at Dick.

“But,” Dick continues as if interrupted, “I think you’ll find it to be a lot easier for you both if you do tell her.” They both look over to you. Jason watches as you raptly listen to something Tim explains. Jason sighs, shrugging Dick’s hand off his shoulder.

“Hm,” Jason hums, acknowledging his words, but not saying anything more.

“Okay, now that we’re all here.” Steph raises the top hat from the table, catching everybody’s attention. “It is time.”

Steph holds the top hat reverently, as if the object is sacred. “Secret Santa this year. Twenty dollar minimum. We will write our names down on these sheets of paper and draw them out from the hat. If you don’t like who you get, too bad. You can only redraw if you get yourself. Now, everybody fill these out, place your slip of paper into the hat, and we will begin to draw.”

“She seems really serious about this.” You whisper to Duke. He thanks Steph as she passes around a pack of purple sticky notes for everybody to take. 

“You get used to it.” Duke takes a slip, handing you the pack. Slowly you take the purple note before passing it over to Cassandra on your right. Grabbing a pen, you scrawl your name down on the piece of paper. You feel your chest constrict with an uneasy weight. 

Jason may have told you about his family, but you barely know anything about them. Favorite color? Food? Animal? He didn’t exactly divulge the details. You’ll probably have to ask his help on what to get, cause you’re essentially going in blind. He didn't warn you about Secret Santa.

You fold the sticky note, slipping it into the hat. You watch as the pen makes its way around the table, your foot bouncing as it finally approaches Bruce and Alfred. You watch as they silently write their name down, resigned. You have a feeling that they’ve been forced to do this for years.

As they place their names into the top hat, you consider the options of who you could get. A silent smile grows on your face as you think about it. Wouldn’t it be funny if you got Jason? 

“Alright, I think that’s everybody.” Steph looks around the room. “Now to begin the drawing…” She lightly tosses the hat, jumbling the papers in it before turning to face you, smiling. “As the newest person here, you should go first.” She holds out the hat to you, and you are immediately aware of the eyes on you.

“Oh,” you look down at the folded papers, then back up at her, “sure…” You attempt to match her smile, slowly reaching in the hat without looking. You pick up one of the slips, taking it out. Everybody watches in anticipation as you unfold the sticky note, you attempt to school your face as you read the painfully familiar handwriting.

Jason

Holy shit.

You’ve used up all of your luck for the next five years. What are the chances you’d pull your boyfriend in a group this large? You were already planning on getting him gifts separately, but this was too perfect. 

A stupid idea ran through your head. A really stupid, idiotic, foolish idea. Was it worth risking everything you’ve done not to incriminate yourself for this scheme?

You don’t even register the other people in the room drawing out names. You don’t even wonder who got you because all you can think of is the possibilities of what you could get Jason.

“Who’d you get?” The soft warmth of Jason’s breath brushes past your ear, sending shivers down your spine. He is resting his body against the back of the couch, leaning over it to invade your personal space. You attempt to hide your jolt by casually folding your paper, holding it out of his view.

“It hasn’t even been five minutes.” You smirk at him, pocketing the slip for later. You lower your voice, leaning closer to him. “Does this mean we’re returning for Christmas?” You can’t keep the excitement out of your voice.

He sighs, “I suppose.” He smiles at the way your eyes brighten up. If only he knew what fire he was fueling. “Now, who’d you get?” He asks, leaning to look over your shoulder. You shift so that your back is never facing him, placing a hand over your pockets to make sure he can’t grab the sticky note.

“I can’t tell you, it’s Secret Santa.” You furrow your eyebrows, frowning.

His eyes widen slightly, “Wait… You’re actually not gonna tell me? C’mon,” He huffs, leaning even closer, the two of you are practically face to face now. “I can keep a secret if it matters that much to you.”

You turn away from him, the smugness in your eyes never fading. “You’ll find out when we give the gifts.” You shrug, and you can feel eyes watching you both. Damian looks mildly disgusted by you two, and Duke is noticeably trying to avoid looking at you both. You clear your throat, looking up at Jason.

“Guess you’re gonna have to find out like everyone else.” You look away from him, propping your arm onto the armrest of the couch and leaning your face onto it.

Jason stares at you— you can feel it piercing the back of your skull. “You’ll need my help.” 

You tilt your head to face him, “I actually have an idea what I’ll get my person.”

He narrows his eyes at you skeptically, “You… do?”

You smirk, “The perfect idea.”

“You know it’s not just joke gifts, it’s stuff they actually like, right?” He straightens up, crossing his arms as he looks down at you on the couch.

“Oh,” you bite your tongue to keep from smiling too wide, “they’ll like the gift.”

You both stare at each other for a long moment, he sighs. “Alright, if you say so.” He taps his arm thoughtfully. “If you need any help though…” He trails off.

“You’ll be the first person I call.” You nod, smiling. “You’ll always be the first person I call.”

His eyes soften, “I know.”

—

red hood merch

red hood keychain

red hood figure

You idly tap your finger on the keyboard of your laptop as you open up different tabs for each search. Surprisingly, there were actually quite a few results for Red Hood merch. You know he isn’t as popular as Batman or even Nightwing, but you are nothing if not determined.

You cycle through different websites, eventually landing onto Etsy. You snort as you see holographic stickers of Red Hood. You even find replicas of his helmet for sale. You smile, adding the latter to the cart. Continuing to scroll, you barely even notice the door to your apartment open. You chuckle as you see a cute Red Hood keychain. He’d hate this. 

You add it to the cart.

“You’re still up?” 

Freezing, you slowly shift your gaze from the screen to Jason. His hair is tousled, his skin has the sheen of sweat to it that tells you he was "exercising" (that's the excuse he always tells you, you know he's out patrolling). He tosses his jacket over a chair, running a hand through his hair. You subtly switch tabs, “Wanted to wait for you.” You half-lid the laptop.

He smiles, before moving to face plant onto your shared bed. You look down at him, frowning. “Have you taken a shower?”

“Nah,” his voice is muffled by the blankets.

You subtly nudge him with your knee, “I love you, but you’re sweaty. The bed is clean.” He groans, not budging at your gesture.

“Mmph,” he grunts, moving closer to you, crawling up the bed to where you’re seated underneath the covers. You yelp, moving away from him, slamming the laptop shut. Damn it, you wanted to order it before he came home. “I can’t spend time with my girlfriend?”

You snort, “You can spend time with me after you take a shower.” You lightly push his forehead, your hand brushing against his loose strands of hair. He leans into your touch, “Rough day?”

“Somethin’ like that.” He mumbles, slowly pulling away to stand up again. 

You exhale, smiling softly. “I’m sure you’ll feel better after a shower.”

He snorts, “You’re just telling me I stink.”

You smirk, “Your words, not mine.”

He sighs, dragging himself to the bathroom. You can’t help the smile on your face. Once he is out of view, you slowly open your laptop again, navigating your browser back to your shopping cart. You go to the checkout, quickly paying. It’ll arrive a few days before Christmas. 

You thought you'd stop there, but you end up going down a rabbit hole. Scrolling and scrolling endlessly.

Then you find it. It’s a collection of bootleg Red Hood merch— a package. You start cackling to yourself as you view the picture of the product. It’s a hoodie, blanket, water bottle, mug, wallet, and journal. The hoodie, water bottle, wallet, and journal have the red bat logo plastered on them. The blanket and mug have an actual photo of Red Hood on them. The quality of the image isn’t terrible, but it looks ridiculous nonetheless. Now, this would be a really stupid purchase. You’d be spending more money than you already have on merch.

You hum to yourself in contemplation, distantly noting that you can hear the water running from the bathroom. You tap your foot softly against the mattress of the bed, squinting at it. For a bundle with that many items, twenty dollars is not a bad deal, even if the images are laughable. You raise your hand up to your lip, rubbing your face. 

Well, even if Jason hates it… You can still find some use out of the items. The blanket maybe? You doubt it’ll be a great blanket, but it could be a good backup. The mug and water bottle might also be usable. One of you can definitely use the journal… After all, twenty dollars is twenty dollars.

You buy it.

“You’re still working?” Jason emerges from the bathroom, changed into clean clothes, lightly rubbing a towel over his head. 

Your eyes fall onto the receipt screen reading: “Order confirmed!” You nod, “Something like that.”

He gives you a puzzled expression, before plopping onto his side of the bed. The mattress cushioning his fall. “Are you almost done?” He lays down flat, tilting his head to look at you.

You smile, shutting the laptop. Mission accomplished. “Just finished actually.”

—

Neither of you mentioned Secret Santa. Honestly, you started to worry if he’d actually get a gift for his person. However, you didn’t bring it up out of fear of him asking about the gifts for your person. The remainder of the week progressed, the excitement of Christmas becoming more and more real each day. Either way, things are going smoothly. Each day you have to withhold yourself from telling Jason what you bought because you are dying to see his reaction. You hold yourself back, though. It’ll be so much better in front of his family. 

It’s a few days before Christmas where panic struck your heart.

“Did you order something?” Jason asks, you hold your phone up to your ear as you walk to your car. You just got off of work, and were finally off for the holidays. 

You swallow, “Perhaps, why?”

Jason hums, “Well, it’s here.” You feel your heart skip a beat for all the wrong reasons, “Do you want me to open—”

“No!” You cut him off, causing him to pause. You purse your lips, wincing, “Uh, no. It’s fine. It’s… personal.”

There’s a long pause of silence, “Personal…” He repeats, unconvinced.

“Yeah,” you nod, smacking your lips, “reallyyyy personal. I wouldn’t open it.”

He releases a huff of amusement, “Alright… You’re coming home right?”

“Yep, yep, on my way.” You walk faster down the sidewalk.

“Alright, don’t take too long.” He responds casually.

“Or what?” You smirk, using your shoulder to hold your phone up to your ear as you fish for your keys in your purse.

“Or I’ll open it.” He responds, matching the mirth in your tone.

You never drove home so fast.

Upon entering, you don’t even call out a greeting. Keys jingling, you frantically unlock the door. You twist the doorknob, pushing the door open with more force than necessary, causing you to stumble through the doorway. 

You rip your shoes off your feet, throwing them haphazardly to the side as you toss your purse onto the couch. “Jason!” You call out. He’s likely in your bedroom. “Where is the package?” You speed over to your bedroom, yanking the door open.

Jason is laying down on his side, facing the door. His phone is held languidly in one of his hands. At your arrival, he doesn’t even flinch. “Hm?” He hums, still looking at the phone.

Your eyes narrow, “The package, Jay. Where is it?” You check behind the door as you begin your search— even checking under the bed.

“Oh, it’s over there.” He gestures absentmindedly to the top of your dresser. You blink, seeing the giant box there. How did you miss that?

“Oh,” you slowly reach from the box, checking to see if it was opened. “You didn’t open it right?” You turn back to face him; he still hasn’t moved. 

Finally, he tilts his head to face you. “No?” He pauses, mischief crawling into his tone. “Should I have?” He sits up, putting the phone down and turning his entire body to face you.

“No.” You hold the box closer to you, glaring at him. “I know what you’re thinking, and you’re not peeking.”

He smirks, “Oh…” In a much softer tone he continues  “… Is it for me?”

You grin, “Perhaps.” 

He smiles at you, tension leaving his body. His eyes crinkle in fondness as he stares at you, not moving from his spot in the bed. He chuckles quietly, grinning even wider.

You blink, his genuine joy is contagious, “What?” You chuckle.

“Nothing.” He is still smiling as he turns around in bed. You can tell he is still smiling even if he isn’t facing you.

You snort, “Alright, sure.” You nod at his head, exiting the room, his eyes trailing on the box as your arms as you leave.

It’s your first Christmas together with him, so you can imagine that he is curious to know what you’ve got for him. You almost feel bad for what you’re doing. He looked so happy to be receiving a gift from you.

