Ray

Jason had stayed over the night before, which wasn’t unusual anymore despite the lack of expectations you’d once agreed upon. Sometimes he left after sex, but lately he spent more nights sprawled across half your mattress, sleeping like a man who’d spent years personally fighting the concept of rest and finally lost.

You woke to an empty bed and the lingering smell of the soap he’d started bringing over because, according to him, yours was too expensive to waste. His boots were gone from beside the bedroom door, his jacket was missing from the chair, and there was nothing strange about any of it until you wandered into the kitchen and opened the cabinet above the coffee maker. 

The door didn’t sag. For nearly a month, one hinge had been loose enough that you needed to lift the cabinet door before shutting it. You’d complained about it repeatedly without remembering to buy the right screwdriver, and now it closed perfectly.

A folded scrap of paper sat on the counter: Buy a toolbox. An actual one. The little pink thing in your junk drawer doesn’t count.

You stared at the note, then tested the cabinet again as though the hinge might somehow explain itself.

The problem wasn’t the repair. It was that Jason had noticed, listened to you complain about something stupid, remembered it, and fixed it before leaving. You knew exactly what he ordered from the Thai place around the corner; he knew which movie you put on when you couldn’t sleep. There was a toothbrush in your bathroom neither of you had ever discussed, a mug in your cabinet he automatically reached for, and a spare shirt folded in your dresser that had quietly become his without either of you deciding it should be there.

Somewhere during the last six months, Jason had stopped feeling like someone you slept with and become the person you wanted to tell things to.

“Oh, fuck.”

You sat down.

Your phone was already in your hand before you realized you’d reached for it. The last message between you was still open.

home

That was all Jason sent when he left your apartment early that morning.

You’d started asking him to let you know he made it back safely months ago. Somewhere along the way, he’d stopped waiting for you to ask.

Your thumb hovered above the keyboard. You wanted to tell him the cabinet looked good, insult him for insulting your toolbox, ask whether he’d eaten breakfast, and send him the picture you’d taken yesterday of a dog in a tiny raincoat because he’d pretended the last one hadn’t made him laugh.

Instead, you locked your phone and set it facedown.

Jason had told you exactly what he was willing to give you.

You’d agreed.

Falling in love with him didn’t change the terms just because you suddenly wished it did.

So you decided to stop feeding it.

You didn’t disappear. Jason had never done anything cruel to you, and you refused to punish him for failing to return feelings you’d never admitted having.

You simply stopped reaching first.

There were no more messages at 11 pm asking whether he was awake, no pictures of whatever disastrous dinner you’d attempted with an invitation to come save you from yourself, and no pointless texts about something you’d seen that reminded you of him. When Jason contacted you, you answered. When he came over, you let him in. When he kissed you, you kissed him back.

You just stopped being the reason anything started.

It took him three weeks to mention it.

“You’ve been busy lately.”

You glanced over from the refrigerator. Jason was leaning against your kitchen counter with his arms crossed, watching you decide whether leftover noodles had reached the point where eating them would qualify as self-harm.

“Sort of.”

“With what?”

“Life.”

His mouth flattened. You turned back toward the refrigerator before he could read anything useful in your face, but the weight of his stare stayed between your shoulder blades.

“You’re staring at me.”

“I’m standing in your kitchen.”

“You manage to do that without glaring most of the time.”

“I’m not glaring.”

You looked at him.

Jason was absolutely glaring.

You closed the refrigerator with the noodles in hand. “Did you come over to critique my facial expressions, or were you planning on doing something useful?”

His eyes dropped briefly to your mouth.

That familiar heat settled between you so quickly it almost hurt.

Twenty minutes later, dinner had been abandoned on the counter and Jason had you pinned beneath him on the couch.

Nothing about this part had changed. You knew the weight of him, the rough warmth of his hands, and the way his breathing shifted when you dragged your nails over his shoulders. You knew exactly how his jaw tightened when you whispered his name against his mouth and how Jason had a habit of letting kisses linger long past the point where either of you could pretend they were incidental.

That knowledge had become dangerous.

Jason’s mouth moved along your throat, warm and unhurried, and you closed your eyes.

You loved him.

The thought came without panic this time. It simply existed, settled beneath your ribs like something that had been there far longer than you wanted to admit.

When Jason left several hours later, you didn’t ask when you’d see him again.

He paused at the door as though waiting for something.

For one ridiculous second, you thought he might ask instead.

Then his hands disappeared into his jacket pockets. “Later.”

“Later.”

He left, and you stood in the hallway until the elevator doors closed.

Jason began coming over more often after that.

You didn’t notice the pattern immediately because he always had a reason. Once, he’d apparently ordered too much takeout and decided your stomach was the obvious place to dispose of half of it. Another time, he claimed he’d been nearby, which you let pass without pointing out that Gotham was enormous and he lived nowhere near you.

Then he arrived on a Wednesday evening carrying the book you’d mentioned wanting to read two weeks earlier.

“Found it used.”

You stared at the paperback.

Jason glanced down at it as though he’d only just noticed what he was holding. “You said you wanted it.”

“I did.”

“So take it.”

You accepted the book. “Thanks.”

He shrugged, stayed for dinner, and slept in your bed.

By the beginning of the second month, you were starting to think distancing yourself from Jason might have been much easier if Jason had shown any interest in cooperating.

The less often you reached for him, the more frequently he appeared.

You told yourself it meant he’d noticed the change in routine and disliked it. That didn’t make it love.

Friends with benefits still required the friends part, and Jason had never pretended he didn’t care about you. He trusted you enough to sleep beside you, show up injured, and let you see pieces of him most people never got near. You were familiar and safe, someone who knew his most dangerous secret and had never demanded access to everything behind it.

You could be important to him without being what you wanted to be.

That distinction was exactly why you said yes when a guy from work asked you to dinner.

You almost refused automatically. Then you pictured another month of Jason arriving with takeout and bruised knuckles, another month of waking beside him and pretending you didn’t want to turn into his chest, and another month of hoping every tiny kindness meant something he had explicitly told you it didn’t.

The date was Friday, and Jason came over Wednesday night. Of course he did.

He kissed you before the front door had fully closed.

There was something slightly impatient beneath the familiarity that evening, but he’d arrived restless enough that you assumed whatever had happened before he reached your apartment had followed him inside. You didn’t ask. Jason didn’t volunteer.

His hands settled around your waist as he backed you against the door, his mouth moving over yours with enough force to catch your breath.

“You planning on saying hello?” you murmured when he shifted toward your jaw.

“Hello.”

“That was convincing.”

“You want me to leave?”

Your fingers hooked through the belt loops of his jeans and pulled him closer. “No.”

His mouth curved against yours before he kissed you again.

Jason had always been good at taking you apart because he paid attention. By the time you reached the bedroom, your shirt was somewhere in the hallway, and his had landed beside the foot of the bed. His mouth dragged over your throat while he pushed you backward onto the mattress, one hand sliding beneath the waistband of your shorts.

Your breath hitched when his fingers brushed over you through your underwear.

“Jason.”

“I know.”

Your hips moved before you could stop them, and you caught his jaw to pull him down before the faint curl at the corner of his mouth could become anything smug enough to irritate you.

His laugh disappeared into the kiss.

Then his hand slipped beneath the fabric, and neither of you had much interest in talking anymore.

Jason knew exactly how to touch you. He knew when you wanted more pressure from the way your thighs tightened around his wrist, knew the small tilt of your hips that meant his fingers were where you needed them, and knew better than to rush just because your breathing had already gone uneven.

He worked a second finger inside you and curled them.

You bit down on his shoulder.

“Fuck.”

His erection pressed hard against your thigh, and you reached between you, but Jason caught your wrist before you got far.

“Not yet.”

You looked at him.

His thumb moved over your clit, and your response died in your throat.

Jason watched your face while he worked you higher, his forehead resting against yours. When your fingers slid into his hair, he lowered his mouth beneath your jaw and kissed there as though he had all the time in the world.

That was another thing that had changed.

Months ago, sex with Jason had been fast almost as often as it was slow, all impatient mouths and wandering hands because neither of you needed it to mean anything beyond wanting each other.

Lately, Jason lingered. He touched you as if there were nowhere else he needed or wanted to be.

Your orgasm exploded through you hard enough to steal your breath, and Jason stayed with you until the last tremor faded beneath his hand.

You were still catching your breath when Jason hooked his fingers into the waistband of your shorts and underwear and pulled them down your legs. He tossed them aside before shifting lower, his mouth brushing the inside of your thigh.

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

His mouth settled over you before you could say anything else.

Your head dropped back against the pillow.

Jason’s hand flattened against your lower stomach when your hips tried to lift, holding you steady while his tongue moved over your clit in slow, deliberate strokes. You tightened your fingers in his hair, and the groan he made against you sent another rush of heat through your body.

By the time you came again, your thighs were trembling around his shoulders.

Jason kissed his way back up your body and settled over you. “Still alive?”

“Barely.”

“Good.”

You pulled him down before he could turn it into a full conversation.

The kiss tasted like you. Familiarity twisted painfully through your chest as your hands pulled his jeans open and pushed them lower. Jason inhaled sharply when your hand closed around him, his forehead dropping against your shoulder as you stroked him.

You knew this too. The weight of him in your palm, the way his hips shifted instinctively toward your touch, and the quiet curse he breathed when your thumb passed over the head of his cock.

Jason caught your wrist after another stroke and kissed you.

His jeans and boxer briefs ended up on the floor with the rest of your clothes. Then he settled between your thighs, one hand sliding beneath your leg.

The first push inside you stole whatever thought you’d been trying to hold onto.

You exhaled his name.

Jason stopped automatically. Every time, no matter how easily your body accepted him by now, he gave you that moment.

Your hands moved over his shoulders before you nodded.

He watched your face once more, then began to move.

Each thrust was slow enough to feel everything, his body pressing yours deeper into the mattress while your legs wrapped around his hips. Jason kissed you, and you tried desperately to stay inside the moment instead of thinking about Friday.

About a restaurant with someone who wasn’t Jason.

About sitting across from another man and learning which stories made him smile, which food he hated, which stupid little things he remembered weeks later.

About whether enough evenings like that could eventually make you stop wanting the person inside you now.

Jason’s hand tightened around your thigh. “Where’d you go?”

You blinked up at him.

His pace had slowed.

“You’re thinking.”

“I do that occasionally.”

“Not like this.”

You wanted to laugh, but Jason’s expression stayed too serious. “You okay?”

There it was again.

The tenderness he kept giving you without naming.

“I’m fine.” You caught the back of his neck and kissed him.

Jason hesitated before your hips moved beneath him and pulled him back into the rhythm.

The pace gradually sharpened. One hand braced beside your head while the other slid between your bodies, finding your clit with practiced ease.

You gasped his name.

“I’ve got you.”

That nearly broke you.

Your orgasm came quickly, tightening around him until Jason swore and buried his face against your neck. His thrusts lost their rhythm, and a few moments later, his whole body went tense against yours.

For a while, neither of you moved.

