Doodles in the Margins

You're atop him, legs straddling his thighs. Jason drums a silent pattern on your hip. You smooth the nose flap and his nose twitches. The flap curls out of place. You sigh.

"Dude."

"Tickles," he says, the word muffled from trying not to move the mask.

"Okay, I'm done. You can talk now."

"I feel rejuvenated already," Jason says, pink lips even pinker in contrast to the ghostly mask.

"You look rejuvenated to me," you say happily.

He grins. Jason always seems to smile more around you.

"So what're we doin' tonight? Besides putting sea minerals on my face."

"Um?" You point to your face, with its own mask. "Not just you. Soon, we'll both be rejuvenated."

"Sorry, sweetheart," Jason says, looking at you like you're the best thing on earth. "After we both get sea-mineralized, are we ordering in?"

"Yeah. I have a coupon for Vinnie's. Can I paint your nails?"

"Sure, baby."

"Yippee!" You leap off the couch and sprint to your and Jason's shared room. You dig through the vanity Jason hand-built and painted for your birthday last year. It's Robin's egg blue, with white accents. He admitted shyly, later, that he'd built it in the hopes that it'd make you want to move in permanently with him.

So a bribe? you'd asked, grinning.

I like to think of it as motivation.

And, well, it worked. You've been living together for almost a year now.

You take out the dark red, almost black polish and return, jumping on the couch. Jason's on the phone, ordering pizza. He gives you his left hand and you tuck yourself against him, opening the polish and starting to paint his nails with the focus of a brain surgeon.

"Uh-huh, yeah, for delivery. Twenty minutes? Alright, thanks." He hangs up. "Ooh, my favorite."

"You better believe it, handsome. Only the best for my favorite boyfriend."

"Favorite?"

You shrug. "Yeah. Don't tell the others."

Jason gently takes the polish and sets it on the coffee table. You're confused—you've only painted two fingers.

"What're you—"

He cuts you off by grabbing your waist with his unpainted hand, pulling you against him and kissing your neck. You squeal in laughter, grasping at his shoulders.

"Jason!"

"I'll show you favorite," he says, pressing ticklish kisses down your throat. He has his painted hand in the air, away from his antics, because he knows you'll pout if the polish gets messed up.

"Uncle, uncle! Please." You pant, delighted, as Jason lets up. You're lying on his lap, and he pulls you in for a real kiss. You pull away from his mouth enough to say, "You know you're the only one for me, Jay."

He hums and kisses you again, rubbing your shoulder. You slacken in his grip, running your fingers through his hair. You twirl one of the silver curls around your finger.

"Much better," Jason says when you break for air.

"I'd never upset my meal ticket," you say, gleeful when he rolls his eyes.

"You're on thin ice, baby."

based on the trend from twitter (I think I’m not on there lmao)

Jason wasn’t the kind of guy who did early morning grocery runs. Usually, his nutritional pyramid consisted of takeout containers, chalky protein bars, and coffee brewed with enough caffeine to burn a hole through structural steel. But Alfred had been on his ass lately about “proper sustenance, Master Jason”—and when Alfred Pennyworth made a request, no one in the family, absolutely no one, dared to disagree.

So, that was how he found himself in his current predicament: awake way too early, hood pulled low over his forehead, and hands buried deep in the pockets of his leather jacket. He was doing his best to mind his own business, despite the suspicious glares from the staff. In Gotham, a man of Jason’s build lurking in a supermarket at 6:00 AM usually meant a robbery was imminent, not an innocent grocery run.

Fighting back an eye-roll at judgmental worried looks he was receiving, Jason wandered the cereal aisle of the half-empty store. The place smelled like damp cardboard and industrial floor cleaner. His cart was pathetic—a few frozen meals, a carton of eggs, and two boxes of sugar-free cereal he knew would just sit in his cupboard for months.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t cook. In fact, out of all his siblings, he was arguably the best, having spent hours in the manor kitchen learning personally from Alfred. It was just that coffee and Big Belly Burger were path-of-least-resistance fuel.