Could this potentially backfire on you? Absolutely. You’d be a fool not to consider the consequences of essentially telling your vigilante boyfriend in front of his vigilante family that you’re aware of their identities. However, you can’t imagine that it’ll be that bad. It’s not like you disapprove of them, you just… want to have a little fun with it.

You had waited for a months for Jason to say something. After all, you wanted him to tell you out of his own accord— you still do. However, you've gotten antsy waiting around. Not that it's an excuse, but the added anxiety into your life hasn't exactly been a joy. Does he not trust you enough? Either way, you can’t bring yourself to be mad; it’s not exactly a tiny secret. Every time he pulled you aside, you wondered if this was it. It never was.

Perhaps he was too scared to tell you? 

It was a perspective you hadn’t really thought of. You’d been so focused on the excitement of getting the gifts and just waiting for him to say something, that you didn’t even consider that it could be equally as anxiety inducing for him. 

You open a drawer in the kitchen, grabbing the box cutter. You make sure Jason hasn’t decided to follow you out before you start to open it. The sounds of the tape being ripped apart echo across your otherwise silent apartment.

Grinning, you reach into the box, gently pulling out the Red Hood helmet replica that laid inside. Despite your worries, you can’t help the thrill of excitement that runs through your body.

—

“Jesus, did you get enough gifts for your person?” Jason furrows his eyebrows at you as you carry two large wrapped gifts in your arms. He watches as you wiggle your way into the passenger seat of his car. “You know it was only required to get one, right?” He stares at the gifts, specifically the wrapping paper. You had deliberately made sure he never saw them until absolutely necessary.

A couple days after you bought the gifts, you had stumbled onto a shop that was selling Batman themed wrapping paper.

So, like any good vigilante girlfriend would do, you picked up a few rolls. 

You practically locked yourself into another room in your apartment to wrap them in fear that Jason would see, but it was worth it. The way he is staring at the gifts as if they slapped him in the face? Priceless.

You click your tongue, “Give me a break, I wanted to be nice. It’s my first time celebrating Christmas with your family anyway.” You reach over the center console, placing the gifts gently in the backseat.

He huffs, “It’s a bit excessive.” 

You dramatically raise a hand to your chest, affronted. “You’re just jealous I didn’t get you.” You blatantly lie with such a confidence that even you begin to question if you got Jason (you’ve checked that paper dozens of times).

He raises an eyebrow, “If that’s what you want to believe.” He shrugs.

You purse your lips into a thin line, shaking your head at him. “I know it. Now, let’s go, we’re gonna be late.” You buckle in, shutting the door. Jason rolls his eyes, and you nudge him with your elbow. He starts the car, and you pull down the sun visor mirror. As he starts the car, you double check your makeup.

“You still aren’t gonna tell me who you got?” Jason asks.

You turn to face him, “You’ve lasted this long, you’ll find out in like an hour anyway.” Flipping the sun visor back up, you relax against the back of the seat. A smile grows on your face, he even turned on the seat heating for you. “For someone so eager for me to share, you haven’t said anything.”

“I asked you first.” He furrows his eyebrows, frowning.

“That’s fine,” you recline the seat slightly, your Christmas sweater absorbing the warmth of the seat. “Just don’t get upset at me if I don’t tell you who I got.”

He scoffs, “I’m not upset.” He slows to a stop as you reach an intersection, “Just curious.”

“Mhm,” you hum contently, turning to face Jason with a gleeful smile on your face. 

He spares you a quick glance before turning his focus back to the road, “What’s with that face?”

You raise an eyebrow, “That’s just my face? Am I not allowed to smile at my boyfriend?”

An small amused smile manifests onto his face, he gives you a fondly exasperated look. “I suppose you may.”

“You suppose?” You chuckle, leaning your head against the cool glass of your window. You tilt your head so that you can look at him, “What? Do I need your permission?”

He chuckles, “Is that not what you were asking?” 

“Obviously not.” You lightly tap him with your hand.

His lips twitch in amusement, “My mistake.” 

You laugh softly, turning your attention back to the road. Despite the teasing atmosphere, you can’t help but worry how this will go down. Did you get ahead of yourself? Was this a mistake? Perhaps you should’ve bought a backup gift just in case you chickened out.

Each second the car approaches the Manor causes your heart to speed up. By the time you’ve reached it, you’re fanning yourself with your hands to keep from sweating too much. Jason had noticed your distress halfway through the ride, silently turning off the seat warmer, but (thankfully) not saying anything. You presume that he believes that you’re afraid Christmas won’t go well. He's not exactly wrong.

As you carry your gifts up the stairs to the entrance, you shake the doubts away. Rolling your shoulders back, you exhale slowly. This will go well. You can’t imagine anything bad will happen over you giving Jason some bootleg merch of himself. You're stressing over nothing. This will be funny.

“There you are! We were about to call you.” Dick greets you both, moving aside to let you in. Just as you step through he lets out a muffled snicker, conspicuously looking at the wrapping paper you chose. Smiling, he turns to Jason who gives him a pointed look as if saying “Don’t even.”

“Sorry, we were running a bit late.” You smile at Dick, and he waves you off.

“No worries, they can wait five more minutes.” He gestures for you two to follow. Both of you follow him into the same room you were in last time. Everybody is dressed festively— though some look more merry than others. “Alright, you all ready to get started?”

There is a cacophony of mixed responses, but everybody settles into the same positions they were in last time. You have to wonder if this is normal. Did you somehow choose your permanent spot in this living room without even knowing? Nonetheless, you don’t mind.

Thankfully you aren’t first again. 

Contrary to your doubts earlier, you feel the anticipation plaster a smile on your face, something you attempt to keep hidden from the others. You had practiced this day. You may not be an actor, but you had already anticipated the reaction of his family. Your worry wasn’t that they’d find you suspicious. It's that they'd laugh.

You knew that the moment somebody started laughing, you’d be a goner. There’s no way you’d be able to look at Jason with a straight face if you heard somebody giggling in the corner of the room. If you were doing this, you were going to commit to the act. You’ll likely tell him after, but you couldn’t breakdown into laughter halfway through the bit.

You had to be strong.

When Damian calls your name, you feel yourself sit up in shock. Everybody watches in anticipation as he walks over to you, placing a small bag and a wrapped flat rectangular gift onto your lap. You thank him, a grin stretching onto your face. He nods resolutely, before moving back to his spot.

Deciding to open the small bag first, you pull out a small package of your favorite goodies— he was no doubt assisted by Jason, but they’re filled with every possible candy and chip you enjoy. You grin at Damian, offering your gratitude with a heartfelt thank you. 

Then you open the wrapped gift, and immediately gasp. 

It’s a canvas. You delicately rip off the last piece of wrapping paper obscuring the artwork, unveiling the piece. It’s a gorgeous realistic painting of your favorite animal in its natural environment. You’d think that the piece was made by a professional who's been in the field for decades, not a teenager. Not a single mistake is found. All the colors work harmoniously to create a gorgeous setting with your favorite animal being the focal point. 

“Damian…” You cover your mouth, turning to him. “I— This is phenomenal. You’re incredibly skilled, I can’t believe you made this for me.” You withhold tears as you speak. You didn’t think Damian liked you when you met him. He was quiet, and didn’t shy away from bluntness. After you met him, you told Jason about your worries. Jason reassured you that for Damian, that was normal, and not to worry about what he thinks.

Damian’s face is unreadable, but he stands up straighter. “I’m glad you find it satisfactory.” 

“Satisfactory? This is exceptional. I’m speechless.” You look back down at the painting, gently holding the canvas. “Thank you, Damian.” You give him the most grateful smile you can muster. You would go and hug him, but based on what you’ve observed, you doubt he’d appreciate the action. His nods, decidedly pleased at your reaction, but not saying anything else.

Then the weight of the situation finally hits you. It is time.

You stand up, feeling the irresistible urge to smile, and you allow yourself the pleasure of doing so. “The person I got…” you spin around the room, before landing on your boyfriend, “is Jason.” You grin at him, and his mouth parts in surprise. 

You delicately place the presents onto his lap, “Open this one first.” You point at the gift containing the package deal you bought.

He narrows his eyes at you, instantly suspicious, “Alright,” He waits until you’ve returned to your seat before slowly ripping the paper off, revealing an inconspicuous white box.

Slowly, as if afraid something would jump out at him, he pulls the top off and freezes. You see both his and Dick’s eyes widen as they look down at its contents. You can see Dick shut his eyes in order to steel his reaction. 

“You gotta show us what you got, it’s part of the rules.” Steph adds curiously. At the moment, the only people who can see the gift are Dick and Jason himself.

Staring through the box desolately, he slowly turns it around for you all to see. There’s a beat of silence before Steph starts cackling. From her left, Tim smacks her, but he uses his free hand to cover his face. You think you can actually see him turn red from masking his reaction.

“I noticed that you seemed to be a Red Hood fan.” You calmly comment. Your words seemingly spur the others to start laughing cause now Duke’s shoulders are shaking with silent laughter. 

“Oh, he’s a Red Hood fan alright!” Steph gives you a thumbs up with a blinding grin as if saying “You’ve done good!” 

“Wh- Where did you even get it from?” Duke struggles to get the words out, smiling at you as he asks his question.

“Etsy,” you shrug, “they have a surprising amount of merch there for Red Hood. It made my job easy.” You smile at them before turning to Jason to gauge his reaction. He is still staring at the box blankly. 

Slowly his eyes meet yours, “Is… Is this what all those deliveries were?” It is rare that you catch him off guard, and you can’t help but savor the moment, filing the image of his stunned expression into your brain.

“I wanted it to be a surprise.” You smile at him. 

He laughs, the sound less out of amusement and more out of distress. “That’s… Yeah, I mean…” he swallows, “It’s a surprise.”

“You should open the other one.” You lean back into the couch. 

Jason looks at the second gift with absolute horror in his expression. “Wait— Are all of the gifts Red Hood themed?”

You grin at him, not offering an answer. 

He doesn’t take his eyes off of you as he warily tears off the Batman wrapping paper. It’s another white box, and you can see the defeat in his eyes. You smile innocently at him, biting your lip so as to not laugh. You really hope somebody is recording his reaction.

He glares at Dick, who is curiously looking over his shoulder, before raising the box to his face to peek inside of it. Jason must immediately know what it is because he silently settles it to his side, covering his face with his hands. You almost feel bad.

Dick, eager to see what it is, takes the abandoned box and lifts the lid. He instantly breaks out into laughter as he looks down at the Red Hood helmet replica inside of it. He actually leans into the couch for support as he attempts to control his breathing.

The action garners even Damian’s curiosity. He silently leans over to the box, ignoring Jason’s crisis and Dick nearly hyperventilating on the couch. He raises the lid, and his eyes widen seeing the item inside. He looks up to you, and you smile at him. He narrows his eyes and the two of you silently stare at each other both coming to the same conclusion.

Yeah, you know.

Hesitantly, as if afraid of the uproar your gift would cause, Damian holds the helmet up. He holds it away from his face, almost as if it’s a bomb about to explode.

Everybody.

Loses.

Their.

Mind.

Steph and Tim are both immediately gone. They aren’t even attempting to mask their laughter. Duke is, similar to Dick, leaning against the couch’s armrest for support. Cass is covering her mouth, her eyes betraying her amusement. Barbara has fully taken off her glasses, covering her face with her hand as she quietly laughs into it.

Then you turn to Bruce.

The two of you make eye contact, and for a long moment you forget about the laughter that racks nearly every person in the room. You swallow, but don’t break eye contact. You knew it was a gamble, revealing that you are aware of Red Hood’s identity to Batman himself.

Neither of you blink as you pray that he concludes you have no ill intentions— after all you don’t.

A long pause ensues. You don’t shift your gaze from him— not even to look at Jason. You know that if you get Bruce on your side, then everything will be okay. Then, slowly, he nods at you. The action is minuscule, something you wouldn’t even see if you weren’t looking. His face does not even change, but you understand the weight the action carries. He understands, and he knows you aren’t a threat.