Jason’s weight pressed you pleasantly into the mattress while his breathing slowed against your skin. Usually, this was your favorite part—the quiet afterward, when there was nothing left for either of you to perform, and Jason softened around the edges without seeming to notice.

Tonight, you wished he would move before the quiet afterward made it any harder to say what you’d already decided.

Eventually, he lifted his head. “Water?”

“Yeah.”

He kissed your shoulder before pulling away and disappearing into the bathroom to clean up. You listened to the faucet run while you stared at the ceiling, rehearsing words you’d already decided you had to say.

Jason returned with a glass of water and sat beside you against the headboard. You drank half before setting it on the nightstand.

“Just so you know, I’m not going to be around Friday.”

Jason was reaching for his underwear. His hand paused before he picked them up. “Okay.”

“I have plans.”

He pulled them on, still not looking at you.

You could have stopped there.

Instead, because some self-destructive part of you apparently needed to see his reaction, you said, “A date.”

Jason went completely still. You watched the muscles across his back tighten before he finally looked over his shoulder.

“A date?”

“Yeah. A guy from work.”

Something closed in his expression.

“Right.”

You swallowed. “And I think I’m going to take a break from this for a little while.”

His entire body seemed to lock. “From this.”

You hated how small your voice sounded. “Yeah.”

Jason reached for his jeans.

You pulled the sheet higher over yourself. “If I’m going to try seeing somebody, I don’t think sleeping with you at the same time is a great idea.”

“You don’t owe me an explanation.”

The words came too quickly.

“I know.”

He stood and dragged his jeans on.

That was it. He gave you no indication that the floor had shifted beneath him the way some stupid, hopeful part of you had wanted it to.

You watched him button his jeans. “He asked me to dinner.”

“Sounds nice.”

“Jason.”

He reached for his shirt.

“Are you okay?”

His eyes flicked toward you. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’re acting weird.”

“I’m getting dressed.”

“You usually stay.”

The movement of his hands slowed.

For one moment, you thought he might turn around and say something that changed everything.

Instead, he pulled the shirt over his head. “Got something to do.”

“At eleven-thirty?”

“Red Hood keeps weird hours.”

It was the closest he’d come in months to volunteering anything about that part of his life, and you knew immediately that it was an excuse.

That hurt worse than if he’d simply told you he wanted to leave. “Okay.”

Jason grabbed his jacket.

You hated yourself enough to try once more. “You don’t have to go right now.”

His eyes met yours.

Whatever was there vanished too quickly for you to name.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I do.”

The bedroom door closed behind him. A few seconds later, the front door followed.

You stayed exactly where you were until the silence became unbearable.

Eventually, you reached for your phone and opened the message thread you’d spent two months teaching yourself not to start.

You stared at it.

Jason never sent home.

Jason made it four blocks before pulling his bike to the curb.

He sat beneath a flickering streetlight with both hands wrapped around the handlebars and tried to understand why it felt like someone had reached into his chest and twisted.

You had a date, and apparently you were putting the arrangement on hold because of it.

Jason knew you were allowed to date. Sexual exclusivity had never meant romantic exclusivity, and dinner with some guy from work didn’t break a single rule you’d made together. If anything, telling Jason you wanted to pause before things went any further was exactly what the agreement required.

You had done everything right.

So there was absolutely no reason he should feel like he’d just been thrown off a roof.

He started the bike again and made it home without remembering much of the ride.

He didn’t text you.

Then he spent most of Thursday thinking about the date.

That pissed him off even more.

The guy worked with you, which meant he saw you during the day and knew pieces of your life Jason only heard about afterward. He probably knew what you ordered for lunch, which coworker made you complain most often, and whether you’d changed your mind about the project you’d been worrying over last week.

Jason hated him.

Jason didn’t know his name.

By Friday afternoon, the situation had become intolerable.

He caught himself wondering what you were wearing, whether the asshole would compliment you, and whether you’d laugh at whatever stupid shit he said because you had a habit of laughing harder when you were trying not to.

At seven, Jason checked his phone. Fifteen minutes later, he checked again and found exactly the same nothing waiting for him.

Of course there was nothing. Why the fuck would you text him while you were on a date?

He threw the phone onto the couch and lasted all of two minutes before picking it back up.

By Saturday, irritation had curdled into something much worse.

Jason still didn’t text.

Neither did you.

Sunday passed, then Monday, and by Tuesday night Jason was sitting in Dick’s apartment while his older brother watched him peel the label from a beer bottle, one strip at a time.

Dick let him brood for several minutes before finally asking, “You planning on telling me what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

Dick glanced at the shredded paper collecting beneath Jason’s thumb and wisely didn’t bother arguing.

Jason lasted another thirty seconds. 

“You ever hate somebody you’ve never met?”

Dick’s eyebrows lifted. “That feels specific.”

“Forget it.”

“Absolutely not.”

Jason regretted coming here, but Dick seemed perfectly willing to wait him out.

Eventually, Jason muttered, “She went on a date.”

Understanding arrived slowly across Dick’s face. “The woman you’ve been seeing?”

“We’re not seeing each other.”

“You’re sleeping together.”

“Were.”

That got his attention.

Jason explained enough to make the problem clear: the arrangement, the date, the fact that you’d put things on hold, and the deeply inconvenient reality that he’d spent nearly a week wanting to hunt down a man whose name he didn’t even know.

Dick listened until Jason ran out of ways to make it sound reasonable.

Then he asked, “Do you want her dating other people?”

Jason looked away.

“Do you want to stop sleeping with her?”

“No.”

“Do you want to stop spending time with her when sex isn’t involved?”

Jason’s silence answered that one too.

Dick stared at him for several seconds as realization replaced confusion.

“Oh my God.”

“Don’t.”

“You’re in love with her, you fucking idiot.”

Jason laughed once, but there wasn’t anything amused in it. “Fuck off.”

Dick didn’t. Instead, he reminded Jason that the last time he visited, Jason had spent twenty minutes explaining why your bookshelf was structurally offensive before showing him pictures of the repair. Before that, Jason had complained because you never remembered to charge your phone. Somehow Dick knew your coffee order, your work schedule, which books you kept beside your bed, and that Jason had half a drawer in your apartment.

By the time the silence settled again, the argument had gone out of him.

He thought about the loose cabinet hinge he’d fixed because it annoyed you, the toothbrush beside yours, and the messages from you he’d begun expecting without ever realizing it. Most of all, he thought about how rarely they came unless he started the conversation himself.

“She stopped reaching out.”

Dick’s expression softened. “When?”

“A while ago. Month, maybe two.”

“And you kept seeing her?”

“I kept going over to her place.”

The words sounded different once they were said out loud.

Jason rubbed one hand over his face.

The less you reached for him, the more often he’d gone looking for you. He’d noticed the absence long before he understood what it meant.

Dick leaned forward. “Talk to her.”

“Yeah, great idea. I’ll go tell the woman who just went on a date with somebody else that I fell in love with her after specifically telling her feelings weren’t part of the deal.”

Dick was quiet for a moment. “You’re allowed to change your mind, Jay.”

“Doesn’t mean she did.”

“Jason.”

He looked up.

“Talk to her before you lose her because you were too scared to ask whether she wanted the same thing.”

That was the problem. Jason hadn’t known he could lose you until somebody else showed up to prove it.

Your date was fine.

Perfectly, painfully fine.

He was nice. Interesting. He made you laugh more than once, and every time, some treacherous part of your brain supplied whatever sarcastic comment Jason would have made about the restaurant charging twenty-seven dollars for a plate of pasta.

When he walked you home, you told him you’d had a good time.

It was true.

When he asked whether you wanted to do it again, you hesitated long enough that he understood before you managed to answer.

He took it gracefully.

You went upstairs alone.

Jason didn’t text.

For the next several days, neither did you.

It was the longest you’d gone without speaking since the arrangement started, and by Thursday evening you’d finally accepted that perhaps this was how it ended. You had wanted distance badly enough to create it. Apparently, you had succeeded.

The knock on your door came a little after nine.

You knew who it was before you checked the peephole.

Jason stood in the hallway with his hands buried in his jacket pockets.

Your heart immediately betrayed you.

You opened the door.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

Neither of you moved for a second. Then you stepped aside.

Jason entered and glanced around your apartment as though something might have changed in the week since he’d last seen it.

Nothing had changed. The book he’d brought you still sat on the coffee table, his mug was still in the cabinet, and his shirt was still in your dresser because you hadn’t been able to make yourself move it.

You folded your arms. “What’s up?”

Jason looked at you. “Wanted to see you.”

The answer landed somewhere dangerous.

“Oh.”

The silence that followed was absurd. You had fucked more times than you could count. Jason had once held your hair while you threw up from food poisoning and developed an immediate, deeply personal grudge against the restaurant responsible. You had patched bullet grazes without asking where they came from and fallen asleep with his hand beneath your shirt because he liked the warmth of your skin.

You’d never had to think this hard about how to stand in the same room together.

Jason finally cleared his throat. “How was the date?”

You stared at him. “That’s why you’re here?”

“No. I just…” His jaw tightened. “How was it?”

You studied him for a moment. “It was fine.”

Jason looked away for a second before his gaze returned to you. “Are you going out with him again?”

Something inside you finally snapped. “Why do you care?”

Jason’s expression shut down immediately. “I don’t.”

You laughed once, sharper than you intended. “Okay.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You show up after a week, immediately ask about my date, and then tell me you don’t care.”

“I asked a question.”

“You left my apartment ten minutes after I told you about it.”

“I had somewhere to be.”

“You lied.”

Jason went still.

You regretted the accusation as soon as it left your mouth, though not because it was wrong. Jason had always honored the boundary around Red Hood. If he couldn’t tell you something, he simply didn’t.

He had never used it as an excuse before.

“You said you don’t ask,” he said.

“I didn’t ask. You volunteered a lie.”

“Why does it matter?”

Your throat tightened. “It doesn’t.”

“Bullshit.”

The word landed heavily between you.

Jason stepped closer. “If it doesn’t matter, why’d you stop reaching out?”

Your pulse stumbled.

He kept going before you could answer. “You stopped texting first. Stopped asking me over. For weeks, the only reason I saw you was because I kept showing up.”

“You noticed.”

“Of course I fucking noticed.”

His voice echoed through the room.

Your anger faltered.

Jason didn’t look possessive anymore. He looked miserable, and beneath that misery was something you’d never expected to see on his face.

He looked lost.

“You don’t get to be angry at me for following the rules,” you said.

His expression shifted.

“We said this wasn’t a relationship. We said being exclusive in bed didn’t make us exclusive anywhere else, and you don’t get to act as if I betrayed you because I went to dinner with somebody.”

“I know.”

“Then what exactly is the problem?”

Jason dragged one hand over his face. “I don’t fucking know, okay?”

That stopped you.

He looked down at the floor.

“I just know I hated it.”

“Hated what?”

“The date.”

“You weren’t there.”

“I hated knowing you were.”

Your heart thudded painfully.

Jason exhaled and looked at you again. “I know I don’t get to. I know what we agreed, and I know you didn’t do anything wrong. You handled it exactly how we said we would.”

His mouth twisted.

