Heyyyy love your writing with jason đđđ
I was wondering if you could do a piece inspired by dust bowl by ethel cain i think the song is so jason coded and like you are so creative so however you interpret it
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The first time Jason Todd saw you, you were covered in someone else's blood.
Not unusual in Gotham. What was unusual was the way you stood in the alley, completely still, staring at your hands like you couldn't quite understand how they'd gotten that way. Like you'd woken up from a dream and found yourself in a nightmare.
"You hurt?" His voice came out rougher than intended, modulated through the helmet.
You looked up at Red Hoodâreally looked, with eyes that were too old for your faceâand said, "No. It's not mine."
"Does it matter?" You turned back to your hands. "They're gone now either way."
Something about the flatness in your voice made Jason pause. He'd heard that tone before. In his own voice, late at night, when the rage burned itself out and left only ash.
"You need to get out of here. GCPD will be here soon."
But you didn't move. Just kept staring at your hands.
Jason made a decision he'd probably regret. "Come on. I know a place you can clean up."
You followed him without question, which should have been a red flag. Normal people didn't follow strange vigilantes to secondary locations. Normal people had self-preservation instincts.
You, apparently, did not.
The safe house was sparse. Weapons cache, first aid kit, a bathroom that had seen better days. You stood in the doorway like you weren't sure you had permission to enter.
"Bathroom's there," Jason said, pulling off his helmet. "Towels under the sink. Take your time."
You stared at himâat his face, now visibleâand something flickered in your expression. Recognition, maybe. Or just exhaustion.
"You're Jason Todd," you said quietly.
His hand went to his gun automatically. "How do youâ"
"I grew up in Crime Alley. Everyone knows the story." You moved toward the bathroom. "Robin who died. Came back angry. I get it."
You closed the door before he could respond.
Jason stood there, thrown off balance in a way that didn't happen often. You knew who he wasâor at least who he'd beenâand you didn't seem afraid. Didn't seem impressed. Just... tired.
He heard the water running. Heard you moving around. And for some reason he couldn't articulate, he stayed. Waited.
When you emerged twenty minutes later, the blood was gone. Your hands were raw from scrubbing. You looked slightly more human but no less haunted.
"Cleaner, anyway." You leaned against the wall. "Thank you. For this. You didn't have to."
"Yeah, well. Crime Alley looks after its own."
"Is that what we are? Crime Alley's own?"
You smiled, small and sad. "I guess we are."
Something passed between you in that moment. Recognition of shared damage. Shared survival. The particular exhaustion that came from growing up in a place that chewed people up and spat them out broken.
"You got somewhere to go?" Jason asked.
"An apartment. It's not much, but it's mine."
"I'm three blocks away. I can walk."
"Not alone. Not looking like that." You looked down at your clothesâstill bloodstained despite your attempts to clean up. Jason grabbed a spare hoodie from a duffel. "Here. Cover the worst of it."
You took it, pulling it on. It was massive on you, hanging past your hips. Jason tried not to notice how you pulled the sleeves over your hands, how you buried your nose in the collar for just a second like you were checking if it smelled like safety.
"I'll walk you," he said.
"I know. I'm doing it anyway."
You didn't argue. Just followed him back out into the night.
Your apartment was exactly what he'd expected. Tiny. Clean despite the building's decay. Books stacked everywhereâon shelves, the floor, the windowsill. A life built in the margins of someone else's city.
"This is me," you said at the door.
"Lock it. All the locks."
Jason should have left. Should have considered this a good deed done, moved on to the next crisis. But something made him hesitate.
"What happened tonight?" He asked. "In the alley."
You were quiet for a long moment. Then: "Someone tried to hurt someone I care about. I stopped them. Permanently."
You met his eyes. "Then yes. I killed them. And I'd do it again. Does that make me a monster?"
"No," Jason said quietly. "It makes you someone who protects what's theirs."
"Is that what you tell yourself?"
You smiled again, that same sad smile. "We're quite a pair, aren't we? The dead boy and the killer girl."
"No. But you were. And that changes you. Changes how you see the world." You leaned against your doorframe. "I can see it in you. The way you move like you're still surprised your body works. The way you look at people like you're cataloging their weaknesses. The way you carry death around like a second skin."
"I had to be. To survive."
"Now I'm still surviving. Just with more blood on my hands." You pulled his hoodie tighter around yourself. "Thank you. For tonight. For not asking questions I don't want to answer."