You smile at him, feeling the biggest wave of relief imaginable wash over you. You turn back to everybody else, feeling a renewed sense of joy.

“This… This is surprisingly accura- high quality!” Tim cuts himself off, clearing his throat as he corrects himself. Tim, Duke, Steph, Damian, and Dick are all gathered around the helmet, scrutinizing it. Cass has moved next to Barbara, and they are both whispering to one another. You can’t hear their words, but you are curious.

You get up, slowly making your way to Jason who looks absolutely distraught. You decide it’s your time to intervene. “…Don’t like the gift?”

Jason— as if your voice snaps him out of a trance— shifts his gaze to you blearily. At the disappointment in your tone, he frantically shakes his head, “No! It’s not that I don’t like them— I just—” He opens his mouth before closing it, struggling to find the words. “How… How’d you know I like Red Hood?”

You settle your hand onto his, gently rubbing your thumb over it. “Jay,” you begin softly, “I know.”

He sputters, looking down at the ground. His frustration is evident, as if the last piece of a puzzle doesn’t fit. “I’m aware you know I like him. I’m just confused how you figured it out. I don’t think I ever mentioned—” 

“Jason,” you cut him off, and his eyes dart to your hands clasped in his, “I know.”

His hand tenses under your grip, and he sharply inhales, chest shuddering. “What?” He looks at your reassuring smile, the first gift he opened, then to the helmet. You can see him slowly piece it together.

You know he is Red Hood. 

“You… You know.” He repeats, blinking at you as if you’ll suddenly vanish in between blinks. 

You nod, “I know.” You repeat.

He opens his mouth, exhaling as he attempts to form sentences. “How?” He asks softly, “How long?”

“Since you saved me in the alley.” You smile sheepishly at him.

His eyes widen, “Are you serious? That long?” He openly gapes at you, and you scoot closer to him. “Are you not mad at me or anything? Why haven’t you said something?”

You frown, “Why would I be mad at you?” You shake your head at him, as if the idea is absurd.

He looks at you like you’ve lost it, “I lied to you, for months.”

You nod, “True, but I understand why. If I was a crime fighting vigilante I wouldn’t go around telling every single person I know my identity.”

Jason shakes his head, “You’re not ‘every single person,’ though. You’re my girlfriend.”

Your shoulders relax, fondness melting your heart. “Jason, you don’t have to justify yourself. I am not mad at you for not telling me. It hasn’t even been a full year since we met. If anything, I’m just mad that you’ve probably been hiding injuries from me since the start.”

You must’ve hit the mark with that comment because Jason winces, muttering a soft apology. “I didn’t do this to make you think I’m mad at you. I did this because I thought you’d feel better knowing I’m not mad at you.” You look at his eyes. “This doesn’t change anything.”

Jason stares at you, mouth agape before pulling you closer. He gently cradles your face as his lips meet your own. Instinctively, you begin to kiss him back, placing a hand onto his shoulder as you close your eyes, savoring the moment. Slowly, he breaks the kiss, slowly pulling away. “You bought all of this,” he grabs the Red Hood PNG mug from behind him, holding it up to your chest, “just to show me you know?”

You smirk, your arms still rested around his shoulders, “Okay… Maybe I thought it was funny. You should’ve seen me laughing as I ordered everything.”

He huffs, but smiles at you nonetheless, “I’m sure you did, didn’t you?”

You laugh as you slowly pull away from him, “I think I found our new favorite mug.” You reach to grab it out of his hand. 

He laughs sharply, “‘Our?’”

You grin, “Are you kidding? I paid good money for this. You gotta use it.”

He shakes his head, “The helmet too?”

You snap your fingers, “Especially the helmet.” 

“Jason, you gotta add this to your collection.” Dick moves around the couch to place the helmet onto Jason’s lap.

“No need for that. She knows.” Jason deadpans, and Dick, Tim, Steph, and Duke turn to you wide-eyed.

“I also know that the rest of you are vigilantes.” You chime in helpfully, Jason nods unsurprised.

The four of them stare at you, but everybody else in the room is unsurprised. It seems that Cass and Barbara figured it out soon after Bruce and Damian did. 

“Wait, so you did all of this knowing we’d all panic?” Duke asks, pressing his palms together and pointing his hands at you.

You nod, “Yeah, pretty much. For the record, I won’t tell anybody your identities,” you nod to Bruce, “and your guys’ reaction was probably the second best gift I received all year.” You nod to Damian, after all, his gift deserved the top spot.

“Damn,” Dick whistles, “you didn’t know about this either?” He looks down at Jason on the couch.

“Nope.” Jason deadpans. Dick and Steph immediately start cackling, Tim and Duke quickly following suit. Both you and Jason watch with varying degrees of glee on your face. “I do not want to see this ever again.” Jason whispers to you, grabbing a small scrap of the Batman wrapping paper.

You chuckle, “Aw, I thought you’d like it? Is it not on theme?” You take the scrap from him, running your fingers over it.

He snorts, “No, I’m serious.” The amusement drops from his face, “Please get rid of it.”

Chuckling, you delicately place a kiss on Jason’s cheek, “Anything for you.” You lean your head onto his shoulder, a smile on your face. “Love you.” 

He huffs, but you can see the hint of a smile peek through his face, “Love you too.” 

-> Fatson Todd Bonus Fic

ㅤ

A/N: I'd like to imagine you give the wrapping paper to Dick or something, and it’s used by EVERYBODY in the manor for the next 3 years (basically until it runs out). Jason is not happy when you all return for Christmas next year and EVERY SINGLE GIFT is covered in that Batman wrapping paper lmao. Also guys, I’ve actually NEVER gotten second hand embarrassment from WRITING before (surprising, I know). During the scene where reader gives him the gift I had to cover my mouth with one hand as I continued to type. Jokes aside, merry Christmas/Christmas Eve/happy holidays to you all! I hope you enjoyed this silly fic :). As always feel free to let me know about any mistakes! Have a wonderful day <3!

Requests are still open (rules here) ! Feel free to send them in :)!

"It's me," he calls back, voice muffled and distant.

You're already moving, practically bounding down the hallway. Momentum and want in equal measure.

You find him in the living room, broad shoulders already shrugging off his jacket. He places it carefully on the couch's arm, and his gloves come off next. He turns at the sound of your footsteps drawing closer.

Butterflies. Every single time. You'd think by now you'd have built up an immunity, developed some kind of tolerance to the way Jason Todd makes your stomach flip just by existing in your sight. But no. Your body remains stubbornly, hopelessly reactive to him.

"Hey," you say, grin beaming brighter as you close the distance. Your eyes track over him, cataloguing, and linger on the familiar red helmet covering his face. "I thought you were taking it easy today?"

He shrugs, casual. "Unfortunate change of plans."

You hum in understanding, and then your body is moving—drawn into his orbit. Your arms wind around his torso and you press your face into the broad expanse of his chest, greedy for it. For the warmth of him. For the sound of his heart performing its acrobatic routine beneath your ear—one that would make even Dick proud.

It's a pattern you've memorized: the way it always spikes first, rabbiting against his ribs the moment you touch him. Doesn't matter if it's been ten minutes or ten hours. There's always that moment of recognition. Of want. And then it settles, slowing into something steady and sure.

A wild thing gentled. Coming in from the cold.

It always makes you feel better. Whether you've had a shitty day that needed a turnaround or a great day you wanted to stretch into forever. There's no greater comfort than being in Jason's arms, feeling the evidence of his love in the involuntary language of his pulse.

You pull back slightly, arms still locked around his waist, and look up at him. His arms loosen from around your shoulders, hands sliding down the length of your arms until they settle near your biceps.

You wait, patient, for your routine to unfold: Jason removing his hands to reach for his helmet, fingers working the mechanisms at the base, eagerly freeing his face so he can kiss you properly.

But it doesn't come.

You frown, narrowing your eyes at the blank expression of his mask. "What's going on?"

"What?" The helmet makes his voice flat, but you can still hear the studied innocence underneath. "Nothing. Why do you ask?"

Your eyes narrow further. "Why won't you take your helmet off?"

Jason stiffens—imperceptibly, but you've memorized the topography of his body, learned to read the tiny faults and fissures. A brief moment of silence passes before he offers a small, unconvincing, "No reason."

The words pull your frown even deeper.

"What's wrong with you?" Your tone is judge and jury. "You're acting weird."

This time, Jason doesn't respond. Only begins rubbing gentle circles on your biceps, thumbs moving in hypnotic patterns. You blink at him, and discomfort curls in your stomach—a cold drip of worry sliding down your spine.

"Are you okay?" You pull back to fully look at him, searching the whites of his mask for something, anything. "Did something happen?"

He catches your hands before they slip from his torso entirely, fingers wrapping gently around your wrists. If you weren't starting to spiral, you'd take a moment to appreciate how his hands practically swallow yours whole. How good it looks. How much your size kink is currently preening like a well-fed cat.

But you are spiraling, and he still hasn't answered you.

Jason's gotten exponentially better at communication since the start of your relationship. The fact that he's deflecting now—that there's a chance he might be reverting to old habits—makes irritation build at the edges of your worry.

"No," he says, and his voice is softer now. A tone you know is reserved only for you. "Nothing happened, I promise."

"Oh thank god." Relief floods through you, chest collapsing with the exhale. The corners of your lips twitch upward in gratitude.

Your day is still perfectly, beautifully mundane. No vigilante concerns or life-or-death situations.

The euphoria fades quickly, though, as the vibrant red of his mask continues to taunt you. You're growing tired of not being able to see his face. You want to see his eyes and watch his pupils dilate when you step closer. Want to catch the tiny smile that always starts at the corner of his mouth before spreading. You want access.

"Okay, Jay, seriously—why the hell won't you take that thing off?"

"Maybe I'm feeling shy."

You roll your eyes, the gesture affectionate and annoyed in equal measure. "Too bad. I want to see your face. And as my extremely loving, devoted, doting boyfriend, you're contractually obligated to give me what I want—"

You reach upward, hands grabbing at the sides of the helmet, but Jason dodges your grasp and redirects them to rest on his chest. You scowl.

"Jason," you say, exasperation bleeding into your voice. You try to pull your hands back, pry them from his grasp, but he doesn't budge. His head tilts downward, and you know—beneath the whites of his mask—his eyes are darting across your face. Gauging how much time he has left. How thin your patience is wearing.

The answers are: not much, and very thin. The use of his full name, delivered in a tone usually reserved for scolding particularly unruly children, should be indicator enough.

"I want to keep it on," he murmurs, thumbs sweeping back and forth across your knuckles in soothing arcs.

"Why?" you probe, eyes returning to their suspicious narrow. But his touch is already working on you, the soothing motion of his fingers softening your edges, and the murmur of his voice has loosened the tightened muscles in your body.

Your boyfriend knows exactly how to work you. Being loved so thoroughly has never felt so damn inconvenient.

He tilts his head at you. One hand trails down the expanse of your arm in a slow, deliberate drag before lifting to cradle your face. His palm is warm against your cheek, thumb brushing your cheekbone with a tenderness that makes your breath catch.

"Because," he says, voice dropping an octave into something rougher, darker, "I'm thinking about what I could do to you while wearing it." His thumb traces the curve of your jaw. "The way you looked the last time. How you sounded when you begged me to—"

You draw a sharp inhale, cutting him off before he can finish that particular thought.

You won't lie and say the words don't have their intended effect. They absolutely do. Your stomach flutters, core clenching in immediate response. The image your mind begins to paint is sinfully divine, dredging up memories of each time Jason has been more than eager to fulfill your bedroom requests.

Most recently: the other night when he'd come back from patrol and caught the appreciative look in your eyes as you took in his suit. How he'd pushed you down onto the couch, still wearing his helmet, telling you how good you felt, how perfect you were for him, his voice raspy and made devastatingly deeper by the modulator.