“But I still hated it.”

You forced yourself to ask, “Why?”

Jason laughed bitterly. “You really wanna do this?”

“I think we have to.”

He turned slightly away.

Panic moved through you before you could stop it.

You couldn’t watch him walk out again.

“I stopped reaching out because I realized this wasn’t working anymore.”

Jason’s shoulders went rigid.

For a moment, you thought he might simply accept it. That would have been easier, maybe, if he’d nodded and left you with the clean ending you’d spent the last two months trying to manufacture for yourself.

Instead, he turned back toward you. “What, you found somebody better?”

The question caught you completely off guard. “What?”

“The guy from work.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“You said this isn’t working, and a week ago you told me you were going on a date. I’m not exactly pulling this out of nowhere.”

“You’re still deciding what I mean before I get to say it.”

Jason’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t interrupt again.

You looked at him and finally understood what you’d been missing beneath all that anger. He wasn’t furious that you had broken some rule. He thought you were standing here telling him you didn’t want him anymore.

The realization cracked something open before you could stop it.

“I was trying to get over you.”

Jason went still.

You closed your eyes as soon as the words left your mouth. There wasn’t any taking them back now, and maybe you were tired of trying.

When you looked at him again, his expression had changed completely.

“Get over me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

A helpless laugh escaped you. “Seriously?”

“I’m asking.”

“You told me you didn’t want a relationship, Jason. We agreed this was sex, and then somewhere along the way it stopped being just sex for me.” Your arms tightened around yourself. “I fell in love with you, and that wasn’t what you signed up for.”

He stared at you.

You kept going because stopping now would somehow be worse. “So I stopped calling. I stopped asking you over. I thought if I could put enough space between us, eventually I’d stop waiting for every stupid little thing you did to mean something you never promised me it meant.”

Jason’s mouth parted, but you shook your head.

“I wasn’t trying to make you chase me. I wasn’t testing you. I was trying to make this hurt less before I ruined the friendship too.” You swallowed. “The date was supposed to be part of that.”

His brow drew together. “You went out with somebody else to get over me.”

“Yes.”

Jason’s answer came too quickly. “Why the fuck would you need to get over me when I’m in love with you?”

Jason’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly as the anger drained out of it, like he’d only just heard what he’d said.

You stared at him.

“You’re in love with me?”

He looked away for half a second, then back.

“Yeah.”

There was no attempt to take it back. If anything, once he’d said it, something in him seemed to settle.

Your heartbeat felt painfully loud in the silence. “Since when?”

“I don’t know.” Jason dragged a hand over the back of his neck. “You stopped reaching out and I fucking hated it. Every time you stopped asking me over, I found another excuse to show up anyway. Then you told me you were going out with somebody else and suddenly I couldn’t think about anything except some guy I’d never met getting everything I’d apparently decided I was fine not asking for.”

Your eyes burned.

Jason looked frustrated by his own inability to explain it properly, but he kept trying.

“I talked to Dick.”

That startled a laugh out of you. “You talked to Dick about this?”

“I was having a bad week.”

“Clearly.”

His mouth almost curved before the seriousness returned. “He told me I was in love with you. I wanted to tell him he was full of shit, but then he started listing everything he knows about you because apparently I never shut up.”

The laugh escaped before you could stop it.

Jason stepped a little closer. “He didn’t make me feel anything that wasn’t already there. He just made me look at it and put a name on the feeling.”

The ache behind your ribs returned for an entirely different reason.

You searched his face. “Then why didn’t you come here?”

“I’m here now.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

Jason looked down.

The answer came quieter. “Because you’d already gone on the date.”

Your chest tightened.

“I thought I figured it out too late.”

“You didn’t.”

His gaze lifted immediately.

You took a breath. “He asked if I wanted to go out again.”

Jason’s expression closed instinctively before you finished.

“I said no.”

He blinked.

“I spent half the night thinking about you,” you admitted. “Which felt unfair to everyone involved.”

Some of the tension left his shoulders.

“You could’ve told me.”

“You could’ve told me.”

“Yeah.”

For a few seconds, neither of you said anything.

Then Jason gave a quiet, disbelieving huff and looked toward the floor. “We’re fucking idiots.”

You almost agreed before something more important occurred to you.

“If we’re actually going to do this, though, I can’t keep doing one part of what we were doing before.”

His attention sharpened.

“Red Hood.”

Jason’s body went subtly still.

You stepped closer. “I’m not asking for names or plans or anything you can’t safely tell me. I don’t want mission reports. But if we’re actually going to be together, I can’t keep acting like I’m not allowed to acknowledge where your injuries come from.”

His eyes stayed on yours.

“If you disappear for three days, I’m going to worry. If you show up bleeding, I’m going to ask whether you’re okay. You can tell me you can’t answer something, but you can’t use Red Hood to push me away whenever being close gets inconvenient.”

Jason was quiet for a moment before he nodded. “I’m not going to be good at it right away.”

“I’m not asking you to be.”

“But I’ll try.”

You nodded.

Jason’s hand moved toward yours and stopped just short of touching. It was such a small hesitation, but after months of him walking into your apartment and reaching for you without thinking, it made your chest ache.

You closed the distance yourself.

His fingers wrapped around yours.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“For what?”

“Leaving last week. Not telling you I got home. Making you think…” His thumb moved slowly across your knuckles. “A lot of things, apparently.”

“You didn’t know.”

“I should’ve.”

“So should I.”

Jason shook his head slightly. “You believed what I told you. That’s not on you.”

For a moment, you just looked at each other.

Then his gaze dropped to your mouth.

“Can I kiss you?”

Something about the question nearly made you want to cry.

You nodded.

Jason kissed you.

There was no rush to it. His free hand settled carefully against your waist while yours found the side of his neck, and for several seconds the kiss stayed almost unbearably gentle. You knew exactly when Jason usually changed the angle of his head or let his hand slide lower, when a kiss became the beginning of something else, but this time he was content to keep kissing you.

When you finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“I missed you.”

The confession was so quiet you almost didn’t hear it.

“It’s only been a week.”

“I know.”

The way he said it made your chest ache because you knew exactly what he meant. 

You kissed him again.

This time, Jason’s hand tightened at your waist. Yours slipped beneath his jacket, and the restraint between you began to fray without either of you making a decision about it.

His jacket landed over the back of the couch. You pushed his shirt up far enough to touch warm skin, and Jason made a low sound into your mouth before catching the hem and pulling it over his head himself.

You traced your fingers over his chest.

He looked at you while you did it. Jason had watched you before, obviously. He knew your body well enough to read it in the dark. But there had always been some unspoken limit to how long either of you could let tenderness sit between you before one of you turned it into a joke or reached for something more physical.

Now the tenderness didn’t have to be disguised as something casual.

You touched the scar beneath his collarbone.

Jason covered your hand with his.

“I meant what I said.”

You looked up.

“I know.”

His thumb brushed across the back of your hand. “I need you to.”

“I do.”

The tension in his face eased.

You kissed him before he could say anything else.

Jason’s hands slid beneath your shirt, palms warm against your waist as he pulled you closer. The kiss deepened naturally, familiarity taking over where uncertainty had been. Your body already knew how to fit against his, and when his mouth moved down your throat, you tipped your head without thinking.

A breath of laughter escaped you at how unfairly easy this part still was.

Jason lifted his head. “What?”

“Nothing.”

You ran your fingers into his hair. “I just spent two months trying to forget how good this feels.”

His expression changed.

“Don’t.”

The single word was rougher than anything he’d said since the argument ended.

You looked at him.

Jason swallowed. “Don’t try to forget me again.”

The vulnerability underneath it stripped away the last of your hesitation.

You kissed him hard enough that he stumbled back a step.

His hands caught your hips, and the next few minutes dissolved into the familiar chaos of mouths and hands and clothing abandoned between the living room and the bedroom. Jason pulled your shirt over your head somewhere in the hallway; you got his belt open before you reached the mattress, and he kissed you until you forgot which of you had actually pushed the bedroom door open.

You fell onto the bed together.

Jason followed you down, catching himself on one arm before his full weight settled over you.

His mouth found yours again.

You reached between your bodies and closed your hand around him through his boxer briefs.

His breath broke against your lips. “Fuck.”

You stroked him once, feeling his hips move instinctively into your hand.

You pulled him down and kissed him.

Jason’s hand disappeared beneath your underwear, and there was no need for instruction. His fingers moved over you with the confidence of months spent learning exactly what made your breathing hitch and your thighs open farther for him.

You clenched around him. He curled his fingers, and your hand tightened against his shoulder.

“Jay.”

“I know,” he murmured, pressing a kiss against your temple as his thumb found your clit.

You buried your face against his neck as pleasure pulled tighter through your body, one of Jason’s arms holding you close while his hand moved between your thighs.

It wasn’t what he was doing that undid you so much as the way he refused to put any distance between you.

That realization hit you unexpectedly hard.

You’d spent months telling yourself you could replace the sex. Find someone else attractive. Learn someone else’s body and let them learn yours.

But it had never really been about knowing exactly where Jason liked to be touched or how quickly he could make you come. It was the way he held you while he did it, the way he noticed everything, the way his mouth pressed against your hair when your body tightened around his hand.

Your orgasm rolled through you with his name muffled against his shoulder. Jason stayed close while you came down, his fingers slowing before he finally withdrew them, and you turned your face into his for another kiss.

Somewhere in the tangle of hands and mouths that followed, the last of your clothes ended up scattered across the floor. Jason shifted over you, and your legs opened around his hips almost automatically.

His eyes found yours.

You touched his face. “Yes.”

He pushed inside you, and your breath caught as your body adjusted around him.

Jason’s forehead lowered to yours.

Neither of you moved for a moment.

You had done this dozens of times, but the stillness felt different now. There was nothing casual waiting on the other side of it, no agreement either of you would have to retreat behind when it was over.

Your hand slid along his jaw.

Jason turned his face enough to kiss your palm.

Then he began to move.

The first few thrusts were slow, almost cautious, until your legs tightened around his hips and pulled him closer. Jason exhaled against your mouth and let the pace deepen.

You knew this rhythm. You knew the flex of his back beneath your palms and the way his breathing roughened as he got closer. Jason knew the quiet sound you made when the angle changed, and his hand immediately slid beneath your thigh to keep it there.

Knowing each other no longer felt like evidence that you’d gotten too attached. It felt like what it was: six months spent learning someone you had accidentally fallen in love with. When Jason kissed you again, you pulled him closer.

“I love you,” you whispered against his mouth.

His rhythm faltered.

For half a second, he just looked at you.

Then something in his face opened.

“I love you too.”

He kissed you again, and there was nothing polished about what followed. The pace broke and rebuilt. Your knee slipped against his hip, Jason nearly lost the angle trying to kiss you, and you laughed breathlessly into his mouth before the sound turned into a moan when he pushed deeper.

Jason reached for your hand on the mattress and threaded his fingers through yours.

The pressure inside you built beneath every deep thrust and every drag of his body against yours. When your thighs tightened around him, Jason’s fingers closed more firmly around yours.