"Keep the hoodie. Looks better on you anyway."
You glanced down at it. "I'll wash it. Get it back to you."
"Don't worry about it. I know where to find you if I need it."
It was only after Jason left, after he'd made it back to his own safehouse, that he realized what he'd implied. That he'd be back. That this wasn't over.
And the strangest part was, he wanted to go back.
Wanted to see you again. Understand the sadness in your eyes. Figure out what had driven you to kill someone in an alley.
He saw you again three weeks later.
Not on purpose. He was on patrol, breaking up a trafficking ring, when he spotted you in the crowd that had gathered. You were standing at the edge, watching with that same flat affect.
When his eyes met yours, you didn't look away. Just nodded once, like acknowledging a shared secret.
After the arrests, after the victims were safe and the perpetrators were bleeding on the ground, Jason found you still there.
"You waiting for someone?" He asked.
"Maybe." You tilted your head. "You make a habit of breaking up trafficking rings?"
"It's Tuesday. Trafficking is a Tuesday thing."
Despite everything, you almost smiled. "What's Wednesday?"
"Depends. What needs breaking?"
Jason found himself smiling back behind his helmet. "You got plans tonight?"
"Roof of my building has a decent view. Beer's cheap. Company's free."
You studied him for a long moment. "Is this a date?"
"It's a beer on a roof. You can call it whatever you want."
"Yeah. Beer sounds good."
Once a week, sometimes twice, you'd meet Jason there. You'd drink terrible beer and talk about nothing and everything. He learned you worked at a bookstore in the Bowery. That you'd lived in Crime Alley your whole life. That your parents were deadâoverdose, when you were fourteenâand you'd been on your own ever since.
You learned he'd been Robin. That he'd died. That he'd come back wrong and angry and couldn't quite figure out how to be right again.
"You don't seem wrong," you said one night, three beers in and relaxed in a way you rarely were.
"We're all wrong in some way. Gotham makes sure of that." You picked at your beer label. "But you're trying. That counts for something."
"Is it trying if I still want to kill half the people I encounter?"
"As long as you don't actually do it? Yeah. That's called restraint. It's admirable."
Jason laughed, bitter and sharp. "Admirable. Right."
"I'm serious." You looked at him directly. "You died. You came back. You could have burned this whole city down. But instead you're here, trying to protect the people who live in it. Even when they don't deserve it. Even when it would be easier to let them burn."
"Maybe I'm just too stubborn to quit."
"Maybe. Or maybe you're better than you think you are."
The words settled into his chest, warm and uncomfortable. Because you said them like you meant them. Like you saw something in him worth believing in.
"You don't know me," he said roughly.
"Yeah? What do you know?"
You were quiet for a moment, considering. Then: "I know you came back from death angrier than you left. I know you kill sometimes and lose sleep over it other times. I know you protect Crime Alley like it's yours to protect. I know you're kind to people who don't expect kindness. I know you let me sit on your roof and drink your beer even though I'm probably terrible company."
"You're not terrible company."
"I killed someone, Jason. In an alley. With my bare hands. That's not exactly 'good company' material."
You met his eyes. "They were hurting someone I loved. Someone who couldn't fight back. So I fought back for them."
"Then yeah. They deserved it."
"Just like that? No moral quandary? No 'thou shalt not kill'?"
"I died once. Came back. Killed a lot of people. I don't get to judge." He paused. "Besides, some people need killing. That's just reality in this city."
"That's a bleak worldview."
You smiled, sad and understanding. "Yeah. I guess it is."
The first time Jason kissed you, it was an accident.
You'd been drinking. Not drunk, but loose. Relaxed. You'd been talking about somethingâhe couldn't even remember whatâand you'd laughed. Actually laughed, bright and real and so unexpected that he'd turned to look at you.
And you'd been closer than he'd realized.
And then his lips were on yours.
For a heartbeat, you froze. Then you were kissing him back, hands fisting in his jacket, pulling him closer like you were afraid he'd disappear.
When you finally broke apart, you were both breathing hard.
"That wasâ" you started.
"A mistake?" Jason finished.
"I was going to say 'unexpected.'" You were still close, foreheads almost touching. "Was it a mistake?"
"No. But I don't know what I want it to be either."
"Then let's not define it. Let's justâ" He gestured helplessly. "âbe."
"Be," you repeated. "Okay. We can be."
He kissed you again, slower this time. Deliberate. And you melted into him like you'd been waiting for permission.