Sighing, Jason veered his cart toward the pasta aisle, deciding he might as well commit to the bit and buy something that required a stove, just to get the old man off his back. He was eyeing the sauces, debating between vodka and Alfredo, when he heard it.

A low, dramatic "Pew! Pew!" followed by the unmistakable thwack of plastic colliding with cardboard.

Jason froze. His brow furrowed as a rogue foam dart sailed through the air and bounced off a box of rigatoni. He tracked the trajectory just in time to see a blur of movement—tiny sneakers skidding around the corner and the sound of muffled giggles.

The culprit was small. Somewhere between five and seven. He had a shock of messy black hair that looked like it had never met a comb, a t-shirt featuring a faded, peeling Bat-symbol, and wide blue eyes that glinted with pure, unadulterated mischief.

Jason’s heart gave a strange, uncomfortable jolt.

Because that face? It was his.

Not as he looked now, of course. But as a kid—before the League, before the Pit, before death had pressed cold lips to his forehead. It was eerie. Like looking at a memory made flesh and given a sugar rush.

“Pew!” the kid shouted again, raising a neon-orange plastic blaster.

He pulled the trigger and the dart shot out, and caught Jason square between the eyes. The foam dart stuck there for an absurd, lingering beat, perched just above the bridge of his nose like a pathetic unicorn horn, before it finally lost the battle with gravity and fluttered to the floor.

Jason blinked, the suction cup mark likely still red on his skin.

“…Seriously, kid?” he muttered.

The kid didn't cower. Instead, he cackled, eyes sparkling like he’d just pulled off the heist of the century. He just stood there grinning up at Jason like they were old friends, or maybe like Jason was the final boss in a video game and the kid had just landed a critical hit.

“Gotcha!” the boy chirped, puffing out his chest with a pride that was painfully familiar. “You were totally not ready for that. You didn't even duck! You just stood there like a big dummy!”

Jason looked down at the miniature ghost of his own past, his mind racing through a dozen responses before settling on a dry, parental deadpan. He crossed his arms over his chest.

“Uh-huh. And what does your mom say about randomly shooting strangers in the face?”

The kid’s triumphant stance faltered. The neon-orange blaster lowered an inch as he narrowed his eyes, shifting his weight from one light-up sneaker to the other as if preparing to make a break for the frozen foods section.

“You ain’t gonna tell her, are you?” the boy asked, his voice dropping as he looked at Jason suspiciously.

Jason felt a ghost of a smirk pull at the corner of his mouth. He recognized that tone. That was the 'I-know-I'm-in-trouble-but-I'm-betting-on-your-coolness' tone.

“Depends,” Jason grunted. He leaned his hip against the handle of his cart, glancing down at the foam dart resting on the linoleum. “You got a name, kid?”

The boy puffed his chest back out, his bravado returning in a sudden surge. “I’m AJ,” he declared. “And I’m the best shot in the whole store.”

“AJ, huh?” Jason repeated. The name felt heavy and strange in his mouth. “Where’s your mom? Gotham supermarkets aren't exactly playgrounds, AJ—especially not at six in the morning.”

AJ shrugged with a nonchalance that only a bored kid could pull off. He pointed a thumb vaguely toward the produce section. “Gave her the slip,” he whispered conspiratorially. “She’s over there looking at the boring green stuff.”

Jason let out a weary sigh—the kind that usually followed a lecture from Bruce. “Well, why don’t you go find her before you make her worry? A kid like you shouldn't be wandering the aisles solo.”

AJ grumbled something under his breath about “being a big kid” and stooped to retrieve his foam projectile from the linoleum. Taking the hint, Jason turned back to the wall of red sauces. He grabbed a jar of spicy vodka sauce and tossed it into his cart alongside a box of penne. He turned his back, fully expecting the miniature menace to have scampered off.

But no.