Your orgasm broke through you, softer at first than the one before it and then strong enough to pull a cry from your throat.

Jason buried his face against your neck as his thrusts lost their rhythm.

You slid your free hand over his back and held him closer.

A moment later, his entire body tensed. He came deep inside you with a rough sound against your skin, your joined hands tightening together against the mattress.

Neither of you moved immediately afterward.

Jason’s weight gradually settled over you.

You welcomed it.

His breathing was warm against your neck, and your fingers moved lazily over his back while the room gradually went quiet around you.

Eventually, Jason lifted his head. The expression on his face was so unguarded that your chest tightened all over again.

“You okay?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Jason kissed you once, softly, before pulling away enough to deal with the inevitable mess.

He disappeared into the bathroom and came back with a warm washcloth and a glass of water. He’d done some version of this plenty of times before, but neither of you needed to pretend the tenderness meant less than it did anymore.

Jason cleaned you up carefully, dropped the cloth into the hamper, and handed you the water before climbing back beneath the covers.

You drank, then set the glass aside.

He settled beside you.

For a second, old habits seemed to catch both of you, leaving that familiar inch of mattress between your bodies. You glanced at the space, then at Jason. He followed your gaze and, without saying anything, opened an arm for you. You moved into him immediately.

Jason pulled you against his chest, and you tucked your leg between his while his hand settled at the base of your spine.

“This is going to take some getting used to,” you murmured.

His fingers moved slowly against your back. “What is?”

“Not pretending I don’t like this.”

Jason was quiet for a moment.

“You were terrible at pretending.”

You lifted your head.

He looked completely serious.

“So were you.”

“Yeah.”

You settled against him again.

After a while, Jason said your name.

“Mm?”

“I really did mean it.”

You didn’t need to ask what.

You pressed a kiss against his chest.

“I know.”

This time, he let that be enough.

..

You woke sometime after sunrise to movement beside you.

Jason was sitting on the edge of the mattress, reaching toward the floor.

Sleep blurred the sight for a second before you recognized the shirt in his hand.

“Where are you going?”

He stopped.

Jason looked over his shoulder at you, then down at the shirt.

Something almost sheepish crossed his face.

“Habit.”

For months, there had been mornings when he stayed and mornings when he left before you woke, and the arrangement had never given either choice an official meaning.

You lifted the blanket beside you.

Jason stared at the space for all of half a second before dropping the shirt.

“Nowhere.”

He nudged his boots farther beneath the chair and climbed back into bed.

You settled against him as soon as he was close enough. His arm wrapped around your waist.

“Better?”

“Much.”

Jason pressed his mouth against your forehead.

Your eyes drifted closed again.

A few quiet minutes passed before his voice rumbled above you.

“Your toolbox still sucks.”

You laughed into his chest.

“Go home.”

“No.”

His arm tightened around you.

For once, neither of you needed a rule to explain why he stayed.

credit to @uzmacchiato for the cherry divider ❤️💛

Jason Todd taglist: @twentytomidnight, @ferbiewritesfanfics fics, @splodencible, @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger, @stilestotherescue, @lackofsins, @rain-the-ramblr, @saaucie, @dutifullyshamelesstrash, @athenxt, @seamlessepiphany, @the-ancient-grimm, @fwrdsl4sh, @allaboutirem0, @hyyperfixationstation, @chronicenby, @sillygayfreak, @megumidefender89, @selina0226, @hotchhner, @starshinegrl, @stupidlyunhinged, @aybtstrash, @brucewayneisavirgin

It didn’t matter how many times he reminded you not to wait for him to return from patrol, you always tried to stay awake. I can’t sleep without you next to me, you had said, the bed’s too cold. And part of it was true. Ever since he moved in, you had gotten used to the dip in the mattress next to you, the warmth radiating off his body as he laid sprawled and hogged all the blankets. It was like your body only managed to relax if he was next to you.

Jason loved it, of course, being someone who could bring you comfort, being some sort of anchor for you. He would look forward to coming home and falling asleep next to you, so much so that if he could have, he wouldn’t even leave you for patrol to begin with. But the city called, and he had to do something about it—get rid of the scum of the streets to keep Gotham safe, to keep you safe.

Slowly, he closed the window and drew the blinds, just in time before the sirens in the distance rang and threatened to wake you up, though their sound was now so familiar it almost lulled you both to sleep on most nights. 

As quietly as his heavy boots allowed him to, he walked towards the bathroom but he paused again when he reached the door as he heard you shuffling in your sleep. He peeked over his shoulder to find you still sound asleep, just now shifted in a starfish position.

With a soft smile on his lips, Jason let the door click behind him as he rested against it, taking a deep breath in, helmet still on his head. His whole body was aching and started to visibly bruise already, some cuts and scratches definitely needed more attention than usual.

Groaning from the pain, he rid of his leather jacket and tugged his kevlar armor off his body, dropping both somewhere haphazardly in the corner of the bathroom floor. He rolled his shoulders and tilted his neck, wincing a little at the stiffness that settled in.

He let his eyes wander over his body under the dim bathroom light, fingers grazing over the purple splotches darkening over the skin on his ribs and the multiple bleeding cuts that stupid idiot inflicted him. He got lucky they weren’t deep enough to need stitches.

"Jay?" your voice came soft from the small gap you opened the door to. The light caused you to frown and squeeze your eyes shut before adjusting them open again.

Jason didn’t answer you, he simply stood there, half his gear still on and his red hood helmet resting by the sink and facing away from him. It took a while for you to take him in whole—the soft light washed over his hair damp with sweat, streaks of fresh and dried blood on his torso. And if you looked closely, you could see the white in his knuckles as he tried to stop his arms from trembling in frustration. He avoided your eyes like the plague, staring right at where his hands gripped at the counter’s edges, hoping that the guilt burning in his heart would disappear.

"Sorry," he whispered, voice rough at the edges. "Didn’t mean to wake you up."

You shook your head at his apology, knowing very well that no matter how quiet or loud he was, your body was always alert for his return and like clockwork, though half-sleeping, you would wake up. 

Ever since he confided in you of his nightly affairs, you grew accustomed to his atypical entrances, especially after the countless scares he gave you when you still lived alone in your apartment.

He never hid from you that he found it amusing whenever you would gasp and toss in his arms as he settled under your blankets after a night of patrol, chuckling in your neck some half-assed apologies. "I’m desensitizing you," he had said, which only made you roll your eyes. But it worked, at least a little bit.

Familiar or not, you couldn’t help staying alert because you worried every single time that one night he would need help, actual help, and his own cleaning and patching up wasn't enough. What if he came home after getting shot, what if he got hit too hard and was internally bleeding and didn’t know? What if it was the last time he’d come through your window? 

You moved towards him, slowly, giving him room to push you away if he needed to, because sometimes all he wanted was to be alone and you understood that. But he didn’t move, he stood there trying to hold himself together by the sheer force of will that remained.

"Hey," you murmured. Your hand gently cupped his jaw to coax his head up. "Look at me."

Jason shut his eyes tightly, leaning into your touch before, reluctantly, lifting his eyes to meet yours. And in that moment, you had to draw all the strength you had in your body to not break down with him.

His green eyes were wide, wounded and glassy, holding back the tears that have been threatening to spill for a while now. He didn’t look like your Jason, broody and grumpy and smart-mouthed. He looked young, the little kid who was left to fend for himself on the streets young. The same kid who was the magical boy wonder once, was again filled with the same sorrow and grief that consumed him, all that anger, all that resentment, all that fear, too.

"Do you wanna–"

"No. I– not tonight," he shook his head and whispered, his breath stuttering as his words stuck in his throat. His jaw clenched and darted his gaze to the ground again. "I’m sorry."

Your heart tightened in your chest, but you didn’t push any further, though you couldn’t bear seeing him so broken, so helpless. You stepped closer until you were in his space, cupping his face in your hands and turning his head until it was in your direction again. A small tear ran down his cheek and you were quick to wipe it away with your thumb.

"Come here," you cooed, hand cradling his head to bring him closer, while your other rubbed up and down his back. He let his head drop onto your shoulder as his arms wrapped around your middle, fingers gripping tightly at your shirt. "I got you, Jay."

You didn’t know how long you stood there holding him in your arms, but now his breathing had slowed and no more of his tears were dampening the exposed skin of your shoulder.

Goosebumps rose on his skin as your fingertips grazed over the healed scars on his back. Some were newer than others—raw and skin constantly breaking with Jason’s muscles flexing, others sunken and white, deeper cuts you remembered stitching to the best of your abilities. All engraved in his skin just as they were in your memory. 

You could tell he was getting cold, the faint tremble of his hands and his seeking for your warmth giving him away. After all, it was winter, and your heating didn’t work that well and he was almost entirely naked. Placing a soft kiss to his shoulder, you parted just enough to meet his gaze. 

"C’mon, let’s get you in the shower," you said softly, fingers brushing away some of the hair that stuck to his forehead. He nodded, but didn’t move from your hold, almost afraid you’d be gone, like you’d disappear and never come back if he stopped touching you.

You pecked his lips in a chaste kiss, soft and gently, the corner of his lips, then his cheek and slowly down his jaw. His brows furrowed when you went to crouch down in front of him. He didn’t realize he kept his boots on and he grimaced thinking of all the dirt, the blood, he had brought in. If it was any other night, you would have scolded him and he would have grinned at the scrunch of your nose.

But you didn’t say anything and instead your fingers worked fast on his laces before you nudged his foot, signaling him to raise it so you could take his boots off along with his socks. 

"My god, your feet stink," you murmured under your breath.

"They’re my secret weapon," he said softly, voice thick and hoarse from his crying. 

You smiled and rose back on your feet, your hands wandering over his arms and rubbing up and down in a reassuring, warming motion. You were glad he was starting to calm down, glad he was finally finding peace again.

Jason leaned back onto the counter, watching as you started the hot water, your hands reaching under the faucet to feel the temperature getting tepid on your skin. 

He wanted to ask you to join him, or at least keep him company by sitting on the toilet while he showered because, truthfully, tonight he was scared of being alone.

Then it hit him all at once, that you never lied when you told him you knew him better than himself.

As if you read his mind, you started taking off your own shirt, tugging it up and over your head, messing up your hair in the process. You didn’t realize he had moved closer to you until you were face to face with him, a faint smile painted on his lips as he tentatively brushed away the strand of hair that fell in front of your eyes. 

You reached for his belt, but his fingers wrapped around your wrist, sending chills down your spine, thinking you had done something wrong and were back to square one.

"I can do it," he whispered, losing his grip on you, scared of his own strength. But his touch was soft, barely there, and his own mind was playing tricks on him that even a small caress of his could hurt you right now.

You both stood there, naked in front of each other with clothes bunched up in your hands. It wasn’t awkward, but you could see the extent of his injuries like this—purple and blue hues decorating his legs among the greens that were begging to fade. He rarely came home like this. Whatever happened tonight must have left him with something bigger than some physical damage to deal with.

Your free hand reached for his clothes and chucked them all in the laundry basket by the door, your foot nudging the boots next to it to push them out of the way. 