His other hand moves to your waist now, fingers spanning your ribcage possessively. His thumb brushes the underside of your breast through your shirt—a touch just shy of indecent—and you're half certain your knees might give out with the way his voice is pooling liquid heat low in your belly.

He hums, low and pleased, the sound vibrating through the small space between your bodies.

"What do you say?" His head tilts toward the couch in suggestion, and his thumb moves up to tug gently at your bottom lip, pulling it down and watching it spring back. "Want to revisit some recent memories?"

Your breath is coming faster now, body practically vibrating with want, every nerve ending awake and paying attention.

But.

As tempting as it sounds to give in—and god, is it tempting—his words have something else attached to them. A slight edge of desperation. A tone you know too well, one you've worn smooth with familiarity.

He's desperate and deflecting. Whatever he's hiding, he's doing his absolute best to keep it concealed.

"Jason Peter Todd," you say slowly, gently removing yourself from his hold. Your body mourns the loss immediately—already missing his warmth, his touch—and Jason makes a wounded sound of protest as you step back and cross your arms. "Are you trying to distract me with the promise of great sex?"

A beat of silence. "Great, huh?"

Smug satisfaction bleeds through his words, and you bite back a smile at his playfulness. But you refuse to give in. "Answer the question."

"Depends." You can hear the shrug in his voice. "Is it working?"

You let your gaze travel over him, reassessing the situation with fresh eyes. Nothing seems wrong. Not seriously, at least. He's not tense in that specific way that means danger. His posture isn't defensive. He's just... hiding something. Something he thinks you'll react to.

"Jay," you say finally. "Tell me what you're hiding."

He shifts his weight from foot to foot. "You're going to laugh."

You let out a small scoff. "I'm not going to—"

"You're absolutely going to laugh."

You pause. Consider. "Okay, yeah. If you say so, then I'm probably going to laugh."

He makes a sound that's half-groan, half-sigh, and his shoulders slump in a way that's almost comically dejected. "Well now I definitely don't want to tell you."

You give him your best are-you-serious face, eyebrows raised, mouth slightly open in disbelief. "So what? You're just gonna wear that helmet forever?"

"If I have to." His voice is flat. "Sure."

You sigh, dramatic and fond in equal measure. This is so very Jason—turning something small into something comedic, making a production out of vulnerability because it's easier than just being honest. It's infuriating and endearing and entirely him.

Your mind begins running through possibilities, each path taking you down a different conclusion.

"Is your helmet stuck and you're too prideful to admit it?"

He shakes his head.

"Did someone beat the shit out of you and now you're too embarrassed to show me the bruises?"

He recoils slightly, and you can practically hear the offense radiating through his posture. "What? No. Jesus."

"Oh, I know!" You grin, suddenly delighted by your own joke. "You've decided you hate me and you're hiding your face so I can't see the disgust in your eyes."

His shoulders deflate completely, and you bite back the urge to laugh at the successful result of your mockery. Jason looks around your apartment like he's searching for an escape route, and you take advantage of his distraction to run through more options in your mind, pieces rearranging themselves into new patterns.

Another idea dawns on you, bright and sudden. "Did you do something to yourself?"

His head snaps toward you. Progress.

"Did you get an earring?"

He shakes his head. "No."

"A nose stud? Ring?"

"No, and no."

"A tongue piercing?"

"Nope."

"Damn." Your shoulders drop in genuine disappointment. "That would've been so hot."

Jason chuckles—a low, rough sound that makes your toes curl. You file that idea away for later, for a time when you can properly make your case. Convince him of all the beautiful, creative opportunities a tongue ring might present. The things he could do with that mouth, augmented with surgical steel. The texture. The pressure. The—

He sighs, a sound of resignation that pulls you from your spiraling thoughts. His hands reach up to the back of his helmet, fingers finding the familiar mechanisms.

"I got a haircut," he finally reveals.

You blink at him, processing. "That's what all this fuss is about? A haircut?"

"It's not great."

You let out a breathy, fond laugh, already feeling relief wash over you. "Oh c'mon. I'm sure you're being dramatic."

In truth, you're excited now. A haircut. That's it. That's the big secret he's been guarding like classified information. Jason is probably just overthinking it—caught in that familiar spiral of post-haircut anxiety, hyper-aware of every different angle and changed line.

It'll probably make him look even more delicious than usual, and you're already prepared to show him exactly how little you care about whatever minor change he's worried about. You're ready to drag him to the bedroom and prove, thoroughly and enthusiastically, that he could shave his entire head and you'd still want to climb him like a tree.

"You're going to break up with me."

"I'm not going to break up with you over a haircut."

"You say that now."

"Jason Todd, if you don't take that helmet off in the next five seconds, I'm going to—"

The helmet comes free with a hiss of released pressure.

Your eyes widen at the sight before you.

Oh.

Oh no.

Jason ducks his head immediately, gaze sliding to the floor. His eyes flick toward you—awkward, sheepish, showing whites like a nervous dog. He sets his helmet carefully on top of his jacket, movements slow.

The haircut is... it's a disaster.

An absolute catastrophe.

Buzzed at the sides, that beautiful white streak hacked into something short and jagged and utterly mangled.

They've massacred your boy. Genuinely, truly massacred him.

Your mouth parts as you take him in, cycling through every stage of grief in rapid succession. A contemplative breath leaves your lips, and Jason's shoulders deflate further, caving in on themselves.

"It's really bad, isn't it?"

It's more than really bad. But you can't quite laugh in his face yet because he looks utterly, genuinely defeated. The idea of mocking him right now feels almost morally reprehensible. Like pantsing a kid on the monkey bars.

"No, no. Not at all." You're shaking your head, hands gesturing emphatically. "It's just different, that's all."

"Different." He repeats the word. "Is different good?"

"Different can be good. Sure. Absolutely."

"Okay, that clearly means I look awful."

"I didn't say that!"

But the longer you look at it, the worse it seems to get. An optical illusion working in reverse. You're trying so hard not to smile right now, cheek muscles straining against the inevitable. You know once that grin escapes—once you lose control of your face—the laughs will immediately follow, and you're trying, really trying, to be supportive right now.

Jason's brows furrow. "So you think I should get it cut like this again?"

"NO." You let out a slightly unhinged laugh before slapping a hand over your mouth. You clear your throat, trying to regain some composure. "I mean, no. Absolutely not. Don't do that. Never do that."

"Aha. It didn't turn out well. I knew it." Jason points an accusatory finger at you. "You liar."

You swat his hand down, but you're losing the battle with your smile now. It's escaping, breaking free despite your best efforts. "Okay, fine. Yes. It's awful. You look like someone I'd avoid making eye contact with at a gas station. Happy?"

"Oh come on." He recoils slightly, frowning, but there's mirth gleaming in those pretty eyes. "It can't be that bad."

At your silence, Jason deflates even further.

"Fuck. Is it really that bad?"

You grimace. Nod slowly. Apologetically.

Jason brings a hand to his head carefully, like his hair— or what's left of it— might turn sentient and bite him. He touches it with the solemnity of someone mourning at a funeral.

Which, to be fair, you're not entirely sure he isn't.

You certainly are. You're mourning those beautiful dark locks you could run your hands through, grab at when he's laying in your lap falling asleep while insisting he's wide awake. The hair you could grip between your fingers when he's settled between your thighs, head buried and working you over with that talented mouth—

"I just—" He stops. Takes a breath. Starts again. "I wanted to look nice. For you."

The words hit you square in the chest. Sweet and earnest and so utterly caring that you feel something crack open inside you.

You smile and reach up to hold his face in your hands. His eyes are uncertain as they meet yours.

You move his head gently, cataloguing the different angles of his new haircut. He falls pliant in your grasp immediately, hands finding their way to your waist, holding you, pulling you incrementally closer.

After careful consideration from every possible angle—and they're all bad, truly, there's not a single good angle to be found—you meet his gaze.

"What is it?" he asks quietly.

You hum, thoughtful. "I'm just thinking about the upside to this situation."

His brow furrows. "There's an upside to this?"

You let out an amused breath through your nose, and your smile grows wider as you take him in—this massive, dangerous man who's currently looking at you like a kicked puppy over a bad haircut. Your heart does something complicated in your chest. Something that feels too big for your ribcage.

"You know I really, truly love you," you say, thumbs brushing his cheekbones, "because even this atrocious, unattractive, utterly catastrophic monstrosity—"

"So many adjectives."

"—doesn't change a single thing about how I feel when I look at you."

His expression shifts, softens. Goes tender at the edges in a way that makes your chest ache. "Yeah?"

You nod, cheeks already hurting from the size of your smile. "Yeah."

He pulls you in and kisses you—tender at first, sweet.

Your hand slides into his hair on pure instinct, and you make a small, involuntary sound of dismay when you encounter the short, butchered strands where there used to be length. But then he deepens the kiss and coherent thought scatters like leaves in wind.

His tongue slides against yours and his hands tighten on your waist, pulling you closer, closer, trying to eliminate whatever microscopic space still exists between your bodies.

When you pull back slightly—lips still brushing, breathing each other's air in that intimate way that never fails to make you dizzy—you murmur, "Never leave me out of a haircut consultation again. Ever."

"Okay. Promise." He laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest and into yours where you're pressed together. "I'm sorry."

"You should be."

You lean in for another kiss, already losing yourself in the familiar taste of him, when an idea strikes you. Bright, sudden, and absolutely perfect. "You can make it up to me, though."

"Oh yeah?" Jason's voice drops, goes rough and interested. One hand starts to travel, skating up your ribcage with clear intent. "How?"

"I have a few ideas."

His other hand finds your ass—squeezing, kneading. Heat sparks through your system like a lit fuse, and suddenly you're keyed up, wound tight, practically trembling with anticipation.

"I'm listening," he murmurs against your mouth.

You pull back to turn and grab his discarded helmet from the couch. When you face him again, you're running your fingers along the smooth red surface with obvious intent, and his gaze tracks the movement like a predator watching prey.

Understanding dawns in his eyes—pupils dilating, swallowing the color until only thin rings remain. The tug of his smirk is borderline sinful, and it makes your stomach flip in the best possible way.

"Really?" He raises an eyebrow. "Am I going to have to wear that every time we have sex until it grows out?"

You frown slightly, pulling him closer with your free hand hooked in his belt loop. "Oh don't be silly. I don't care about the haircut." You look up at him through your lashes, let your smile turn coy and promising. "I just really loved your distracting idea from earlier."

Jason takes the helmet from your hands slowly, turning it over once, considering. When he looks back at you, that sinful smirk has grown into something that sends a thrill through your bones.

"Then I guess we shouldn't let a good idea go to waste."

AUTHORS NOTE: gotham knights jason...im looking at you...but also i lowkey fuck with it ☝🏻 cutie patootie ill defend u forever

EDIT 2: K.O. red hood vs joker....im also looking at you now....

Despite Jason nearly trembling the entire night, the dinner was great. It was full of laughs and playful banter with each person making you feel part of the family. By the end of the day you, Tim, and Dick made a group chat called “Maybe: Pizza Hut” for the sole purpose of organizing pranks behind Jason’s back.

But that wasn't the highlight of the night, no. It was meeting a special little boy, Damian. 

Jason had told you about Damian’s upbringing and cautioned you to not take what the boy said to heart. He was blunt, a bit cold, and bratty according to your boyfriend. Despite his warnings, you noticed how Jason’s eyes softened when talking about him. 

Upon meeting Damian, the two of you clicked. He had a certain sass about him that you loved to banter with. Damian studied your reactions and saw no signs of disgust, annoyance, or defensiveness when he’d spew a sly comment.

It intrigued him as he was not used to outsiders matching him in that way. Usually, they’d whine to Bruce or ignore the boy entirely. 

Your relationship blossomed from there. 

Damian would stop by during patrol to chat with you. Once you’d hear small footsteps on your fire escape, you get up to make a pot of tea. The window slides open and, much like a cat, Damian slowly lands on the floor with no noise following him. 