The kid was still there. Jason tried to tell himself that this kid wasn't his problem—he had groceries to buy and a quiet apartment to get back to. He turned and continued down the aisle, only to hear the rhythmic, wet slap-slap of sneakers against the floor.

Jason tried to ignore him and kept walking, weaving his way toward the frozen food section. The kid kept pace, his short legs working double-time to match Jason’s much longer strides.

“…Are you seriously tailing me?” Jason asked, not looking back as he yanked open a freezer door to grab a box of waffles.

“Obviously,” AJ stated, his tone suggesting Jason was the one being slow on the uptake.

Jason cut him a sidelong, incredulous glance. “Why?”

“Need to make sure you aren’t doing something suspicious,” the boy declared, narrowing his eyes at the cart. 

Jason raised a brow. “I’m literally holding frozen waffles, man.”

“Exactly!” AJ eyed the box disdainfully, his nose crinkling in pure, unadulterated judgment. “Original? Really?”

“You judging my waffle choices now?”

“Kind of,” the boy said, crossing his arms over his faded Bat-shirt. “The chocolate chip ones are better. Everybody knows that. The originals are for old people.”

Jason opened his mouth to defend his honour, but the words died in his throat. He looked at the kid’s stubborn expression and felt a dizzying surge of déjà vu. It was like arguing with a time-traveling version of himself—the version that hadn't yet learned the world was a meat grinder. The same stubborn streak, the same unsolicited opinions, and that same defiant tilt of the head that had once driven Bruce Wayne to the brink of insanity.

“Fine,” Jason grumbled, swapping the boxes. “Happy?”

AJ nodded once, a look of solemn approval crossing his face as if he’d just successfully mentored a particularly slow student. “Wise choice.”

Jason let out a huff that was half-annoyance and half-disbelief. He turned away, moving deeper into the frozen aisle to grab a bag of pizza rolls—because if he was already failing Alfred’s "real food" mandate by buying chocolate chip waffles, he might as well go all in on the processed junk.

AJ stepped closer, squinting at the bag. “Pepperoni or Triple Cheese?”

“Triple Cheese,” Jason said, his tone daring the kid to disagree.

The boy considered this for a long moment, tapping his chin with the barrel of his plastic blaster. “Acceptable,” he finally declared. “But you gotta cook 'em in the oven. The microwave makes 'em squishy, and squishy is gross.”

Jason froze, his hand hovering over the handle of his cart.

That was the exact same thing he told Damian when introducing the brat to the wonders of frozen snacks. The uncanny nature of the situation was starting to move past ‘weird coincidence’ and into ‘full-blown existential crisis’ territory.

“Right. No squishy pizza rolls. Got it,” Jason muttered, tossing the bag into the cart on top of the vodka sauce. He started walking again, his boots thumping heavily against the linoleum, half-expecting the kid to finally head back toward the produce.

Instead, AJ fell right back into step. The rhythmic squeak of neon sneakers kept perfect time beside the heavy thud of Jason’s combat boots. It was a bizarre sight: a hulking, scarred vigilante in a leather jacket who looked more like a criminal than a customer, being followed through the fluorescent wasteland by a miniature gap-toothed child with a Nerf gun and light up sneakers.

“You’re still here,” Jason noted, not looking down.

“Gotta make sure you’re getting the good snacks,” AJ stated, his tone suggesting this was a heavy burden he’d been forced to carry. “Grown-ups are bad at picking snacks. They always buy stuff that looks like tree bark.”

Jason let out a short, rough sound that might have been a laugh in a different life. “I’m just a guy trying to get groceries before the sun comes up, kid. Which is what you should be doing. With your mother. Who is probably currently calling the GCPD because her mini-terrorist went AWOL in the pasta aisle.”

“She’s fine,” AJ said, completely unfazed as he waved Jason off. “She’s probably at the deli counter by now. Besides, she told me to stay close. I’m just staying close to you now.”

Jason stopped the cart so abruptly the wheels squealed. He looked down at the boy, who didn't even have the decency to look intimidated.