As you took his hand in yours, you guided him towards the shower, glass doors fogged up already by the steam. Jason unconsciously stared at you and tracked your every movement, careful and pointed like you just caged him in a trap to deliver the final blow. But as the hot water hit your bodies and your face softened in pleasure, he knew he could finally let his guard down because in your presence—because it was you—no evil could ever come near him.

He let himself bask in the feeling of the warm water running down his skin, his tense muscles finally relaxing, and he closed his eyes, his hair now wet falling flat right on his forehead. 

"Is it too hot?" you asked, voice soft as not to startle him. He shook his head slowly. You hummed too in acknowledgement. Jason could hear you move around in the shower but despite his curiosity, he kept his eyes closed, too relaxed to worry.

You took your shampoo bottle and squeezed some out in your hand before you gently started washing his hair. He lowered his head just enough so you wouldn’t be on your tiptoes, arm unconsciously wrapping around your middle to keep you secure. As soon as your hands reached his scalp, he relished in the feeling of your fingertips massaging it, suds of shampoo sliding down his neck.

It was so mundane, so simple, yet overwhelmingly intimate how you were taking care of him, like you always did, but this time Jason was filled with emotions he never thought could exist. You were in his arms, washing his hair and working your magic into allowing him to just be Jason despite the burdens of the night, melting everything away with one simple touch.

And for the first time that day, he felt good. Loved. Loved for who he truly was, the boy under the mask who thought didn’t deserve his second chance at life until you came along, turning his world upside down. You taught him how to be human again because no matter how long it had been, he still felt out of place like he didn’t belong in his body. But your patience, your resilience, your ability to love unconditionally, your ability to believe in him, made all the pain he had suffered worth it. If it took him dying to finally understand what it meant to love and be loved, so be it.

Jason didn't realize you had stopped washing his hair until he heard the click from the cap of your body wash being opened. It was your body wash, not his stupid 3 in 1 alpine musk you always teased him about despite having grown fond of it by now, it was your nauseatingly sweet, sugary, sticky scent that filled his nose. 

You squeezed some on his very own loofah and started scrubbing down his shoulders, down his arms, across his torso. He must have looked ridiculous, standing in the middle of your shower, letting his tears fall from his eyes a second time that night with suds and soap all over his body.

"Jay? What’s wrong?" you worried, hands now frozen mid air.

"Nothing, it’s nothing," he reassured you, shaking his head and sniffling away the tears that kept threatening to spill down his cheeks. But you knew him better than yourself and when his eyes met your worried ones, it was like you broke a dam. The thought that you held even an ounce of concern for him, that you chose him, love him despite all his flaws just made his heart clench.

"You’re crying," you pointed out, voice soft barely above a whisper, still full of pure worry as your hands reached to cup his face. His lashes were wet with a mixture of tears and running water that cascaded down his face and you wasted no time brushing it away. "Did I hurt you? Wh–"

Jason cut you off by laying his head on your shoulder and wrapping his arms around your waist tightly, hoping that through his silence and tight hug you would understand that you could never hurt him. Not even intentionally. And that all this was a result of an overwhelming amount of emotions he wasn’t used to deal with.

He didn’t move and neither did you. You lost track of time, it could’ve been five minutes or even thirty that you spent with his arms wrapped around your middle while warm water poured against your naked skin. Your fingers ran through his hair, cradling his head in your hand.

He could feel your light kisses on the side of his head, his shoulder, warmth engulfing his chest every time your lips would make contact with his skin. He almost fell asleep like this, feeling content, feeling like what happened tonight didn’t make him a monster. He wanted to stay in your embrace for the rest of his life. 

It was only when he could feel the steam annoyingly stick to his skin and the ball of his feet hurting from standing for too long that he pulled away from the crook of your neck to look into your eyes.

"Let me take care of you now," he breathed, a downturn smile on his lips as his hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing your skin. 

You wanted to protest because you didn’t need to be taken care of. This should've been all about Jason. You weren’t the one who was hurt, aching, or had been crying after having probably the worst night of your life in a while. No, it was Jason who broke down in front of you, who now couldn’t say ‘I love you’ without it catching in his throat despite wanting to show how truly thankful he was for you, because not a day went by that he believed he didn’t deserve you. You were too good for him, always patient and understanding of everything he went through. 

So he resorted to showing you in the way he knew best. Silently. And you let him, if it brought him peace, with no rush, even though your fingers started to prune.

When you rinsed the last of the soap from your body, you reached behind him to finally shut the water off, silence filling the room. You both took your time wrapping each other and drying off with your towels as you walked back into your bedroom to pick your pajamas.

Jason stood a few inches too close to you, casually bumping into you as he waited patiently for you to finish getting ready for bed. Then you felt a small tug at your shirt, shifting your attention to him and you were sure the blush adorning his cheeks wasn’t left off from the hot shower. He was growing impatient, more tired and he would never admit out loud that he wanted to lie down in bed, with you in his arms, safe.

You hid the smirk painting your lips from him and took his hand in yours, fearing he might close in himself again, and guided him towards your bed. 

There was something about him, lying under the covers facing you, that made him look so small despite his size, so himself, and so unapologetically beautiful.

Your hand cupped his cheek and he leaned into your touch with a sigh before turning to press a kiss into your palm.

"I love you," he whispered into your skin, "so much you can’t even begin to imagine."

His hand kept yours in place as his lips rested onto your palm for a second longer before peppering kisses down your wrist and bringing you closer until you were flushed to his chest.

Jason nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck and his arm rested secure around your middle with his hand sprawled on your back, your bodies fitting perfectly against each other like the perfect puzzle piece.

His eyes burned from having cried too much, but it didn’t matter as sleep started to quickly take over him. And just like that, his breathing became even and his grip on you loosened, and you hoped he was conscious enough, in that blurred line between asleep and awake, to hear your voice telling him that you knew, that even though he rarely outwardly said it, you knew he loved you. Because he told you in all the small things he did without realizing it, and because he was here, with you, allowing himself to strip naked of all those walls he built around his heart to feel alive again. 

As you enter the bathroom he wastes no time getting straight to the shower nozzle and turning it on. You press the door shut behind you, sealing out a decent portion of the chaos. You decide against turning the overhead light on, opting instead to let the small pink-shaded lamp provide a warm glow that you can easily maneuver throughout the shadows in. You figure he needs a more tranquil atmosphere than the harsh white light the bathroom ceiling can provide.

You turn to him in time to catch him pulling his shirt up harshly, movements jerked and impatient.

You place a gentle hand on his forearm, “Hey.”

He pauses his actions, eyes on the floor.

You don’t say anything else, but he understands your objection regardless. You remove your touch and he peels his shirt off slower, kinder to himself. 

You wait to make sure he continues this method with the rest of his clothes before you start to remove yours.

The downpour of water on the tiles does it’s intended job in creating your own little sanctum away from the noise. You climb into the shower after him, standing in the stray mist sprays that made their way past him. The bits of water that do manage their way to you are hot—not scalding, but hot enough that you know his chest is going to start getting numb very soon standing in front of the stream like this. 

You trace lines over the muscles of his back, outlining them and every little indent of a scar. When you run out of canvas on his back you move onto his arms, right then left.

It’s not until you trace down his wrist that you realize his head is angled down. You don’t need to be standing in front of him to know that his focus is zeroed in on his scar and you’re not sure how long it's been that way. Too long, in any case.

“Jay,” you say so softly that the water nearly drowns you out. “Will you look at me, please?”

He does turn to you, slowly, but he doesn’t look up.

You hold his face in your hands, nudging him to look up at you. He looks tired, drained. 

You know he has to hear that laughter in a different way than you do. It’s uncomfortable and frightening for you, but for him, it’s layers upon layers of the sound he heard while he was being beaten to death. And even beyond that horrible trauma, the reminder of it brings forth every memory of what happened afterwards, not to mention the heavy baggage you know he feels over being here at all. And you can see it all mulling behind his eyes.

“You know I love you,” you tell him with sincerity. His gaze stays heavy and you can tell it’s a struggle for him to hold the eye contact.

You lean up to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, catching his bottom lip slightly. Your next kiss meets his lips fully. You have to push up on your toes a little bit but he does the work of meeting you halfway. It’s a slow, intimate exchange, as fluid and serene as breathing.

“I love all of you,” you murmur against his lips. You let your hands fall to his chest, resting as gently as they can over his pecs. “Everything about you.”

You kiss the top of his Y scar, trailing down soft pecks to where it forks off. You feel his shoulders sag a bit, tension forcing its way out of him. You lean down to continue your kisses down the vertical line marking his abdomen, your hands lightly following in your wake.

He says your name painfully, like he’s begging you to stop. You’ll give him partial reprieve, taking his hands in yours and kissing his scarred knuckles. It’s his instinct to push affection away, you know that, but you also know that he needs it. That’s why he doesn’t stop you now—he knows he needs it—it’s just a lot for him all at once, emotionally. Which is why he gives no warning before he picks you up by your thighs and pulls you close. 

He’s got you a full head higher than him and he uses the difference to hide his face in your neck. Sometimes he feels like that’s the only place he can go. He maneuvers you around so your back is pressed up against the wall as you hold each other tight.

You stay in there like that until the water runs cold, and then some. You have to nudge him a bit into setting you back down then, but he does, letting you collect and wrap the both of you in towels. The second the water turns off you can hear the cackling through the walls. 

As you return to the bedroom, he only bothers to pull on a pair of boxers before collapsing his weight onto the mattress. The lack of layers won’t help him any, but you know why he did it.

He can’t always look after himself the way he should—he disregards his own needs and has trouble even thinking of what could help him. You’ve developed a mind for it though—for him—and you know that being exposed and vulnerable like this isn’t going to help him calm down. He prefers being covered up when he’s stressed, it gives him more security, you think.

You open up the dresser and dig through for his most comfortable hoodie and sweatpants. He takes them from you, but he looks remiss at the thought of exerting anymore energy right now, so you help him tug on the clothes, successfully blocking out the now icy air from the AC. 

Once he’s fully clothed he pulls you forward to sit on his lap. You stumble a bit on the way but he compensates by holding you very tight, not giving your body any option to fall. His grip on you tells you that he’s not concerned with you getting dressed too, which you’re perfectly willing to oblige.

You have to force him to let you break away a little bit so you can reach over to the nightstand and grab your phone and earbuds.

“Movie or music?”

He doesn’t say anything, only nods his head once at the end of your sentence. You take that to mean music and open up your playlist on your phone, handing him the headphones.

There’s a harsh spike in the hysterics outside, mixed with what sounds like screams, and it has Jason flinching hard. You think you can see tears welled in his eyes as he fumbles to get the headphones in his ears. He takes the phone from you and picks the first song he sees and turns the volume up, up, up.

You shift yourself around so that you’re laying back against the pillows, giving him room to lay down over your legs, wrapping his arms around your waist with a firm grip. You pull the hood up over his head, but keep your hands woven underneath, threading through his hair. 