Being with you was both easier and harder than Jason expected.
Easier because you understood. The anger. The damage. The way Gotham left scars that never quite healed. You didn't ask him to be different, better, fixed. You took him as he wasâbroken and trying.
Harder because you were just as damaged. Just as broken. And Jason found himself wanting to fix you the way he couldn't fix himself. Wanting to protect you from everything, including yourself.
"You don't have to save me," you said one night, reading his thoughts in the way you'd gotten good at. "I'm not looking for a hero."
"I know. That's why I like you." You traced patterns on his chest, both of you tangled in his bed. "Heroes are exhausting. They want to fix things. Make things better. But you justâyou let things be broken. Let me be broken. That's a relief."
"Yes, I am. We both are. And that's okay." You propped yourself up on one elbow. "I don't need you to save me, Jason. I just need you to be here. In the mess. With me."
It was a lie. Because he was already trying to save you. Already planning how to make your life better, easier, safer. Already falling into old patterns of protection and control.
He just didn't realize it yet.
The first crack appeared three months in.
Jason came back from patrol to find you in his safehouse, sitting in the dark, covered in blood again.
"What happened?" He was across the room in seconds, checking you for injuries. "Are you hurt?"
"Yes, it fucking matters!" His voice rose. "What did you do?"
You finally looked at him, and your eyes were empty. "What I had to."
"It's the only one I have."
Jason forced himself to breathe. To think. "Who was it?"
"Someone who deserved it."
"That's not good enoughâ"
"It has to be." You stood, moving toward the bathroom. "I'm going to clean up."
"We're not done talking about this."
You closed the bathroom door. Jason heard the water running. Heard you moving around. And felt something cold settle in his chest.
This was familiar. The evasion. The shutdown. The refusal to let anyone in.
He'd done it himself countless times.
But watching you do itâwatching you pull awayâmade him understand why it drove Bruce crazy. Why Dick kept pushing. Why people who cared couldn't just let you be broken in peace.
When you emerged, clean and wearing one of his shirts, Jason was waiting.
"There's nothing to say."
"Bullshit. You killed someone. Again. That's something."
"When I have to. For a reason. Not justâ" He gestured helplessly. "ârandomly."
"It wasn't random." Your voice was flat. "They hurt someone."
"A kid. In Crime Alley. He was twelve. And theyâ" Your voice cracked slightly. "They were hurting him. So I stopped them."
Jason felt his anger deflate. "Okay. Okay, I get that. But you can't justâyou can't keep doing this. Keep killing people and not talking about it."
"How? How is it different?" You moved closer. "You kill. I kill. We both have our reasons. We both live with it. Why do you get to do it in silence but I have to explain myself?"
"Because I'm worried about you!"
The words hung in the air.
You stared at him. "Don't."
"Don't worry. Don't care. Don't try to save me." You backed away. "I told you. I don't need saving."
"Everyone needs someoneâ"
"No. I need you to accept that this is who I am. This is what I do. I protect people. And sometimes that means killing the people who hurt them." Your eyes were hard. "If you can't handle that, then we should end this now."
"I'm not trying to change youâ"
"Yes, you are. You're trying to make me explain. Justify. Feel guilty. But I don't feel guilty. I feel relief. Because one more monster is dead and one more kid is safe. That's it. That's all there is."
Jason recognized the defensive walls going up. Had built enough of them himself. But he couldn't seem to stop pushing.
"You can't keep living like this. Can't keep taking justice into your own handsâ"
"That's literally what you do every night."
"And I'm not? I grew up in Crime Alley. I've been fighting since I was old enough to make a fist. I don't need training. I need you to trust that I know what I'm doing."
"No, you don't. You trust that I need saving. That I'm broken enough to need fixing. But I don't want to be fixed, Jason. I want to be accepted. As is. Broken and bloody and doing what I have to do to survive in this city."
She grabbed her jacket. "I'm going home."
"Don't leave like thisâ"
"I'm not leaving. I'm giving us space before we say things we can't take back." You paused at the door. "I care about you. But I can't be with someone who's trying to save me. I've been saved before. It never ends well."
Jason stood in his empty safehouse, surrounded by weapons and blood and the ghost of your words, and wondered when trying to care had become trying to control.
You didn't come to the roof for two weeks.
Jason told himself it was fine. That you needed space. That he needed space. That maybe this thing between you had always had an expiration date.