Other times when he wasn’t on patrol but didn’t want to be at home, he’d go to your place. When he’d go quiet, you’d sit in silence with him doing mundane activities. You never pushed him to talk, never made him feel bad for staying silent, and didn’t offer advice when he didn’t want it. The friendship was still new, and you didn't want to ward him off.

You listened, offering a silent but comforting shoulder to cry on. Well, hypothetically. You still have never seen him cry. 

It still surprises you when he doesn’t show up for tea during his Friday night patrol. 

_ 

It’s around two in the morning when Jason settles in for the night. He quietly steps into the house through the living room window, taking extra care to not wake you up. He curses to himself when his boot slips from his hands when trying to silently slide them off. He’d learn about fifteen minutes later, though, that there was no need. You were up and unable to sleep.

It’s not unusual for this to happen- you’d normally claim that it was because Jason wasn’t next to you. This time the feeling was different, it was a knowing feeling. 

After his shower, Jason soundlessly made his way to your “sleeping” form. Your eyes are closed in an attempt to force sleep upon you. A smile adorns his face once he sees your body calmly tucked in the sheets.

Jason slides into bed, softly grabbing and bringing you against his chest. He tucks his face into your shoulder, taking in your scent. One hand goes under your waist and the other to your face. He finds comfort in you, your warmth, softness, and smell. A sigh of relief is released as he swipes a strand of hair from your face. 

“Oh you’re so beautiful, baby” 

“thanks” 

Jason flinches and lets out a curse of surprise. 

“Oh shit- Why aren’t you asleep, you freak?!”

“Sorry. I just can’t sleep, Jason. I- I feel weird. You know? It’s this gut feeling.” You grab Jason’s hand that once parted your hair a few moments ago. You play with his fingers while staring out to the calm darkness of the room before glancing at Jason. He relaxes against you once more, sighing into your neck. Sleep is tugging at him even if you had just scared him half to death. 

Jason cracks an eye open “. . .You want to do that now?”

“You disgust me.” 

“You’re the one who said it.” 

You sigh and roll your eyes at your boyfriend. “It’s not that. It’s -” you wiggle closer into the comforter trying to figure out what it was that was plaguing your mind. Your breath hitches before turning in bed to face an exhausted Jason. He tiredly pulls you closer and places your foreheads together. 

“Have - have you seen Damian at all today? He. . didn’t stop by. He usually lets me know.” You tried your best not to sound like an overbearing mother, but you couldn’t help but worry. There are times when Damian doesn’t stop by, but he saves you the trouble by letting you know in advance. 

You bring your hands up to Jason’s chest, tracing the faint scars that adorn his body. He hums in acknowledgement and drowsiness. 

“Yeah. Saw him. . right as my patrol started. Said he was heading home. I asked him about seeing you. Didn't answer and went home.” 

That’s what brought you to the front steps of the Wayne Manor on an early Saturday morning. 

_

You barely have time to knock on the enormous front door before it’s carefully swung open by Alfred. He smiles once he lays his eyes upon you, ushering you in before saying hello. 

“Hello, Miss [name]. I didn’t know you’d be visiting today, my apologies.” Alfred chatted with his hands behind his back. His moves are smooth but he closes his eyes for a second with a slight bow of his head in an apology. 

You walk into the manor and move your head to all positions to get a better look at the place. This home never fails to amaze you, with its walls decorated with paintings and adornments so expensive it could sustain half of Gotham. The first time you visited, your breath audibly got stuck in your throat and you struggled to get a simple ‘hello’ out. No matter what background you come from, a sight such as this will always leave you breathless. Even now, you’ve been a weekly visitor and you frequently take small moments to admire the place. 

Snapping out of the slight trance, you turn to face Alfred with a small wave of your hand and calm smile. “Oh, no, that's quite alright . This . . was actually a last minute decision. I should be the one apologizing for not checking in.” You chuckle at the end of your sentence as embarrassment creeps onto your cheeks in the form of redness. Maybe you should’ve called. . .

Alfred happily sighs already knowing why you stopped by; he was wondering when you would. He noted the shift in atmosphere when Damian came home from patrol on time yesterday, which he doesn’t do often since he normally visits you. 

“Master Damian is out back with Titus. Would you like me to prepare some brunch or tea?” Alfred softly voices with a tilt of his head. 

You let out a relieved and semi-over dramatic sigh with a wide smile adorning your face. “No, that’s okay. I was actually going to ask if he’d want to go out into town with me. Maybe he’ll, I don't know, cheer up?” The last part was lower in pitch as you look down at the ground. A small fraction of worry seemed to be sneaking its way into your bones. You shake it off, though. For you all you know, Damian could be perfectly fine and just didn’t want to speak to you. That thought just about breaks your heart.

As you start to walk off towards the backyard of the manor, Alfred calls out to you. Turning around, you see his hands are now situated in front of him and there’s a slight wrinkle to his eyebrows. 

“He’s been that way since he came home from school Friday afternoon.” 

You don’t answer, only offering a tight lined smile and worried wrinkles on your face. 

You know he struggles in school, not academically but socially. This is the only part of his life that he doesn’t speak much on; maybe he wants to keep a cool profile. You make your way to the large door leading to where Damian was sitting. It was a large porch with decorated concrete flooring and a high over top.  He’s petting a sleeping Titus with one hand, and his head is resting on the other. There’s a dejected look in his eyes, probably running through all the situations he recently faced in school. 

You make slow and calculated steps towards him - but those damn car keys, the ones that Jason scolds you for having too many keychains on, blows your silent cover. Damian’s head snaps towards you and then snaps back. He curls into himself just a tad, not wanting to be seen by anyone, especially you. You sigh through your nose and sit next to him. Not too close as to annoy him, but not too far to make it seem like you’re afraid of him. 

With a nudge of your arm to his, you happily start the conversation. “Hey, you didn’t visit yesterday. Getting tired of me?” You voice sarcastically. He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even glance at you. 

It’s in these moments that you applaud all the hardworking mothers who comfort their children during their wrestling of emotions. It’s difficult to tell between the movements that are going to make them want to open up and the ones that will make them push you away. With Damian, this is an especially complex decision. He’s already closed off as it is and you want him to be comfortable enough to share the emotions he was forced to shove down in his early stages of childhood. You can spend hours sobbing just thinking about the lack of love he received. Love not only being physical comfort, but also room to explore and learn how to properly navigate his emotions. 

You stay quiet and look ahead of you. You can only hope that this silence turns into a comfortable flow, but it doesn’t. It’s still uncomfortable, like there's a tension in the air that won’t go away no matter how hard you try to relax. It makes you antsy and you want to move around before deciding to stay where you were; calmly sat next to Damian 

“Do you wanna go grocery shopping with me?” You interrupt the piercing silence. 

Many moments pass before Damian finally looks up at you. “. . . Can we stop by the animal shelter?” 

“What kind of person would I be if we didn’t?” 

Damian doesn’t smile, but there’s a ghost of one on his lips. You decided that even if he didn’t want to speak on what was bothering him, having a day with him was better than nothing at all. 

The two of you walk side by side the front of the manor where your car was parked . . hastily. With a click of a button the car unlocks and the two of you take your respective seats. Here is where you notice another unusual occurrence; Damian always asks if he can drive, despite only being twelve. In response you laugh and say ‘yeah, when you can reach the pedals.’ That . . didn’t happen this time. 

You start up the car and glance at Damian who is currently giving a small wave to Titus through the front window. It makes you smile. He’s just a little boy. 

Starting to drive off, you audibly note what’s on the grocery list and agenda for the day. 

“Okay! We need ingredients for dinner, snacks for the week, and some basic cleaning supplies. Then, it’s off to the animal shelter.” 

Damian still doesn’t speak but it’s nothing to you. This is a normal day with your best friend. You don’t want to push emotions out of him. So, you just keep on talking like you usually do. Only this time there are no quips between your rambles. 

“Heavy on the snacks for the week part. I swear, when Dick stops by, he acts as if it’s his last time eating. And don’t even get me started on Tim, I’m out of all my little electrolyte packets. Mind you, Dami, I bought- like- a fifty pack... . two days ago,” You giggle only slightly at the remembrance of the scene where Jason went through the pantry for one of the packets only to find a sticky note on the empty bag saying: 

‘buy more of the watermelon flavor pls and thank u - Tim’ 

You see Damian visibly relax at the nickname. Comfortable that you aren’t pushing him, he finally speaks. “Mango is the better flavor.” 

You try not to sound too happy as to scare him off. “Then how ‘bout this: we buy a ton of watermelon packets and save a secret stash of mango only where you can find it.” 

With a smile, Damian voices a soft ‘okay’. You quickly pull into the parking lot and shake with excitement at the emptiness. You and Damian didn’t enjoy shopping with a ton of people. 

While in the store, you push the cart while Damian holds onto the front edge believing that he’s the one controlling it when you actually just push it where he wants to go. During your grocery stroll, you end up in the dried goods aisle. You didn’t need anything from here, personally, but you noticed how Damian was looking at it from afar. The cart stopped right in front of the rice assortment. 

Damian looks around at the variety before sighing. 

“Are you having a rice epiphany over there?” 

“No.” 

“Then why are you staring at the bags like they personally offended you.” 

Damian turns to look at you and then switches his gaze to the floor. He looks a little embarrassed with a faint blush to his cheeks. 

“I used to eat this specific dish, all the time, before I came to live with my father. I asked Alfred to make me some but . . . he never uses the correct, uh, rice.” Damian says, but the last part sounded high pitched and almost like a lie.

“Well we’re here now, Damian. Let’s make it for dinner” 

He looks at you surprised and confused. “No, no you already had an idea in mind before we came here. Let’s just make that.” 

“Screw the plan, Damian. I’m much more interested in this . . . what’s it called?” you pick up a bag of rice and look at the ingredients inquisitively, pretending to know what you’re looking for. 

“Mujadara.” 

“Mujadara it is, Dami. What else do we need? Lead the way” You completely let go of the cart and step aside so Damian can take over. This time, you’re the one holding the front of the cart. 

_ 

With a car full of groceries, you and Damian make your way to the animal shelter. Damian seems visibly calmer and almost falls out of the car in excitement to see the animals. He’s a regular at almost every Gotham shelter, sanctuary, aquarium - you name it. He seems to enjoy this one especially since they have an option where you can hang out with all the kittens in a quiet and secluded room. 

Damian doesn’t even spare the receptionist a glance before walking towards the kitten room. “Hello, Janis. We’re going to be with the kittens.” 

“Oh, alright! He- hello to you too, Damian” Janis the receptionist says with a giggle. You offer her a smile and a soft ‘sorry’ before following Damian.

You sit next to Damian and grab one of the sleepy kittens to hold in your lap. Petting the little ball of fur, you turn towards Damian. It hurts that he’s been hiding everything up until this point. You want to help and are sure that pushing down his feelings is only going to make his struggles worse. You didn’t want to push. .  but no one said you couldn’t nudge. 

“Damian.” you start. 

“Hm?” he doesn’t look up from the five kittens he’s holding in his arms. 

You brace yourself with an inhale. “What happened yesterday?” 

He freezes, but you stay strong and make no sudden movements. He visibly stiffens and his brows knit together in frustration. 

“Just because I don’t visit you for a day means there’s something wrong with me? I feel sorry for you.” He spat while softly placing the kittens down and folding his arms. If you were anyone else, you’d start tearing up. But thankfully, you know Damian. You knew he didn’t mean it and was only using his words as a cover for how he truly felt. 

“I know something happened, Damian. Refusing to acknowledge that is going to make things worse.” 

“You’re pitying me.”

This defensiveness is nothing new to you, recognizing the same traits in Jason. It took some time for Jason to be completely comfortable with you. You stayed consistent through every step.

“I don’t pity you. But I do love you. That’s why I’m asking these questions . .Listen, if you really don’t want to speak about it just say the word and it’s done.” You say calmly. “But, there is something there that you’re not facing.”