His cheek mushes against your bare stomach, and with the way he’s laying, you’re sure the earbuds are digging uncomfortably into his ear. He makes no effort to move in any case. You can hear the song playing word for word, and while the noise exposure concerns you, if there was ever a time to let it go, it would be now.

You’re both wrapped up nicely in the blankets and you can only see the tip of his nose and a few strands of ivory hair strewn past his forehead. Despite all the snug layers, he shakes a bit under your touch.

He falls asleep before the problem outside gets wrapped up, and you turn down the music. Not all the way, just enough that he can rest in peace. 

After a while the giggles die down and aside from a few first responder sirens, things get quiet again. About twenty minutes later, Nightwing ducks in through your window and scares the hell out of you. The interaction does not, however, wake Jason up, which is how you know tonight took a very heavy toll on him.

Even though the lights aren’t on in your bedroom you slide down from the pillows a bit more and let the blanket and Jason drown your chest out from visibility.

Nightwing gives you a silent, if not awkward, wave and scans over Jason. Even in the dark can see the worry in his eyes. He looks back up at you and throws up a questioning thumbs up with a tilt of his head.

You nod and he nods back slowly as he takes one more look at his brother before hopping out the window.

You peer down at Jason and brush his curls back gently. His hold on you tightens just a bit as he turns in his sleep.

The call comes at one-fifteen AM, and Dick answers before the second ring because Dick always answers before the second ring.

"Hi," you say, and from one syllable he can tell.

"Where are you?" he says, already sitting up.

"I'm — " a pause, some background noise, what sounds like a very enthusiastic cover band — "I'm at Rosie's. On Fourth. We were doing Steph's birthday, and then everyone left, but the music is really good, Dick, the music is so good — '

"Are you safe?"

"I'm at the bar. Marco, the bartender, is very nice. I told him about you."

"What did you tell him about me?"

"That you're really pretty, and also you do acrobatics, and he didn't believe me about the acrobatics."

"Okay," Dick says, finding his keys. "Stay at the bar. Stay with Marco. I'm coming."

"You don't have to — "

"Stay with Marco," he says. "I'll be fifteen minutes."

He's eleven.

He finds you exactly where you said — at the bar, on a stool, in an animated conversation with Marco, who is indeed very nice and also looks deeply relieved to see a responsible adult arrive.

You see Dick, and your face does the thing that makes his chest hurt in the best way, the involuntary thing, the oh good, you're here thing.

"You came," you say.

"I always come," he says, like it's simple. Because it is.

He gets you water. He sits next to you while you finish it. He thanks Marco genuinely and tips well because Dick Grayson always tips well, and also Marco watched you for forty minutes, so he's earned it.

In the car, you're warm and loose, and you keep looking at him with an expression he can't entirely read.

"You came in like eleven minutes," you say.

"Traffic was light."

"You were worried."

"A little."

"I was fine."

"I know you were. I just — " He glances at you. "I like knowing you're fine from the same room. It's more efficient."

You're quiet for a moment.

"Dick," you say.

"Yeah?"

"I told Marco you were pretty and I meant it."

He stops at a red light. He looks at you. Your eyes are very sincere in the way that only happens when all the filters are off.

"Get some sleep," he says.

"I'm just saying — "

"I know what you're saying." The light changes. He's smiling and trying not to. "Water when we get home. Then sleep."

"You're so responsible."

"One of us has to be."

"I love that about you."

"Yeah," he says quietly. "I know."

He gets you home. He gets you water. He sits on the edge of the bed until your breathing evens out, and then he stays a little longer just because.

JASON TODD

Sick

Jason's version of taking care of someone sick is practical to the point of being almost aggressive about it.

He shows up, he assesses the situation, and he addresses the situation. There is no fussing. There is no cooing. There is just Jason moving through your apartment like he has a list and he's working through it.

"When did you last eat?" he says, from your kitchen.

"This morning."

"What did you eat?"

"Some crackers."

"That's not eating." Cabinet opening. Closing. "You have nothing in here."

"I've been sick. I haven't shopped."

"I can see that." He reappears. Looks at you on the couch in your nest of blankets with the clinical eye of someone doing an assessment. "Fever?"

"Had one yesterday. It's mostly gone."

"Mostly."

"Ninety-nine point two. It's basically nothing."

"It's a fever." He's already getting his keys back out. "I'm going to the store. Don't move."

"I wasn't planning on moving."

"Good." He stops at the door. Something shifts in his expression — just briefly, the practical exterior going slightly soft at the edges. "You should've called me yesterday."

"You were on a thing."

"I'm always on a thing. Call me anyway."

He leaves before you can respond.

He comes back forty minutes later with actual groceries — real ones, not just soup and crackers — and spends an hour in your kitchen making something that smells better than anything has a right to when you're congested.

You eat it on the couch with Jason on the other end, not touching, because Jason Todd's version of consideration is not forcing physical contact on someone who is unwell. But he's there. Solid and present and real.

"This is really good," you say.

"Alfred's recipe." He says it like it's nothing. It isn't nothing.

"You called Alfred?"

"I texted him." A pause. "He sent three follow-up questions about your symptoms and told me to make sure you're drinking enough water."

"Alfred is texting you about my symptoms."

"Alfred texts me about everything. Drink your water."

You drink your water.

Later, when you fall asleep on the couch, Jason doesn't move you to the bedroom because moving you would wake you up, and you need the sleep. He turns the TV volume down to almost nothing and stays.

You wake up at three AM with a blanket over you that wasn't there before.

Jason is in the armchair. Asleep. Still there.

Drunk

Here is what Jason is not: a patient man.

Here is what Jason is, at one AM, when you call him, laughing so hard you can barely form sentences: completely gone for you, which makes the patience a non-issue.

"Say that again," he says. "Slower."

"I'm at — " more laughing — "okay, so you know the bar on Seventh that you said was a front — "

"Please tell me you're not at the bar I said was a front."

"It's actually really nice inside? Like they have a really good cocktail menu — "

"I'm coming to get you," he says.

"Jason, I'm fine — "

"You're at a bar I told you is run by Maroni's people, on a Friday night, alone, drunk." A pause. "I'm coming to get you."

"I'm not alone, I came with — oh, huh." A pause on your end this time. "They left."

"They left."

"Like, a while ago, I think. I was talking to the bartender about — actually, what were we talking about — "

"I'm coming to get you," he says again, for the third time, which, with Jason, means it stopped being a discussion after the first time. "Do not leave that bar."

"Should I be worried that it's a front? Like, do I need to — "

"You're fine. They're not going to do anything to a civilian in their own establishment." He's already in the car. "Just sit there and don't talk to anyone else."

"The bartender is very nice — "

"Anyone else."

He gets there in eight minutes, which requires some choices about traffic laws, but Jason has made worse choices for worse reasons, and this is not a hard call.

You're at the bar, like he said. You see him come in and you get the look — the one you get when you've had enough that all the careful middleground disappears and what's left is just the actual thing, which is that you are very happy to see him.

"Hi," you say.

"Hi," he says. Up close, you look fine — flushed, bright-eyed, the specific kind of present that means you're drunk but not dangerously so. The tension in his shoulders drops about forty percent.

"I found a front," you say.

"You found a front."

"Their dirty martinis are actually really good."

"I'll pass that feedback along to Maroni."

"Don't do that."

"I wasn't going to do that." He puts cash on the bar — enough, he doesn't look at how much — and puts his hand on your back. "Come on."

"Are you mad?"

"No."

"You look a little mad."

"I look concerned. They're different."

"You came really fast," you say, letting him steer you toward the door.

"Yeah."

"You didn't have to — "

"Yes," he says, "I did." And the way he says it closes the subject completely — not harsh, just certain, the particular certainty of someone who has decided some things aren't up for debate. "Watch the step."

You watch the step.

Outside, the air is cold, and you lean into him slightly without thinking about it, and his arm goes around your shoulders automatically, without comment, the way it does when it's just a thing that happens now.

"Jason," you say.

"Yeah."

"I'm glad you came."

"I know," he says. "I know you are."

TIM DRAKE

Sick

Tim Drake's first response to you being sick is to research it.

This is not as impersonal as it sounds. Tim researches things because he loves them, because he wants to understand them completely, because information is how he shows care. By the time he arrives at your apartment, he has read four articles, cross-referenced two of them, and has a working theory about whether it's viral or bacterial based on your symptom description over text.

"It's almost certainly viral," he says, at the door. "The combination of the sore throat and the fatigue without significant fever points away from strep — did you have someone swab you?"

"I didn't go to the doctor, Tim."

"Why not?"

"Because it's a cold."

"You don't know that it's — okay, it's probably a cold." He comes in, carrying a tote bag. "I brought things."

The things are: cold medicine, the correct kind, cross-referenced with your other medications for interactions. Tea. Honey. A novel you'd mentioned wanting to read, because Tim Drake bought you a book for when you were sick, because that's the kind of person he is. And, slightly sheepishly, a printed list of what to eat and when.

"You printed a list," you say.

"It's easier than trying to remember when you're not feeling well." He holds it up. "It's color-coded."

"Of course it is."

"Red is the medicine timing. Green is food and fluids. Blue is — "

"Tim."

"Yeah?"

"Sit down."

He sits down. He's still holding the list. He puts it on the coffee table because he can't quite bring himself to put it away.

You look at him — at his careful hands and his tired eyes and the way he'd clearly come straight here from wherever he was because he's still in his work clothes — and you feel, through the fog of the cold, a very clear and specific thing.

"Thank you for coming," you say.

"Of course I came." He says it like of course is the only possible response, like the alternative didn't occur to him. "How's your head?"

"Pressure-y."

"That's the congestion. There's a thing you can do — " he stops himself. "Do you want me to tell you, or do you want me to just sit here?"

"Just sit here," you say.

"Okay." He sits back. He's quiet for a moment. "Can I put on something in the background? I have a playlist that's good for — I have a playlist."

"Put it on."

He puts it on. Soft, instrumental, unobtrusive. He sits with you while you drift in and out, and when you wake up, he's working quietly on his laptop, but he's moved to be closer to your end of the couch, which he definitely didn't start that way.

"The list is still on the table," you say, sleepily.

"In case you need it."

"Okay, Tim."

"The red section is important, the timing matters for — "

"Tim."

"Yeah?"

"I'll follow the list."

He exhales. "Thank you."

Drunk

The thing about Tim Drake is that he can function on three hours of sleep and a concerning amount of coffee, which means he is awake and operational when you call him at midnight, which is lucky.

"Tim," you say.

"Yeah, I'm here."

"I did a thing."

"What kind of thing?"

"I went to Tam's birthday, and there were shots involved, and I missed the last train, and also I think I'm in New Jersey."

A pause.

"You're in New Jersey," he says.

"I think so. The signs look like New Jersey."

"What signs?"

"The — the road signs. They have a different energy."

"Okay." He’s already finding his keys with one hand, phone with the other, the Tim Drake multi-task. "Are you somewhere safe right now?"

"I'm at a diner. It's very fluorescent."

"Stay in the diner." He's out the door. "What diner? Can you see a name?"

"It says —" a pause, some shuffling — "Patty's. With two T's."

"I'm finding it. Give me two minutes."