“That’s not how ‘staying close’ works, kid,” Jason grunted. “You’re supposed to stay close to the person who actually knows you. Not the guy who looks like he’s about to start a bar fight.”

AJ looked Jason up and down—his eyes lingering on the faint scar on Jason’s jaw and the hardened set of his shoulders—before he shrugged. “You look like you can handle yourself. Mom says Gotham is dangerous. If I’m with you, nobody’s gonna mess with me. You’re like a big, grumpy shield.”

Jason felt a muscle in his jaw twitch. He wasn't sure if he should be impressed by the kid’s survival instincts or terrified by his total lack of a stranger-danger filter.

“Do you trust every suspicious-looking guy you come across?” Jason asked, his voice dropping into a low, warning rumble. 

He couldn't decide what was worse: the heart attack this kid’s mother was likely having, or the terrifyingly lack of ‘stranger danger’ lessons she hadn’t seemed to have taught him.

AJ tilted his head, his messy black hair falling over one eye in a way that made Jason’s chest tighten with a weird, phantom ache.

“You’re not suspicious,” AJ countered, his blue eyes clear and infuriatingly observant. “You’re wearing a Bat-shirt under your jacket. I saw the edge of it. People who like Batman don’t snatch kids.”

Jason instinctively pulled his leather jacket tighter, cursing the fact that he’d grabbed an old joke shirt Dick had gotten him in his pre-coffee haze. He’d been clocked by a child who barely reached his hip.

“It’s a laundry day shirt,” Jason snapped. “And I’m not a hero, kid.”

AJ flinched at the harsh edge of Jason's voice. Seeing the kid’s dejected expression sent a sharp, unexpected pang through Jason’s heart. It was like watching a mirror of his younger self getting scolded, and the guilt was instantaneous.

Jason let out a long, weary sigh, intentionally softening his tone. “Hey. Look, I’m sorry. I’m just... not a morning person. You a big Batman fan, kid?”

AJ blinked, the dejection vanishing as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a noncommittal shrug. “He’s alright,” he muttered, kicking at the floor with a his sneaker.

Jason raised a brow, genuinely surprised. In Gotham, you were usually a fanatic or a critic; there was rarely a middle ground for the Big Bad Bat. “Just okay? Tough crowd. So who’s your favourite, then? Nightwing?”

Jason figured it was a safe bet. Dick had always been the family’s resident golden boy—a hit with the kids, the women, and pretty much anyone with a pulse.

AJ scoffed, a sound so uncannily like Jason’s own derisive snort that it made his skin crawl. “No. I mean, he’s cool and he does all the flippy stuff, but Red Hood is the best.”

Jason nearly choked on his own breath. He gripped the handle of the shopping cart so hard the plastic groaned.

“Red Hood?” he repeated, his voice dropping into a low, stunned rasp. “Why him? He’s… he’s kind of a criminal, isn't he?”

“No way! He’s the toughest,” AJ declared, puffing out his chest as he waved his plastic blaster. “He protects the neighbourhoods the other guys forget about. My mom says he’s got a good heart. Plus, he’s got a cool helmet and a gun.”

Again, Jason didn't know whether to feel immensely proud or deeply concerned for the kid’s moral compass. Before he could decide, a frantic voice sliced through the aisle.

“AJ? AJ! Oh my god! There you are!”

Jason froze. He recognized that voice. He’d expected the kid’s mom to be some stranger and that he’d hand off this miniature headache and go back to his hollow apartment. 

Yet, he found himself looking at the one person he’d never expected to encounter in a grocery store at dawn. You were still as beautiful as he remembered—older, perhaps, but with that same light in your eyes that he’d tried so hard to forget.

“AJ!” You gasped, dropping to your knees and pulling the boy into a crushing hug. “Don’t you ever—ever—do that again! I told you to stay close!”

“I was, Mom. I was just doing recon,” AJ muffled into your shoulder, his bravado finally wavering in the face of your genuine fear. He gestured a small, sticky hand toward Jason. “and I found a guy with a Bat-shirt. He’s cool.”