Suddenly, you hear Damian’s breath hitch and his shoulder shake for a moment. He doesn’t face you, unfolds his arms and places his hands on either side of his head with his elbows resting on his crossed legs. 

“I lied.” 

“What?” 

“About- About the meal. I bought all the ingredients myself for Alfred to make it. I spent so much time making sure I had the correct brands and everything. He - He made it just for me. I..took it to school. My classmates. They all just …stared.” 

You bring a hand to your mouth in an attempt to stop tears from forming. 

Damian makes a mock kiddy voice: “What the hell is this, Damian? Ew, Damian, this stinks. Why would you eat this, Damian? You really are a freak, Damian.”

He continues: “They poked, prodded, and. . just… shoved it to the floor. I didn’t get to eat it. I didn’t get to eat any of it. It was the only recipe I completely remember from home. And- And they called me a freak for it.” 

At this point Damian had completely curled up into himself with his knees to his chest and his arms securely around his knees. You make your way towards him, careful not to scare him. Your warm hand finds its way to his back where it rubs comforting circles. Your other hand caresses through his hair, something he’d never admit that he enjoyed. 

The silence is broken by soft sobs coming from Damian. Another unusual and rare occurrence, Damian crying. 

“I’m- I am always a freak to them. I can’t do anything about it, can I? I can’t. The second I do, I- I’ll be labeled a ‘problem’.” He finally brings his head out to look at you with red eyes and tear stained cheeks. 

“Do you think I’m a freak?” He’s staring at you, desperate for an answer. But, it’s so simple. 

“Yes, I do. The best people are. The worst people I know aren’t freaks. Criminally insane? Yes. But never a freak.” you state matter-of-factly. The way you instantly answered made it seem like Damian was a fool for not knowing the answer. 

“Jason. Jason’s a freak. So is Dick, Tim, your father…Alfred! He’s one too, believe it or not.” 

Damian studies your words: “They’re all freaks to you?” 

“Hey. It takes one to know one, am I right?”

That remark earns you a small smile from Damian. You scoot closer to him, and he pushes himself into your arms in a crushing hug. His arms are around your neck and his face hidden in your shoulder, not letting go. 

“It’s okay to cry and it’s okay to let people know when you aren’t feeling well-” you let out a sigh paired with a slight waver in your voice. “-I love you so much, Damian. I’m always here for you. So is Jason, but I think I’m a better candidate in the emotions department.” You offer with a laugh near the end. Damian only hugs you tighter. 

Damian’s voice still holds the ghost of a sob: “Thank you.. . just thank you” 

You pull away, only slightly to look him in the eye. He pulls back slightly, too, and wipes his tears on his arm. 

“C’mon, Jason’s going to be home soon. We need to show him the recipe you showed me.” 

_ 

A few hours later you’re sitting at your dinner table with Jason and Damian. The food is plated and sat in front of the three of you. Around Jason, Damian wants to act ‘cooler’ in a way. Not wanting to be teased for his excitement, he just stares at his food while waiting for you to grab the utensils. 

Placing spoons in front of Jason and Damian, you place a quick peck to your boyfriend’s head before glancing at Damian. The boy is practically shaking with excitement, but fighting to not show it on his face. You and Jason give each other knowing looks before giggling. 

“What?” Damian turns the giggling pair. 

“Damian, you are so psyched!” You cheer because you were filled with nerves while making the dish, not wanting to ruin it for Damian. 

“Whatever.” the boy spews back with a roll of his eyes. 

“Oh, say it Damian. Say ‘I am so psyched for this meal’.” You place your hands on the table and lean your body towards him expectantly. 

A blush creeps on his face as he groans and looks at you, annoyed. “I’m psyched, okay” 

Jason chuckles behind his glass of water. “That’s all we needed to hear.” 

“You two are literally tweedle-dee and tweedle-dum” with a roll of his eyes once more, Damian takes a spoonful into his mouth. Even with his facade, he couldn’t help the smile that made itself evident on his face. 

The three of you enjoyed the meal with little to no words exchanged, that’s how delicious it was. (you silently pat yourself on the back)

Damian finishes first and goes for seconds. Right as he does so, you get up to grab some napkins. Standing next to each other, he nudges your arm slightly. 

“Thank you.” he says softly while spooning more onto his plate

You smile and turn towards him “No problem, Damian.. . just do me a favor, yeah?” 

“What?” 

“Let me know when you’re not stopping by-” before you can finish your sentence Jason quipped from the dinner table. 

“Because she literally couldn’t sleep without seeing you during patrol” your boyfriend voices with his mouth full.

You and Damian laugh as you chuck an empty, plastic salt shaker at Jason. 

“He’s not wrong though, Dami. I just worry.” You’re a bit embarrassed at how overbearing you come off. 

Damian smiles at you while putting his plate down on the counter beside you. Without another second passing, he hugs you again. “I’ll let you know, don't worry.” 

On this day, you had a breakthrough with Damian, and a stronger connection was formed. Jason could only smile from his spot across the kitchen. Although he didn’t want to introduce you to the family at first, he’s so glad he did, especially after you quietly told him before bed how Damian cried around you for the first time. He never thought that this brat of a boy would take so kindly to you. It warms his heart as it does yours- It’s a calm and comforting feeling. 

Now every Saturday is ‘Damian’s choice’ night with you, Damian, and Jason. 

_

okay i did some research on meals that coincide with Damian’s background- I sincerely apologize if I added something wrong. From what I gathered, mujadara is a Middle-Eastern dish consisting of ingredients, such as lentils, rice, and various spices ! Let me know if there are any corrections to be made! 

You never quite understood why Jason was upset, even if you tried with all the patience you possessed. Most of your “dates” were not dates in the usual sense at all, but small, tender things done quietly within the four soft walls of home. They were evenings stitched together from the ordinary: the rhythmic sound of Jason’s knife against a cutting board while you perched on the counter, watching him cook and finding new, shameless ways to distract him; the slow comfort of cleaning together, your shared music low in the background as sunlight drifted across the floorboards; laundry dates that ended in laughter, with soap bubbles clinging to Jason’s hair; and movie nights, his favorites—the kind where you both ended up asleep before the film even reached its second act. Or...occupied with something else.

Movie nights without his little brother, that is. Because when Damian was there, movie nights somehow stopped belonging to Jason at all. They became something else entirely—soft, conspiratorial things between you and the boy. The two of you would sit wrapped in the same blanket, heads bent close, whispering about the film’s inaccuracies.

Laundry days became a battlefield when Damian joined in. He would stand beside you, arms crossed and unimpressed, as he scrutinized every item of Jason’s wardrobe like a disapproving tailor. “You wear this?” he’d ask, his voice flat with disbelief.

Cooking nights weren’t much better. You found yourself giving too much of your attention to Damian’s questions, explaining measurements and flavors and medical nutrition while Jason sighed and stirred and watched from a distance, half-amused and half-wounded.

Jason could never quite tell when it happened—when you and Damian stopped being polite strangers and somehow became… something else. Something closer.

All he knew was that one night, both of them were bloodied bone-tired, and he’d broken his own rule: no family in the apartment. But Damian needed help, and he trusted you. You had training, steady hands, and the kind of gentle patience that could coax a frightened little robin to rest.

You patched them both up that night. Bandages and soft voices, soup after that. It was supposed to end there.

It didn’t.

Somehow, after that night, the boy who once hissed at anyone who dared to touch him began to let you close. Damian—the child with the wary eyes and the spine made of quiet pride—let you ruffle his hair without complaint. He let you mend the tear in his sleeve, let you fuss over his meals, let you feed him soup when he was too tired to lift his arm.

Jason watched it all with a strange mix of awe and jealousy.

Damian even began to compliment you—though always hidden in insults aimed at Jason.

“I don’t know how you tolerate Todd,” he’d say airily. “You’d think you’d prefer someone who matches you intellectually.”

Jason would groan and roll his eyes. You’d only laugh.

There were other things, too. The tutoring sessions that had somehow become part of your week—Damian’s new interest in medicine, his newfound fascination with anatomy and physiology. You were his favorite teacher, though he’d never admit it outright.

You were also, much to Jason’s dismay, his doctor.

And Damian liked his “patient room”—your shared bedroom—kept quiet as a cathedral. No chatter, no movement, no sound but the clink of teacups and the rustle of papers.

Damian liked your apartment. Truly liked it. Liked the calm that hung in the air like a soft blanket. Liked that you didn’t speak unless you had something to say. Liked that you covered every window with those translucent suncatchers that painted colors across the floorboards when the light came through. Not the gaudy sort found in tourist shops—yours were delicate, old, a little imperfect, like melted drops of glass. Your home reminded him of a place he once called home.

Damian liked the kittens you fostered. He liked feeding them, brushing them, pretending he didn’t enjoy either. He liked making tea with you because you brewed it properly, just as it was made when he was small with the old servants, with patient hands and quiet dignity.

He did not like your choice in company.

And he told you so, in his usual unflinching way.

“I can find you a more adequate match,” he whispered one afternoon, low and confidential, though Jason heard every word from across the room.

You were kneeling beside the tub, sleeves rolled up, bathing a litter of kittens in a metal bucket from the hardware store. The poor things had fleas and ringworm, and your fingers were red from the warm water and soap. Damian crouched beside you, sleeves just as damp, as if he’d been born to this small ritual of care.

“I think he’s quite adequate,” you whispered back, soft enough not to wound his pride.

That was another thing Damian liked: the way you spoke to him. You matched his tone, measured and deliberate, the way someone might match a heartbeat. He knew it wasn’t how you spoke to everyone—he’d seen you with delivery men, with Jason—but with him, you were precise. Thoughtful. Gentle.

You spoke like he did.

And for a boy who’d spent years surrounded by voices that stumbled over his accent, who had grown used to repeating himself until the words felt wrong in his mouth, that meant more than he’d ever say aloud.

“Yeah, I think he’s adequate too!” Jason called suddenly from the doorway, grinning as he tightened a hinge on the bathroom door. You turned to glance at him, smiling despite yourself.

He was dressed in that white T-shirt with the sleeves cut off—his arms smudged with grease and his hair far too long, hanging just above his eyes. His clothes bore the familiar stains of oil and paint and everything else he’d fixed that week. His sneakers were worn down to their last thread, and yet somehow, standing there with a screwdriver in one hand and a crooked grin on his face, he looked steady.

His skin had color again, no longer the pale gray of sleepless nights. His back wasn’t as stiff as it used to be, his shoulders at ease. And though he grumbled endlessly about Damian’s visits, he looked softer when the boy was around. A little more human. A little more home.

Perfect, as always. Yours as always.

“You look like a turd,” Damian said flatly, scowling in Jason’s direction.

Jason didn’t even flinch. “Bro, you smell like a turd.”

“I wonder why,” Damian muttered, holding up a dripping kitten by the scruff, water trailing from its tiny paws.

Jason dropped the screwdriver and spun, pointing accusingly. “Damian, I swear to God—if you drip that medicine on the rug again, I’ll—”

Before he could finish, you reached forward, gently guiding Damian’s small hands back toward the bucket. “Let’s not test him,” you murmured, the edge of laughter in your tone. Damian’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he obeyed, his pride intact.

Half an hour later, the kittens were washed and dry, bundled in towels that smelled faintly of lavender. They lay in the wicker basket you used for your farmer’s market trips—the same one Damian sometimes carried with a reluctant sort of pride. The three of you sat together in the aftermath of the small chaos: Jason kneeling by the repaired door, you perched on the rug with a kitten in your lap, Damian cross-legged beside the basket, his expression unusually serene.

“What do you want for dinner?” Jason asked finally, testing the hinge one last time.

“Biryani,” Damian said immediately, still rubbing a towel over a kitten’s ears.

Jason didn’t look up. “I was asking my girlfriend.”

The room went quiet for a heartbeat. Then both of them turned to look at you—Jason with a weary sort of amusement, Damian with scandalized indignation.

You sighed, stroking a kitten’s damp fur. “I’d like biryani too.”