Missed your quiet understanding. The way you laughed at his dark jokes. How you fit against his side on the roof. The rare moments when you let your guard down and showed him the person underneath the armor.
He missed you, and he didn't know how to fix it.
On week three, he found you in Crime Alley. You were walking home from work, hood up, hands in pockets. You looked tired.
"Hey," he said, dropping down from a fire escape.
You didn't startle. Just looked at him with those too-old eyes. "Hey."
"About how I'm an idiot."
Despite everything, your lips twitched. "That's a long conversation."
"I'm sorry. For trying to save you. For pushing when you told me not to. For making you feel like I didn't accept who you are." He stepped closer. "You were right. I was trying to fix you. Because that's what I do. I see broken things and I want to make them whole. But you're not broken. You're justâ"
"Surviving," you finished quietly.
"Yeah. And I should have respected that."
You were quiet for a long moment. Then: "I'm sorry too. For shutting you out. For running. Forâ" You stopped. "I'm not good at this. At letting people in. At trusting that they won't try to change me."
"I don't want to change you."
Jason thought about it. Really thought. "I want to be with you. In whatever way you'll let me. I want to sit on roofs and drink cheap beer and listen to you talk about books. I want to be someone you can come to when you're covered in blood. I wantâ" His voice dropped. "I want to be here. In the mess. With you. Like you said."
"Even though I kill people?"
"Even though. As long as you understand I might worry. Might ask questions. Not because I'm trying to control you, but because I care what happens to you."
"And if I can't promise I'll change?"
"I'm not asking you to. I'm just asking you to let me in. Even a little."
You studied him for a long moment. Then you crossed the distance between you and kissed him.
It was different from before. Softer. Less desperate. More certain.
When you pulled back, you were almost smiling. "Okay."
"Yeah. We can try. Again. Differently." You took his hand. "But Jason? I meant what I said. I don't need saving. And I won't change who I am. Not even for you."
"I know. And I love you anyway."
The words escaped before he could stop them.
"Iâ" Jason wanted to take it back. But he'd never been good at lying to you. "I love you. Broken and bloody and exactly as you are. I love you."
Your eyes were suspiciously wet. "You're an idiot."
"No, you don't understand. You're an idiot becauseâ" You laughed, choked and real. "âbecause I love you too. Have for a while. And it's terrifying and stupid and completely impractical."
"We're going to hurt each other."
"And you still want this?"
Jason pulled you closer. "Until the sun don't shine. Until the breath leaves our lungs. However long we get."
You buried your face in his chest. "That's the most fucked up romantic thing anyone's ever said to me."
"It's a fucked up kind of love."
"Yeah." You looked up at him. "But it's ours."
He kissed you again, there in Crime Alley, in the place that made you both, and thought that maybe broken things could fit together if they broke in the right places.
Maybe salvation wasn't about fixing.
Maybe it was just about being there when the dust settled.
Maybe it was just about loving someone exactly as they were, blood and all.
Loving you was like living in a dust bowl.
Beautiful and terrible. Harsh and unforgiving. But somehow, impossibly, alive.
You didn't change. Didn't stop killing people who hurt the vulnerable. Didn't stop coming home covered in blood. Didn't stop shutting down when things got too hard.
But you let Jason in. Slowly. Carefully.
You told him about the kid you'd savedâthe one who'd made you kill. How he reminded you of yourself at that age. Alone and scared and convinced no one cared enough to help.
You told him about your parents. The neglect. The eventual overdose that left you fourteen and alone. The years of scraping by.
You told him things you'd never told anyone.
And Jason held them. Held you. Didn't try to fix or change or save. Just listened and loved and stayed.
In return, he told you about the warehouse. The crowbar. The explosion. Waking up in a coffin. The rage that consumed him. The fear that he'd never be more than the violence done to him.
And you listened. Didn't judge. Didn't pity. Just accepted him, rage and all.
It wasn't perfect. You fought. Sometimes about killing, sometimes about nothing, sometimes about everything. You both had too much damage, too many triggers, too many walls.
But you always came back.
Always found your way to that roof. To cheap beer and honest conversation. To each other.
Six months in, you moved into his safehouse.
Not officially. But your books started appearing on his shelves. Your clothes mixed with his. You fell asleep in his bed more nights than not.
"This is very domestic," you observed one night, both of you cooking dinner in companionable silence.
"It's weird. But yeah. It's okay." You stirred the pasta. "I never thought I'd have this. Someone to come home to. Someone who knows the worst parts of me and stays anyway."