You let out a shaky, jagged breath, pressing a frantic kiss to the top of his messy black hair. You started to look up, a "thank you" already forming on your lips for the stranger who’d kept your son safe.

The words died on your lips.

Jason stood there, silhouetted by the flickering fluorescent lights, looking down at the two of you. His hood was still up, but there was no hiding the way he was staring—like a man finding water in the middle of a desert he’d long since accepted would be his grave.

“...Jason?” you breathed. The name was barely a whisper, trembling with years worth of grief, confusion, and questions.

The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the low, industrial hum of the nearby freezer cases. Jason didn't know what to say. He didn't know if he could speak. His mind was too busy doing the math—tracking the timeline, looking at AJ’s messy black hair, those defiant blue eyes, and the past he’d tried so hard to bury.

AJ looked between the two of you, his brow furrowing as he sensed the sudden shift. The suspicion returned to his face in an instant.

“Wait,” the boy said, his voice cutting through the heavy air. “You know Waffle Man?”

Jason blinked, the spell breaking just enough for him to glance down at the kid. “Waffle Man?”

AJ nodded firmly, his neon-orange blaster tucked back under his arm. “Well, you haven’t told me your name, and your waffle taste is just…bad.”

“That doesn't explain why I should be Waffle Man,” Jason grumbled, though his irritation was paper-thin. He turned his attention back to you as you stood up slowly, your legs looking like they might give out at any second.

Your hand stayed protectively on AJ’s shoulder, your fingers trembling against the faded fabric of his Bat-shirt.

“How… we had a funeral,” you whispered. “There was a casket. I was there, Jason. I was there when they buried you.”

“It’s a long story,” Jason finally managed. His voice sounded like it was being dragged over broken glass—raw, jagged, and full of the things he couldn't say. “A really… really complicated one.”

The silence in the aisle felt like it was about to suffocate. You swallowed hard, your gaze flickering between Jason’s scarred face and the son standing at your side.

“AJ,” you said, your voice shaking as you tightened your grip on the boy’s shoulder. “Go… go grab a box of ice cream. Put it in the cart. I need to talk to… to this man.”

“But Mom—”

“Now, AJ.”

The boy grumbled, shooting Jason one last suspicious look before trudging toward the cart. Jason watched him go, his heart hammering against his ribs. He turned back to you.

“Is he…?”

“Yeah,” You rasped, not bothering to hide the truth. “He’s literally your carbon copy Jay.”

Jason let out a dry, shaky snort. He was clearly fighting to keep his expression from shattering. “Yeah… I can tell. He’s gotta be a handful.”

You gave him a watery, fragile smile. “He’s stubborn as hell, but he has a good heart.”

Jason’s hand dropped from the cart, his fingers twitching as if he wanted to reach out but didn't know if he still had the right. The hum of the freezer felt as if it was deafening now—a steady, industrial drone that underscored the absolute wreckage of the last few minutes.

“Does Bruce know?” he asked, his voice barely audible.

You shook your head, the movement slow and heavy. “After the funeral… I just couldn’t stay. I found out about the pregnancy late, and by then, everything was different. Bruce wasn’t the same. I didn’t want him to look at AJ and see a replacement. I didn't want my son to be a second chance to continue the Ro—the mantle.”

Jason’s gaze flickered to AJ, who was currently trying to see if he could balance a box of ice cream on his head. The kid looked so remarkably normal despite the Bat-logo on his chest.

“You did the right thing,” Jason rasped, his throat tight enough to ache. “He shouldn’t be anywhere near that house. Or me.”

“Don’t say that,” you whispered, reaching out to tentatively touch his sleeve. The leather was cold, but the man beneath it was radiating heat, solid and terrifyingly real. “He’s been asking about his dad since he could talk. I told him his father was a brave man—someone who fought for the people who couldn’t fight for themselves. Someone he should be proud of.”

Jason swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He looked like he’d been struck. “You... you’d actually want me in his life?”