“Vegetable,” Damian added.

You paused, glanced down at him, then back up at Jason. “…Yes, vegetable.”

Jason blinked. For a long moment, there was silence. Then he muttered, “Lost to a vegan,” and wandered out of the bathroom, the sound of his boots fading down the hall.

When you looked back, Damian was smiling—just a small, quiet smile, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes but softened them all the same. You felt warmth bloom in your chest.

By the time dinner is ready, the kittens are all asleep, little bodies curled into soft commas in their basket. The faint hum of the radiator fills the silence between your breaths, and the apartment smells rich and warm—spices blooming in the air like memory.

The biryani sits steaming in the center of the low coffee table, bowls placed in an uneven triangle around it. Damian is already criticizing between bites.

“There’s too much cardamom,” he says with all the dignity of a food critic, squinting at his plate. “And the star anise—how am I supposed to chew on this?”

Jason looks like he’s aged five years in the span of the meal.

“Don’t eat it then,” he grumbles, though there’s no real bite to it.

Damian ignores him, of course, muttering something about “culinary atrocities” and “unsuitable textures” as he gets up to fetch salt from the kitchen. His footsteps fade down the hall, leaving a kind of hush behind him.

Jason exhales hard, running a hand over his face. “Gods, I—” He stops himself, then huffs again and reaches over to scoop a few extra vegetables into your plate. “I love the kid. I mean it, I do. But does he always have to be around?”

His voice drops low, almost conspiratorial. The firelight flickers against his face, softening the hard line of his jaw.

You smile, trying to keep your voice light, teasing. “Are you jealous?”

You hope to draw that familiar flush to his cheeks, to make him sputter and deflect because you don't want the risk of Damian hearing all of this and drawing back into himself.

But Jason doesn’t take the bait—at least not the way you expect.

“No,” he says, too quickly. Then, quieter, “Yes. No—I don’t know. I…” His gaze drops to his food, then to the floor. “I like having you to myself.”

There’s something naked in that confession. Something fragile, almost boyish. Jason, for all his rough edges and sharp words, has never learned how to admit loneliness without looking away.

He doesn’t need to pretend with you—not like he does with his family. Around them, he wears armor made of sarcasm and silence. Even now, years after coming back, Jason doubts he’ll ever fully relax in their company.

Especially not around Damian.

It isn’t the boy’s fault. Jason knows that. But every time he looks at Damian, he remembers.

Remembers standing in the League’s training yard, watching the child run until his small body trembled, his tutors shouting that failure was death. Remembers the look in Damian’s eyes when they handed him a knife and pointed to a chained dog. Remembers him crying—choking on his own breath, spitting his mother’s name like a curse—and then, finally, going still. Blade down.

Jason had watched from a distance, powerless to intervene. That memory lives in his bones.

He can’t relax around that kid. Not really. And yet Damian has learned to relax around you—and Jason knows how rare that is.

So it feels selfish, maybe, to resent it. But he does.

He misses you.

Misses you kissing his neck without warning, standing on tiptoe instead of asking him to lean down. Misses the way you’d curl into his lap whenever he finally sat down, the solid comfort of your weight grounding him in a world that never stops spinning.

He misses you walking around half-dressed and unbothered, so at ease in your skin that he felt human just watching you. Misses you sneaking up behind him while he cooks, arms slipping around his waist, the low hum of your laughter against his back.

Misses the smack you’d give him whenever he teased you about your inability to ever survive as a celibate.

Apparently, you could.

Apparently, you could rival a monk.

And Jason’s pretty sure you’d win, too.

Apparently he's the one who'd die if he was ever made celibate.

“…He needs a space,” you murmur finally, your voice as soft as the fire crackling in the grate. Your hand drifts to his thigh, a gentle anchor.

Jason sighs, leaning into the touch like it’s the first warm thing he’s felt all day. “I need a space,” he grumbles, sounding more like a sulking teenager than a grown man. He pokes at his food. “And I need meat.”

You roll your eyes, amused. “The chicken biryani you made last week tasted wonderful.”

“Yeah, well, apparently chickens are birds,” he mutters.

You blink, looking up at him. “Huh?”

“I always thought they were like… fat fish,” Jason says. “That’s what Dick told me when I was, like, ten.”

You stare for a second before laughter spills out of you, helpless and bright. “And you believed him?”

Jason just shrugs, reaching for another spoonful of biryani. “I believed everything my brother told me at that age.” He scoops some of his food into your mouth, shoveling most of his vegetables your way.

You chew, smiling around the bite. “You know who else believes everything his brother tells him?” you ask, voice sly.

Jason pauses mid-bite, suspicious. “…Damian calls me an idiot daily.”

“Yeah,” you hum. “But he still listens when you talk. He doesn’t do that with Tim.”

“That’s because no one can stand Tim talking.”

You groan, rolling your eyes again. “He does it with Dick, and no one can stand Dick talking either.”

Jason snorts. “He does not like me as much as Dick.”

“Me either,” you admit easily, your tone warm. “But he likes us as much as Dick. You don’t see him going to his apartment.”

“Yeah, because Kori brings out his worst habit,” Jason mutters, though there’s fondness hiding under his words. “All that god-awful rambling.”

You laugh quietly. “I think they’re sweet.”

He gives you a look, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“Tim and Kon, too,” you continue, ignoring it. “No matter how much you complain.”

“They need to learn how to get a room,” Jason groans, shoveling another bite into his mouth. “And I love Kori and Dick, I do, they’re just—”

“Loud,” you finish for him, gentle and knowing.

He chuckles, a low rumble in his chest. “Yeah. Loud.”

You both sit in the quiet that follows, the kind of quiet that’s easy, lived-in. The kind where every sound feels magnified—the slow ticking of the wall clock, the faint purrs of sleeping kittens, the crackle of birch wood in the fireplace.

Jason stares into the flames for a long time before muttering, “It’s not just them. The manor’s always so damn loud. Steph and—”

“Hm.” You hum softly, eyes thoughtful. “Yeah. So if I were Damian, I’d want to come here, too. To my brother’s quiet home. The one with tea, kittens, a bed for Titus, and a sweet older brother who actually makes ethnic food.”

Jason snorts. “Alfred can make him biryani.”

“Jason,” you say, laughter slipping into your tone, “I know you love him, but…”

You trail off, because you don’t need to finish it.

Jason already knows.

And somewhere in the kitchen, Damian’s voice drifts faintly back:

“You’re both eating without me—uncivilized.”

You and Jason exchange a look, trying not to smile too wide.

The kiddo comes back, and Jason immediately feels the loss of your hand on his thigh. The warmth that had anchored him to the moment is gone, and he notices it before he even thinks. Damian strides in, shoulders stiff, grinding salt onto his onion raita with a small scowl.

“Honey,” you murmur quietly, all knowing, “that’s your third bowl.”

Jason can’t help the small smirk that tugs at his mouth. He folds his arms in faux pride, chest puffed out like a rooster, though his eyes linger on your face and your hand brushing lightly over Damian’s, quietly correcting his angle with the spoon. You glance at him briefly, then pull back to focus on Damian, who has paused mid-grind, frowning at his food as though it’s betrayed him.

“You people will make me fat like Jason,” Damian declares, voice sharp, accusation hanging in the air.

“I am not fat!” Jason huffs immediately, scandal written across his features. He glances at you, eyes wide and pleading. “You’re the doctor! Tell him, babe!”

You pause for a moment, tilting your head thoughtfully. Technically, according to textbooks and clinical standards, someone of Jason’s size could be considered slightly overweight—but he carries it like armor, and your instinct is to reassure rather than lecture.

Damian’s grin grows impossibly wide at your pause. Jason’s jaw drops.

“HA! Told you! Fatson Todd over here is in denial!” Damian exclaims, triumphant, waving the onion raita spoon like a sword.

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing, handing Damian a stack of empty dishes with a soft, indulgent smile. Begrudgingly, he gets up to collect them, still muttering, still scowling, but your quiet smile seems to soften him just enough.

“God, sometimes I think you play mom,” Jason mutters, leaning back slightly. He watches your expression—the soft, gentle tilt of your lips, the quiet care in your movements as you help Damian balance the plates—and he feels the warmth of it wrap around him. “You really want someone like him as a kid? Hey, if we had a kid like him, I’d toss it right back to Grandpa Bruce.”

Damian’s huff echoes faintly from the kitchen, scowling and stomping as he disappears from view.

You turn to Jason, your voice low, almost conspiratorial. “You’d love a kid like Damian.”

He looks at you, hesitant, unsure, because the concept of children has never been simple for him. And yet… the softness in your eyes, the gentle calm you exude, makes him pause.

“Yeah,” he mumbles finally, uncertain but open. “Sure.”

You lean closer, brushing a fingertip over his hand. “He looks like you,” you murmur, “your eyebrows and cheekbones.”

“Bruce’s eyebrows and cheekbones,” Jason corrects softly, then glances at your face, his eyes lingering. “Your eyes would suit them.”

You hum, leaning forward to kiss the side of his neck briefly, warm and comforting, and then you hear the faint rush of water as Damian starts washing dishes. Jason freezes slightly under the gesture.

“Oh, so now you kiss me?” he huffs, mock-indignant, a childish edge to his voice. “Go kiss his cheeks like I know you want to.”

You pinch the cheek unmarked by his scar gently. “I love him too, because he reminds me of you. Don’t forget that.”

“You also think raccoons remind you of me.” Jason says, smirk creeping in.

“Raccoons are adorable!” you reply, cheerful and soft.

“Well, this raccoon wants attention,” he huffs, mock-sulking.

You glance toward the kitchen, checking Damian’s progress, then lean in, pressing a quick kiss along the bicep you’ve been eyeing since he came back from fixing the door. “…Damian mentioned he has a sleepover with Jon on Friday. I can call off work too and…”

Your voice trails, hypnotic, and Jason lifts his gaze, caught in the light of your lashes and the quiet intensity of your expression. “…we can—”

“Have a sleepover?” Jason murmurs, small smile teasing the corners of his mouth.

“Oh, there won’t be any sleeping,” you whisper back, eyes sparkling with mischief.

He blinks, and a slow smirk spreads across his face, soft and fond, the apartment feeling warmer somehow. The smell of biryani, the faint crackle of the fire, the distant splash of water from Damian’s dishwashing—everything settles into a rhythm that feels like home.

Jason leans back slightly, still mesmerized by the faint glow of your eyes and the way your lips curl at the edges.

please please please let me know what you think it gives me so much motivation to write and you will be getting a new work sooner if you do ; (◞‸◟)

©shisuni 𝖺𝗅𝗅 rights reserved , 𝖽𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗅/𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗒 𝗈𝗋 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗆 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗈𝗐𝗇. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗂/𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗍𝗀𝗉𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾 𝗂𝗍. Any oc's are not permitted to be put into other works unless dm'd, discussed, and agreed upon.

Bruce Wayne had been electrocuted, nearly impaled, and almost poisoned—all in the span of six weeks. That wasn’t even counting the four separate stabbing incidents over the past three months. Each time, the blade was unique. One had even been laced with a neurotoxin so obscure, Bruce had to dig through Cold War archives just to identify it.

The common denominator? You. His wife.

You never admitted it. You didn’t have to. You never left a fingerprint, never stepped out of character. To the world—and even to Alfred—you were perfect. The devoted spouse. Gotham’s sweetheart. And as far as Bruce could tell, you hadn’t tried to kill anyone else. Just him.

Take last Thursday.

Bruce had walked into the Batcave only to find a pressure-triggered stake embedded in the driver’s seat of the Batmobile. His seat. The one no one else ever touched. The trigger had been subtle—clever, really—buried just beneath the custom leather cushioning. If he hadn’t scanned the seat before sitting (as he now routinely did), he’d be pinned to the interior like a kebab.

He’d climbed back upstairs, singed, sore, and furious, only to find you in the kitchen like a scene out of a vintage ad. Apron tied neatly around your waist, hair pulled back in a messy bun, humming a familiar tune as you piped icing onto cupcakes.