"Disaster loves company."
You laughed, and Jason thought that maybe this was what healing looked like. Not fixing the broken parts. Just learning to live with them. Together.
The first time you killed someone while on patrol with him, Jason understood.
Some trafficker had a kidâcouldn't have been more than tenâchained in a basement. You'd found them. Freed the kid. And then, before Jason could stop you, you'd put a bullet in the trafficker's head.
Clean. Efficient. No hesitation.
"He would've done it again," you said simply. "To another kid. And another. Better this way."
Jason should have argued. Should have said something about mercy, justice, the law.
Instead, he said, "Headshot was clean. Good aim."
You looked at him, surprised. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. If you're going to do it, do it right. No suffering. Just done."
"I thought you'd be mad."
"I'm a lot of things. But a hypocrite isn't one of them. If I can kill, so can you. As long asâ" He stopped.
"As long as you can live with it after. That's the real cost. Not the act. The living with it."
You nodded slowly. "I can live with it. Easier than living with knowing I let another kid get hurt."
You kissed him then, there in the basement with a body cooling nearby, and Jason thought that this was the most honest thing he'd ever had.
No pretense. No judgment. Just two broken people trying to protect the things they loved in the only ways they knew how.
Bruce found out about you on month eight.
He showed up at the safehouse unannounced. Found you and Jason eating breakfast. You in one of Jason's shirts. Very clearly having spent the night.
"Todd," Bruce said. "We need to talk."
You stood immediately. "I'll go."
"Stay," Jason said. Then, to Bruce: "Whatever you need to say, you can say in front of her."
Bruce's eyes narrowed. "And she is?"
"Someone I care about. That's all you need to know."
"I ran her backgroundâ"
"âand she's flagged in three unsolved murders in Crime Alley."
"Flagged isn't charged," you said calmly. "And unsolved means you have no proof."
"I'm not GCPD. I don't need proof." Bruce looked at Jason. "You know what she is."
"And you're okay with this?"
"She protects people. In her own way. Same as me. Same as you, once upon a time, before you got all sanctimonious about it."
Bruce's jaw tightened. "She's dangerousâ"
"So am I. So are you. Everyone in our lives is dangerous in some way. That's the cost of being Bats." Jason moved to stand beside you. "She's mine. And she's not going anywhere. So you can either accept that or leave."
Bruce looked between you. Then, finally, he sighed. "I don't like this."
"You don't have to. But you do have to respect it."
Bruce nodded slowly. "Fine. But if this becomes a problemâ"
After Bruce left, you turned to Jason. "That wasâ"
"Necessary. He needed to know I'm serious about you."
"Are you seriously asking me that?"
"I don't know. Sometimes I think this is real. Sometimes I think it's just two broken people clinging to each other because we're afraid to be alone."
Jason cupped your face. "Maybe it's both. Maybe we are broken people who found each other. But that doesn't make it less real. Doesn't make what I feel for you less true."
"Like I'd burn this whole city down if someone hurt you. Like you're the only good thing I've got. Like I want to keep you. Forever. However long that is."
You kissed him, deep and desperate. "Forever sounds good. Terrifying, but good."
A year in, Jason woke up to find you sitting by the window, watching the sunrise over Crime Alley.
You turned to look at him. "About how a year ago I was alone. Convinced I'd always be alone. And now I'm here. With you. And it'sâ" You stopped, struggling for words. "It's the closest to happy I've ever been."
Jason joined you at the window. "Same."
"Even though we're both disasters?"
"Especially because we're both disasters. Makes sense somehow."
You leaned against him, and he wrapped an arm around your shoulders. Below, Crime Alley was waking up. The city that made you both. Broke you both. Brought you together.
"I killed someone last week," you said quietly. "Drug dealer trying to recruit middle schoolers. Figured you should know."
"You do what you have to. I'm not going to judge."
"You're not worried I'm becoming a monster?"
"No. Because monsters don't worry about being monsters." He kissed the top of your head. "You're just someone trying to protect people in the only way you know how. Same as me."
"We're both going to hell, you know."
"Probably. But at least we'll go together."
You laughed, soft and real. "Together sounds good."
You stayed like that as the sun rose over Gotham. Two broken people who'd found something like wholeness in each other. Not fixed. Not saved. Just accepted.
Loved exactly as you were.
Until the sun don't shine.
Until the breath leaves your lungs.
amandla