You suddenly looked uncertain, your hand fluttering away from his arm as if you’d overstepped. “I—I won’t force him on you, Jason. It’s been years. You have a life, and I don’t know what that looks like now—”

“No!” he interrupted. The word burst out of him with a raw intensity that made AJ’s head snap up from where he was still trying to pick an ice cream flavour.

Jason immediately checked himself, lowering his voice and stepping closer until his broad shoulders shielded you from the rest of the aisle. “I mean... I want to. I want to know him. I want to know... you.”

Your eyes widened, shimmering with unshed tears. “Then why didn't you look for me?” you croaked, the pain of a hundred lonely nights finally bleeding into your voice. “When you came back to Gotham... why didn't you find me?”

Jason flinched as if you’d struck him.

“When I... returned... I wasn’t a good man,” he admitted, his voice dropping to a gravelly, raw confession. “My mind was a mess, and the only thing I had left was a need for revenge. I didn’t want you to see what I’d become—someone filled with bitterness and enough hate to burn this city down. I stayed away because I hoped you’d moved on. I thought you were safer if I remained a memory.”

You shook your head slowly, a single tear finally escaping. “How could I?” you whispered, your voice breaking. “How could I ever move on from you?”

The distance between you vanished. Jason took a final step forward, his large, calloused hand rising to cup your cheek with a tenderness that seemed at odds with his rugged, battle-hardened frame. His thumb brushed away the salt of your tear, his touch lingering as if he were memorizing the warmth of your skin to prove you weren't another hallucination.

“If I had known about AJ... I would’ve searched every inch of this earth for you both,” Jason swore, his eyes burning with a fierce, new purpose. “I know you have questions—years of them—and I promise I’ll answer every single one. But you need to know one thing: it’s always been you. No matter where I went, no matter how dark it got... it was always you.”

A choked sob escaped your throat. You weren’t sure who moved first, but the world around you seemed to slip away. Suddenly, you were locked in a desperate embrace—two people finally reuniting against years of impossible odds.

Jason pulled back slightly, and then his mouth met yours with a hunger that was almost overwhelming. He kissed you like a man who had been parched for a lifetime and had finally found a drop of water. His hands tangled in your hair, pulling you closer as if he were trying to anchor himself to the reality of you—terrified that if he let go, he’d wake up back in the dark. 

In that moment, the sterile supermarket and the hum of the freezers were gone. There was only the heat of you, the taste of salt and coffee, and the impossible truth that he was finally home.

A sharp, high-pitched "Eww!" suddenly cut through the air.

You pulled apart, breathless and flushed. Jason kept his forehead resting against yours for a lingering beat, his chest heaving. He finally glanced down to see AJ now standing by the cart, his face twisted in a mask of pure, childish disgust.

Jason cleared his throat, his face flushing a deep, uncharacteristic red as he slowly untangled his fingers from your hair. He looked down at his son, his expression a chaotic mix of sheepishness and overwhelming pride.

“Why are you doing mushy stuff with my mom?” AJ demanded. His voice dropped into a suspicious growl—the exact same one Jason used during interrogations, minus the deeper register and the actual intimidation factor. “And don’t think she’s gonna buy your waffles for you just ‘cause you’re moochin’ on her. We’re on a budget!”

Jason let out a shaky, breathy laugh, for a fleeting second he glanced at you seeing your amused expression before he turned to look at the boy.

Jason let out a shaky, breathy laugh. For a fleeting second, he glanced at you, catching your amused expression before he turned back to the boy.

“I… uh… I…”

“AJ…” You knelt down, resting your hands on his small shoulders to ground yourself as much as him. “I’m going to tell you something, and it might be a big shock. But this man… he’s—”

“My dad who’s also secretly Red Hood?” AJ interrupted. His tone was entirely matter-of-fact as he adjusted the grip on his toy gun.

The silence that followed was utterly stunned. Both you and Jason blinked in synchronized shock. You looked up at Jason, your eyes wide with a silent, frantic question: Is that last part true?