"Tim, you don't have to drive to New Jersey — "

"I'm already in the car." Typing sounds — he's running the search one-handed, which he shouldn't be, but Tim's sense of self-preservation is famously flexible. "Got it. I'm twenty-five minutes out. Stay in Patty's."

"You're driving to New Jersey at midnight," you say.

"Yep."

"For me."

"That's generally why people drive places, yeah."

You're quiet for a moment. The fluorescent lights of Patty's Diner with two T's hum pleasantly.

"You're really nice," you say.

"Don't tell anyone."

"I'm going to tell everyone."

"Order something," he says. "Eat something. Water if they have it."

"They have pie."

"Get pie too."

He stays on the phone with you for most of the drive, which he'll say is so he knows you're okay, and which is also just Tim not quite being ready to hang up. You talk about nothing — the diner decor, a case he's working on, something funny that happened at Tam's party before the shots became a factor.

He arrives at twenty-three minutes, not twenty-five, which you clock.

"You sped," you say, when he walks in.

"I made good time," he says, which is not a denial.

He sits across from you in the booth and looks at you — bright-eyed, slightly pink, mostly fine — and something in him settles.

"Hi," you say.

"Hi." He steals a piece of your pie. "How's New Jersey?"

"Fluorescent," you say. "You didn't have to come all this way."

"You missed your train."

"I could have gotten an Uber — "

"At midnight. To Gotham. Alone." He gives you the Tim look, the one that means he's run the scenarios and found them wanting. "No."

"Tim — "

"Eat your pie," he says. "We'll get back together."

You eat your pie.

He watches you with the particular quality of someone who is going to remember this specific diner, this specific booth, this fluorescent New Jersey midnight, for a very long time.

DAMIAN WAYNE

Sick

Damian Wayne's approach to you being sick is to deny it is happening for approximately one day, and then, when it becomes undeniable, to address it with the efficiency of a field medic and the emotional openness of a closed door.

"You should not have gone out on Thursday," he says, standing in the doorway of your bedroom.

"I didn't know I was getting sick on Thursday."

"The weather dropped twelve degrees. You were wearing insufficient layers."

"I was fine on Thursday — "

"You're not fine now." He comes in. He looks at your bedside table — empty water glass, cold medicine, tissues — and his expression does the thing where it goes very neutral, which means he's feeling something he doesn't intend to show you. "You haven't been hydrating."

"The glass is empty because I drank it."

"When."

"This morning."

"It's afternoon." He takes the glass. He comes back with it full, and with a plate that has crackers and some cut apple on it, arranged with the precise neatness of someone who can't help making things correct even when they're trying to appear casual.

"You cut fruit," you say.

"You need to eat."

"Damian, you cut fruit for me."

"It's not — I was in the kitchen. It required minimal effort." He sets it down. He does not make eye contact. "Eat."

You eat. He sits in the chair by the window, not on the bed, maintaining a careful distance that is very Damian — present but not hovering, there but not making it a thing.

"I looked up your symptoms," he says, after a while.

"What did you find?"

"Most likely rhinovirus. Common cold. The standard progression is seven to ten days with supportive care. You're on day two." A pause. "I've confirmed the medication you're taking is appropriate for the presentation."

"You confirmed my cold medicine."

"I confirmed it's the correct choice given your specific — " he stops. "It's the right one. Yes."

You look at him.

He is looking at the window.

"Thank you," you say. "For the apple."

"It's basic nutritional support."

"Damian."

"Yes."

"Thank you."

A pause. Something in his jaw does a thing.

"Rest," he says. "I'll be here."

He stays in the chair.

At some point, you fall asleep, and when you wake up, he's reading, and the water glass has been refilled, and there's a second blanket on the bed that wasn't there before.

You don't mention the blanket.

He doesn't mention that he put it there.

Some things don't need to be said.

Drunk

Damian finds out you're drunk not because you call him but because he calls you, which you answer with the particular delayed reaction of someone whose phone surprised them.

"Hi," you say, with the careful enunciation of someone managing their enunciation.

Damian can tell in one syllable. He has an extremely accurate internal calibration for you specifically.

"Where are you?" he says.

"I'm at — I'm out. With some people from work. It's a work thing. A birthday."

"Are you drinking?"

"It's a birthday, Damian."

"That's a yes."

"It's a yes," you agree.

He makes a sound. Not quite a sigh. The Damian version of a sigh, which is more of a controlled exhale that communicates extensive feelings through the medium of breath.

"When are you leaving?" he says.

"Soon? We were going to get food, but I think the plan changed. It's fine, I'll get a car — "

"Don't get a car."

"Damian — "

"The car services in this area are inconsistent at this hour, and you are not currently in a position to evaluate the adequacy of the driver." He says this like it's purely logistical. "I'm coming."

"You really don't — "

"Text me the address."

He hangs up.

You text him the address.

He arrives in fourteen minutes in civilian clothes, which is notable because Damian Wayne in civilian clothes without preparation is rare, which means he left quickly, which means — well. You don't say what it means. You file it.

He walks in, finds you at the table with the remnants of your work colleagues who are in various states, looks at you once, and comes to stand next to you with the particular quality of someone planting a flag.

"Hi," you say.

"Hi," he says.

"You didn't have to — "

"I was available," he says, which is a Damian sentence for something else entirely. "Are you ready to go?"

"I think so." You look at the table. "Should I say goodbye — "

"You've said goodbye. Come on."

Outside, the air is cool, and you walk beside him, and he is very slightly closer than he needs to be, which is his version of making sure you're steady without making it a production.

"How was your evening?" you say.

"Uneventful." A pause. "Until you called."

"You called me."

"You answered like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you do," he says, which is not an explanation and is somehow a complete one.

You walk half a block in silence.

"Damian," you say.

"Yes."

"Thanks for coming."

He doesn't say of course or it was nothing. He says: "Yes," again, which, from Damian Wayne, is the whole thing. The entire thing.

BRUCE WAYNE

Sick

Bruce Wayne's first instinct in any situation is to solve it.

Sickness presents a problem in that it cannot be solved in the way Bruce prefers to solve things, which is immediately and through direct application of will. You cannot willpower a rhinovirus. You cannot strategize a fever into submission. These are facts Bruce is aware of and finds mildly unreasonable.

What he can do is resource the situation comprehensively, which he does.

Alfred is involved. Alfred is always involved when Bruce reaches the edges of his practical capability, which is more often than Bruce admits.

"She needs rest, Master Bruce," Alfred says, on the phone, with the patience of someone who has had this conversation in various forms for twenty years. "Not a specialist. Rest."

"Her temperature was — "

"Within the range of a common cold. Which is not a crisis." A pause. "Go and sit with her. Bring the soup I've sent. Do not attempt to fix it."

"I'm not — "

"You are. You always do. Go and sit with her."

Bruce goes and sits with you.

He's not natural at it — at just sitting, at being present without an agenda. You know this about him. So when he comes in and puts the soup down and takes the chair near your bed, you don't comment on the slight stiffness of it, the quality of a person practicing a skill they haven't fully acquired.

"Alfred sent soup," he says.

"I figured." You look at him. "You called Alfred."

"I wanted to make sure I had the right — I wanted to make sure."

He is Bruce Wayne. He has faced things in the dark that would break most people. He is sitting in a bedroom chair next to you because you have a cold, and he called Alfred to make sure he handled it correctly.

You love him an embarrassing amount.

"I'm okay," you say.

"I know."

"It's just a cold."

"Alfred said." He looks at your hands, folded on the blanket. "Does anything help. Specifically."

"Sitting here is good," you say.

"That's — that's it?"

"That's it."

He sits back. He's quiet for a moment, working out what to do with his hands, with the lack of a problem to solve.

"I can read to you," he says, finally.

"...You want to read to me?"

"Alfred used to — when the boys were sick — " He stops. Restarts. "If you want. Or not. I can simply sit here."

"Read to me," you say.

He reads to you.

His voice is low and even and more careful than it needs to be, like he's giving the words appropriate weight. You fall asleep before the end of the chapter.

He marks the page.

He stays.

Drunk

The charity event has an open bar and an extremely boring speaker series, and your friends have abandoned you for a more interesting table, which is how you end up, over the course of four hours, more than adequately champagned.

Bruce finds you at the end of the night at a table near the back, having what appears to be a heartfelt conversation with the centerpiece.

He stops.

He takes in the champagne flutes. The centerpiece conversation. The way you look up at him with an expression that is extremely genuine in a way that champagne tends to produce.

"Hi," you say. "Your charity event is very long."

"It is," he agrees, sitting down next to you.

"The second speaker talked for forty minutes."

"I know."

"About tax incentives."

"I'm aware."

"Bruce. Forty minutes."

"I know." His mouth does the thing, the almost-smile, the one that most people don't see because he keeps it very controlled. "How much champagne?"

"A reasonable amount."

He looks at the flutes.

"A contextually reasonable amount," you revise.

"How are you feeling?"

"Honestly? Pretty good." You look at him. "You're very handsome, you know that? Like it's a lot. You walk into a room, and it's a lot for people."

"You've mentioned."

"I'm mentioning again." You rest your chin on your hand. "Why are you so handsome. That seems like an unfair amount to give one person."

"I'll take it up with the relevant parties," he says.

"You should." A pause. "I had a good time tonight, actually. The centerpiece has a lot going on. Very layered."

"I'm glad you two connected."

"Don't make fun of me."

"I'm not making fun of you." He takes your hand, his thumb over your knuckles, easy and certain. "I'd never make fun of you."

He gets the car, and he walks you out with a hand at your back that keeps you steady without drawing attention to the steadying, which is a very Bruce skill. In the car, you're warm and comfortable, and you lean against him in a way that you'll be slightly embarrassed about tomorrow and he'll never mention.

"Bruce," you say, against his shoulder.

"Yes."

"The second speaker really did go very long."

"He did."

"Next time, can we leave at the second speaker?"

"Yes," he says, immediately.

"You can just say yes. You're Bruce Wayne. You can leave wherever you want."

"Next time we leave at the second speaker," he says again, and his arm settles around you, and the Gotham night goes past the window, and he says nothing else because nothing else needs saying.

CLARK KENT

Sick

Clark's approach to you being sick is to be quietly, comprehensively wonderful about it in a way that makes it almost hard to be sick.

He shows up with groceries and the particular warmth of someone who runs hot even by human standards, which in winter is something close to a superpower. He sits next to you, and you're immediately warmer.

"You should be resting," he says.

"I am resting. I'm sitting here."

"You were trying to answer emails when I came in."

"I was managing my inbox — "

"You were not resting." He takes the laptop gently, closes it, and puts it on the coffee table with the patient firmness of Clark Kent, who is patient enough to handle anything. "Rest."

You rest.

He makes soup from scratch. You watch him do it from the couch, and there's something both domestic and slightly surreal about watching Superman dice vegetables in your kitchen, though you don't say this because Clark doesn't love the Superman observations in the apartment.

"You don't have to make soup from scratch," you say.

"I know."

"There's canned — "

"I know." He stirs something. "My mom used to make this when I was sick. She'd be horrified by the canned version."