“Chocolate with raspberry filling,” you chirped brightly when you saw him. “Your favourite.”

Bruce had only stared. The cupcakes were pristine, beautiful… and decorated with a pattern that made his eye twitch.

Each one was a tiny bat… skewered.

Alfred passed by with a pleased hum, lifting one from the tray. “She’s so attentive, sir. You’ve gotten quite lucky.”

Attentive. Yes. That was one word for it.

Then there was this morning.

Bruce sat at the breakfast table, eyes flicking from the half-finished crossword in front of him to the steaming cup of coffee you’d just set down beside it, punctuated by the warm press of a kiss to his cheek. It was your usual gesture of affection to maintain your domestic facade. Yet, as he brought the mug up to his face, he caught the faint trace of something… foreign in the aroma.

“Colombian roast?” he asked casually, not looking up.

You smiled, soft and sweet, as you settled across from him in a silk robe the exact colour of dried blood. “Costa Rican,” you replied. “I know you’ve been cutting back on caffeine.”

“Thoughtful,” he murmured.

You hummed in response, already scrolling through your phone with a content, peaceful expression. One that did not belong to someone who had definitely tried to suffocate him in his sleep just a few hours earlier.

Of course, there had been no prints. No witnesses. No cameras. Just Bruce, waking with a sharp gasp at 3:07 a.m., a silk pillow pressed firmly and definitely deliberately against his face.

There was a slight, unmistakable dip of the mattress as you slid back beneath the covers beside him with a whisper soft enough to be sickeningly concerned.

“Nightmare again, love?”

He hadn’t answered. You hadn’t pressed.

You never slipped. Not once. Not in public. Not at home. Not even in the bedroom—which, maddeningly, remained incredible. Your touch was always warm. Your affection, believable. Your moans, real…he hoped. And it was that balance—between the loving wife and the likely assassin—that was driving him slowly, methodically insane.

He’d triple-checked the Batcave’s systems. Gone line by line through the security feeds. Rerun every log for the toxin releases, the mechanical malfunctions, the pressure-sensitive traps woven into the vents and walkways of his own home. Each incident, without fail, pointed back to one inevitable truth.

It wasn’t a stranger. It wasn’t an intruder. It was someone with access to his home. Intimate, unfiltered access. Someone who knew the layouts. The passwords. Him.

Someone who brought him homemade soup when he returned battered and stitched together. Someone who watched him sleep with the serene calm of a lover… and the silent patience of a predator.

You wanted him dead. Only him. Not Alfred. Not Gotham. Not even his enemies. Just Bruce.

And the lengths you’d gone to, to achieve your goal?

Frankly were impressive. Terrifying. But undeniably impressive.

The problem was—no one believed him.

You were perfect. Too perfect. Gotham’s golden girl. The city adored you. You did charity work with orphans, hosted elegant galas for the Wayne Foundation, and once, personally, pulled a kitten out of a sewer while wearing four-inch heels. You’d handed the soggy creature to Damian with a smile, and now it lived like a prince in the manor, nestled in his bed most nights. Even he adored you.

Meanwhile, Bruce was starting to look… unhinged. More paranoid than usual. And if he was being honest, maybe just a little insane.

“Bruce,” Clark had said gently over comms last week, “you’ve been muttering ‘she’s trying to kill me again’ during Justice League meetings. Barry and Hal think you’re losing it.”

“I’ve told you, Clark. She is,” Bruce insisted.

There was a pause. Then Clark sighed. “She brought you dinner.”

“In a bento box,” Bruce snapped. “Hand-delivered. To the Watchtower.”

Clark made a soft, confused sound. “Isn’t that… thoughtful? Lois and I do that all the time. It’s romantic. A way to show we care.”

Bruce stared at the comm. He could practically hear the smile in Clark’s voice, like he was just waiting for Bruce to admit how lucky he was. As if that bento box wasn’t laced with enough trace chemicals to warrant a full Bat-lab analysis.

It was hopeless. No one took him seriously.

Even Jason, of all people, had the audacity to laugh. “Look on the bright side, B,” he’d said with a wide grin, clapping Bruce on the back. “You always said you’d go out alone in the dark. Just didn’t think it’d be at the hands of someone who irons your shirts.”

Bruce didn’t dignify that with a response. Mostly because it was starting to feel true.

He even tried to test you one evening. He slipped into the kitchen quietly, just as you were finishing up dinner. The scent of rosemary chicken filled the air—warm, familiar, homey. And then… something else. It was subtle, but unmistakable. A hint of bitterness beneath the herbs. Arsenic, maybe.

He leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “Need a hand?”

You didn’t flinch. Not even a pause in your slicing. “You’ll ruin the plating,” you teased, glancing at him from beneath your lashes. “Go sit. I want this one to be perfect.”

Of course you did.

Dinner was served shortly after. Alfred complimented the tenderness of the chicken. Damian—traitor—asked for seconds. You poured Bruce a glass of wine yourself, smiled as you set it beside his plate, and took your seat as if you hadn’t laced his entrée with slow-acting poison.

He took one cautious bite.

Nothing happened.

Then another.

Still nothing.

But midway through dinner, as the conversation rolled on and laughter echoed faintly through the dining room, Bruce began to cough. Not a small, casual cough—no, this one clawed at his throat, chest tightening as the burning sensation took root.

And before anyone else could react, you were already at his side.

“Oh, you poor thing,” you cooed, slipping an arm around his shoulders, your voice full of concern. “Did it go down the wrong pipe?”

You rubbed his back, pressed a glass of water to his lips, wiped at his mouth with a napkin. The doting wife, playing your role to perfection.

Everyone watched the scene with passive interest, no one truly alarmed.

Because this was just how things were now.

Even as Bruce sat there, coughing and glaring holes through you, no one questioned a thing. Deep down, he knew the rest of his family must have suspected something. Tim had hesitated before biting into his own piece of chicken. Dick had watched Bruce too closely. Even Damian’s gaze had lingered a moment too long.

But no one said a word.

Because compared to Bruce’s previous love interests—cat burglars, assassins, thieves—you were considered the best of the bunch.

So they let it go.

Believing, perhaps foolishly, that Bruce could handle it.

And somehow… he knew. Even if he boxed the remains of the chicken and sent it to three different labs across Gotham, the test results would somehow come back clean.

Just like they always did.

And he’d look even more paranoid than before.

And so, silently, Bruce accepted the water without any complaint or accusation. He waved you off with a tight smile, reaching under the table the moment your back was turned before slipping the capsule from the inner pocket of his jacket—a fast-dissolving antidote he now kept on him at all times—and swallowed it with a swig of wine.

Then, politely, he excused himself from dinner.

Later that night, you found him in his office.

He sat behind his desk, sleeves rolled, fingers steepled over a file he wasn’t reading. You drifted in without a sound, but he felt you coming—could always sense when it was you.

“How are you feeling?” you purred, your voice like warm honey. Your hands slid over his shoulders from behind, graceful fingers working into the tension in his neck. His eyes fluttered—damn you—and for a moment, he let himself lean into your touch.

But then you were gone again, floating across the room toward the bar. You poured amber liquid into a crystal glass, humming softly, and returned with a smile that was all teeth and silk.

“Nightcap?”

Bruce took the glass but then he paused. Eyes narrowing, he lifted it to his nose and sniffed.

You sighed, utterly unbothered. “Too paranoid,” you chided gently, tsking under your breath. “It’s just whiskey.”

“With an aftertaste of cyanide.”

You held his gaze—and took a sip yourself and smiled. “Only a drop.”

He stared.

You leaned in close, brushing your lips against his jaw, breath warm against his skin. “It builds immunity,” you whispered.

And just like that, you pulled away.

Bruce remained still, watching your retreating figure as you sauntered out of the room. The silk of your dress shimmered with every step, clinging perfectly to your curves, your hips swaying just enough to make him forget—briefly—that you’d tried to kill him again tonight.

You glanced over your shoulder with a smile that could’ve fooled the gods. “Don’t stay up too late, love.”

The door closed softly behind you, and Bruce let out a long, slow exhale. He stared at the untouched drink in his hand, then set the glass down with a quiet clink. His fingers lingered on the rim for a moment before he finally rose, dragging a hand down his face as he left the office and followed after you.

When he entered the bedroom, the lights were already dimmed and you were curled beneath the covers, the picture of elegance and ease. As he moved around to his side of the bed, you shifted, stretching like a satisfied cat before curling against his side with a contented sigh.

“Did I tell you Alfred loved the lemon tart I made?” you murmured, your voice warm and sleepy.

Bruce didn’t move. “You replaced the sugar with ammonium nitrate.”

“Only half,” you replied breezily. “He has a strong constitution.”

Silence stretched between you.

You hummed lightly, as if this were just playful banter between newlyweds. “You’re just too fun to play with,” you said, tracing a finger along the line of his ribs.

“You could just divorce me,” Bruce muttered, dry as ever.

You gasped, genuinely offended. “And break my vows?”

He turned his head to look at the ceiling, expression blank. “You said ‘in sickness and in health,’ not ‘in mortal peril.’”

You giggled, snuggling closer, pressing a kiss to his shoulder like the conversation hadn’t just included the topic of chemical agents. Your voice was soft, almost teasing. “You’re being dramatic,” you said sweetly. “I haven’t technically killed you yet.”

Bruce let out another sigh, eyes closing. “Yet.”

“I mean,” you murmured, nuzzling into his chest, “if you insist on surviving, that’s kind of on you.”

He huffed through his nose. “I have contingency plans for everything.”

“I know,” you replied, voice muffled by the fabric of his shirt. You yawned, your breath warm against his skin. “I’ve been disabling them one by one.”

He turned his head slightly to glance down at you. “…You’re insane.”

You smiled, serene and unbothered. “You married me,” you whispered, tracing lazy circles along his ribs. “You also know the contract I’m under.”

And he had.

After the twentieth attempt on his life, Bruce had finally done what he should’ve done from the beginning—he investigated you. Dug into sealed files, chased whispers through black markets, and pieced together a name no one dared speak aloud in full. The Black Widow assassin. 

Someone had put a contract on Bruce Wayne’s head. And you—his wife, the beloved darling of Gotham—had taken the job.

And for some reason—some maddening, utterly ridiculous reason—he still hadn’t stopped loving you.

Maybe it was because, deep down, he knew you’d never actually intended to kill him. Not really. You were far too skilled for the constant failures to be anything but deliberate. Every “attempt” had been just close enough to say you tried, but somehow failed.

He’d begun to slowly accept his new reality, even if you had tried to push him down the stairs last Tuesday.

He could still hear your voice, feigning shock as he clutched the railing.

“Oh no, love! You must’ve slipped.”

Now, as you drifted in and out of sleep beside him, you spoke again—so softly, he almost missed it.

“You’ll also never be able to prove it’s me.”

His eyes opened

You didn’t look at him. But you smiled—that same serene, public smile. The one you wore at galas, arm wrapped around his. The one you gave reporters when praising your husband’s philanthropy. The one you wore while sharpening knives in the kitchen—knives that always seemed to go missing right before each new “accident.”

“I don’t need to,” Bruce said quietly. “You’ll slip eventually.”

At that, you turned, propping your chin on his chest, gaze playful and unreadable in the dark. “Maybe,” you murmured. “But until then… wouldn’t it be a shame to ruin our marriage over some silly little suspicion?”

He stared at you, unmoving.

She only smiled before leaning in to kiss him. Long and deceptively sweet. 

And damn it… he kissed you back.

His hands slipped around your waist, guiding you atop him as the kiss deepened. His hands wandering along your body.

Because the truth was—he couldn’t quite bring himself to stop you.

Because beneath all the perfection, all the poison, all the blades hidden in soft glances and honeyed words… there was a terrifying truth he could never say aloud:

He’d rather be killed by you than live without you.

And you knew it.