Jason could only offer a slow, stunned nod, his face pale beneath the grocery store lights. He looked back down at the boy, his voice failing him.

“How…?” you breathed, looking back at your son. “AJ, how could you possibly know that?”

AJ rolled his eyes—a gesture so perfectly ‘Jason’ it made your head spin. He pointed a small, accusatory finger at Jason’s chest.

“Duh. I told you, I was doing recon,” AJ stated, with a huff. “I saw that old picture of you two from school, and he looks exactly like me. Plus, the date he went away matches the second Robin. And he’s also literally wearing Red Hood’s leather jacket right now.”

“Plus,” AJ added, puffing out his chest with a smirk of pure, unadulterated victory. “Red Hood is the best, and my dad is the best. It’s easy math.”

Jason let out a low, impressed whistle, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair. “Well. I guess I don’t need to worry about his observation skills. The kid’s a natural.”

Jason let out a low, impressed whistle, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair. “Well. I guess I don’t need to worry about his observation skills. The kid’s a natural.”

“Just another thing he gets from you,” you laughed, the sound bright and shaky against the backdrop of the quiet supermarket.

Jason cut you a sidelong, knowing look. “I don’t know about that. If I recall, you were the one who figured me out all those years ago with even less to go on. This?” He gestured to the tiny detective in the light-up sneakers. “This is all you.”

AJ just shrugged, already moving back toward the cart. “Whatever. Can we go now? Dad needs to pay for my chocolate chip waffles.”

The word ‘Dad’ hit Jason like a freight train, his eyes instantly welling up again as he watched the boy swagger down the aisle. He looked at you, a dazed, lopsided grin spreading across his face.

“I think I’m in a lot of trouble, aren't I?” he rasped, his voice thick with a mix of terror and absolute wonder.

“You have no idea,” you laughed softly, reaching out to interlace your fingers with his. Your hand was small in his, but it slotted perfectly against his. “He’s exactly like you, Jason. Heaven help us both.”

Jason squeezed your hand, a silent promise in the gesture. He looked toward the cart where his miniature double was currently trying to sneak in a bag of gummy worms into the mix.

“Alright, kid,” Jason called out, his voice regaining some of its old strength. “Let's go. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

You dodge the telephone pole before you ram into it. The close call does nothing to discourage you from continuing to walk backwards. Dick shakes his head.

"Sure, fine, but you're actually fun to be around, Gray."

"I'm glad you think so, sweetheart, I really do try. Hot dog cart!"

You walk around said hot dog cart. Dick sighs at you, fondly exasperated.

"Can't I persuade you away from walking backward, dearest darlingest?"

"I'm practicing for my initiation into the Titans," you say. "Anyways. Where was I? Oh, yeah. If you met this guy, you'd get it. He has the personality of desk gum."

"Is that gum you keep in your desk, or..."

"It's the gum kids stick under school desks that you probably have to use a blowtorch to remove. And he acts just like that! You know he made her give up a—"

"Babe!"

Your next step is wrong as you cross a curb. The dip in the sidewalk makes you wobble backwards, and you squeal in surprise, froyo flying out of your hand.

You brace yourself to sit hard on your butt. Instead, a strong arm wraps around your waist and yanks you back to solid ground. Dick's other hand darts out and neatly catches your froyo cup.

"Are you okay?" Dick doesn't wait for your answer, herding you to a nearby table in front of a cafe. He sets everything on the table and takes your ankle in hand, rolling it experimentally.

"Dickie, I'm fine," you say, petting his head. "Just a stumble."

He huffs, then looks at you, hair falling into eyes.

"Now will you walk forward?"

"Only if you'll hold my hand," you say, wiggling your fingers.

"Is that supposed to be a bargain? I'm basically getting two things I want," Dick says with a grin.

He pulls you to your feet and hands you your froyo, but not your bag. When you reach for it, he tuts.

"Ah-ah. How will you hold my hand, then? Plus, you need at least one hand free to balance."

"You'll always catch me, though," you say.