"You didn't get sick," you say. "You're — "

"I know. But she made it anyway. Just in case." He glances at you. "And because she liked taking care of me. She said the soup was for her as much as me."

You're quiet for a moment.

"That's really sweet," you say.

"She's a really sweet person." A pause. "She'd like you, you know. She's asked about you."

"Martha Kent has asked about me."

"She asks about everyone I mention more than once." He says it like it's ordinary. Martha Kent asking after you is extremely not ordinary, and you are going to think about it later. "How's your head?"

"Better than this morning."

"Good." He brings you a bowl and sits close, warm and solid, and you eat, and he talks about small things — Smallville, the paper, something Perry did this week — and his voice is even and comfortable, and you feel better in a way that isn't just the soup.

"Clark," you say.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you for coming."

He looks at you with that Clark expression, the open one, the one that exists before the Superman one, just a man from Kansas who means every single thing he says.

"Always," he says, simply.

Drunk

Clark can hear your heartbeat from across Metropolis.

This is relevant because he knows, from the sound of it, before you call, that something is off about your evening.

When you call, he picks up immediately.

"Hi," you say. "So funny story."

"Tell me."

"Lois had a work thing which became a going away thing for Marcus from Sports which became a whole night thing, and I lost track of — I lost track of a thing."

"The thing being?"

"How many I'd had." A pause. "I'm fine! I'm with Lois. But she's getting a car, and I said I'd call you because you're closer to where we are and — "

"Where are you?"

You tell him. He's there in a way that isn't flying, because he's Clark Kent right now, not Superman, which means he took a cab at a speed that the cab driver will probably think about later.

You and Lois are outside the bar when he arrives. Lois looks fully sober and deeply entertained, which is a Lois Lane combination you've encountered before.

"Kent," she says.

"Lois," he says.

"She's fine," Lois says. "Slightly finer than expected, honestly. She held up pretty well."

"That's high praise from you," you say.

"It is," Lois agrees. She squeezes your arm. "Car's here. Text me." She gives Clark a look that contains several complete sentences, and then she gets in her car.

You look at Clark.

Clark looks at you.

"Hi," you say.

"Hi." He does the assessment — the Clark version, which involves senses most people don't have — and his shoulders relax incrementally. "You doing okay?"

"Really good, actually. It was a fun night." You look at him. "You didn't have to come all this way."

"I was close," he says, which isn't entirely true but is kind.

"Clark."

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

He smiles. The Clark smile, the real one, not the Superman one or the mild-mannered Clark Kent one, just the one underneath. "Come on. Let's get you home."

He keeps a hand at your elbow on the uneven sidewalk, and you lean into him slightly, and he's warm, always warm, like standing next to something quietly extraordinary, which you are.

He gets you home.

He makes sure you have water.

He stays until you're asleep, which you know because you wake up once in the night and the apartment has that particular quality of someone recently present, and there's an extra blanket, and your water glass has been refilled.

Clark Kent, you think, falling back asleep.

Genuinely.

WALLY WEST

Sick

The thing about Wally being the fastest man alive is that the moment you text him, I think I'm getting sick, he is at your door before you've put your phone down.

This is both wonderful and slightly startling.

"Wally — "

"I got things," he says, holding up approximately seven bags. "I wasn't sure what kind of sick, so I got options."

The options include: four different cold medicines, two different flu medicines, ginger ale, Sprite, orange juice, chicken soup, vegetable soup, tomato soup, three kinds of crackers, two different types of tea, cough drops in multiple flavors, a thermometer, a heating pad, and — for reasons you don't fully understand — a puzzle.

"The puzzle is if you're bored," he says. "But not too sick to do a puzzle. There's a range of sick where puzzles are good, and I didn't know where on the range you were."

"That's — Wally, this is a lot — "

"I also wasn't sure if you had everything you needed because you don't always tell me when you need things, and I'd rather have too much than — " He stops. Looks at you. Really looks at you. "Hi. You look rough."

"Thank you, Wally."

"Not in a bad way — in a you're sick and I'm worried way." He puts the bags down and comes to you and puts his hand on your forehead with the automatic ease of someone who does this without thinking. "You're warm."

"Mild fever."

"Yeah." He steers you back to the couch with the gentle irresistibility of someone who is technically strong enough to bench press a small building. "Sit. I'm making tea. Which kind do you want?"

"Surprise me."

He brings you the right one.

You don't know how he knew. You don't ask.

Wally with a sick person is Wally at approximately sixty percent of his usual speed, which he maintains through visible effort — you can see him calibrating, choosing to stay, choosing not to vibrate out of his skin at the forced stillness. For you, he does this.

"You can put something on," you say. "You don't have to just sit — "

"I'm fine sitting."

"Wally, I've never seen you sit still for more than — "

"I can sit still," he says, in the tone of someone who is currently proving this through sheer determination. "I'm sitting. Look. Sitting."

"You're vibrating slightly."

"That's just my resting state."

You put your head on his shoulder.

He goes completely still.

"Is this okay?" you say.

"Yeah," he says, and his voice is different, softer. "This is really okay."

He stays still.

For you, Wally West stays perfectly, completely still.

Drunk

You text him instead of calling because typing feels manageable and talking feels like a lot.

hey, so hypothetically if someone was maybe a little bit out at a bar and maybe needed a way home

The response is instantaneous.

WHERE Wally, I'm fine WHERE

You send the location.

He is there in a time that is not physically possible for someone who took normal transportation, and you choose not to examine this.

He finds you at the bar, not in bad shape, honestly, just past the point where Gotham at night seems like a good navigation challenge.

"Hi," you say.

"Hi." He does the scan — up down, quick assessment, Wally's version of making sure. Then he grins, the full Wally grin, the one that takes up his whole face. "How was your night?"

"Really good, actually. Jimmy's birthday was — Jimmy is great. Jimmy gave a speech."

"Was it a good speech?"

"It made me cry a little."

"Yeah?" He's already steering you, easy and warm, toward the door. "What did he say?"

You tell him about the speech. You tell him about the whole night, actually, in the way you do when the filters are down, and everything just comes out — the funny parts and the sweet parts and the part where someone spilled a whole drink, and the recovery was impressive.

Wally listens to all of it with genuine attention, asking questions, laughing at the right parts, because Wally West is more present in a conversation than almost anyone you've ever met.

Outside, he keeps pace with you, which for him is a deliberate choice, a constant gentle choosing.

"Wally," you say.

"Yeah?"

"You came really fast."

"I was close," he says.

"You're always close when I need you."

He's quiet for half a step. Then: "Yeah," he says, in a different voice than before. "I try to be."

The city goes past, and you walk beside the fastest man alive, who is choosing to walk, and that's the whole thing, that's the entirety of it — the choosing, the staying, the deliberate pace.

ROY HARPER

Sick

Roy's approach to you being sick is first to check it's not serious, second to make dark jokes about it, and third — when the jokes land flat because you're too tired for jokes — to drop everything and be exactly what you need.

"Is it bad?" he says, on the phone.

"No. I'm just gross and tired."

"Gross and tired is manageable." A pause. "You eaten?"

"Not much."

"I'm coming over."

"Roy, you don't have to — "

"I know I don't have to." He says it like don't have to is an irrelevant category. "I'm coming. Do you need anything specific, or should I just grab stuff?"

"Just grab stuff," you say, because you don't have the energy to be specific.

Roy grabbing stuff is an experience. He arrives with the specific grocery selection of someone who knows you well — the soup you actually like, not the generic kind. The specific crackers. A Gatorade in the flavor you always go for, even though you never explicitly told him that.

"You know my Gatorade flavor," you say.

"I pay attention." He puts things away with the efficiency of someone who's spent time in places where efficiency was survival-level necessary. "I also got the good tissues. The ones with the lotion, not the ones that make your nose raw."

"Roy."

"Yeah?"

"You got the good tissues."

"Your nose gets raw. It's a thing." He comes to sit near you, not too close. Roy's version of consideration is not crowding, not suffocating, just available. "You want the soup now or later?"

"Now, I think."

He heats it up. He brings it with the crackers and sits back with the easy looseness of someone who knows how to wait, who has learned the hard way that sometimes you just have to be in a room with someone and that's enough.

"You look terrible," he says.

"Thank you."

"Like a sad burrito."

"I'm in a blanket."

"A sad burrito blanket." He glances at you sideways, and there's something in it, underneath the jokes. "You need anything else?"

"This is good," you say. "Being here is good."

He nods, something settling in him. "Okay."

He stays. He watches something with you, doesn't pick it, lets you pick, and makes no comment about what you pick. At some point, he ends up closer than he started, and neither of you marks the exact moment it happened.

"Roy," you say, half-asleep.

"Yeah."

"Thanks."

"Any time," he says. And he means it the way Roy means things, which is practically and completely.

Drunk

Roy finds out you're drunk because he's at the same bar.

Different part of it — he'd been meeting someone about something, the vague category of thing Roy's life is full of that you don't always ask about — and he spots you across the room in the way he spots things, which is automatically and with full tactical detail.

He clocks the group you're with. He sets the glasses on the table. He clocks you laughing at something with your head back and your eyes bright, and he stays where he is for a minute just watching because there's a version of you that only comes out when you're relaxed and unguarded, and he's not going to pretend he doesn't like seeing it.

Then someone in your group who you clearly don't know well enough puts a hand somewhere they shouldn't.

Roy is there in about four steps.

He doesn't make a production of it. He just appears at your shoulder and says 'hey' and the hand disappears, and the someone finds somewhere else to be with the efficiency of a person who has correctly read Roy Harper and made a smart decision.

You look at him.

"Hi," you say, surprised.

"Hi." He looks at you. "You good?"

"Yeah. Yeah, thanks." You look at where the someone was. "You didn't have to — "

"I was here already." He says it like it's nothing. "You having fun?"

"I was." You look at him more carefully. "Were you following me?"

"I was at the bar first, actually. You can check the timestamps."

"I'm not checking timestamps."

"Then you'll have to take my word for it." He nods toward the bar. "You want water?"

"I'm fine — "

"Not a commentary on your state. Just water." He raises an eyebrow. "I'm getting water. You want some?"

"...Sure."

He gets water. He comes back. He leans against the wall next to you in the specific Roy way, comfortable in his own skin in any situation, and hands you the glass.

"Thank you," you say. "For the — for earlier."

"Forget it."

"Roy — "

"Genuinely, forget it. Drink your water." He looks at the room. "You need a ride later?"

"I was going to get a car."

"I'll take you."

"You were here for something — "

"I'm done." He glances at you sideways. "I'll take you home. Not a big deal."

It is, you both know, at least a medium deal.

But Roy doesn't make it one, and you don't make it one, and that's the thing about Roy — he takes care of things without making you feel taken care of, which is a skill that's rarer than it sounds.

"Okay," you say.

"Okay," he says.

He stays in your orbit for the rest of the night, not attached, not hovering, just — there. The way Roy is there. Solidly, quietly, practically.

He takes you home.

He makes sure the door is locked.

He says text me when you're up and means it.

You text him in the morning.

He responds in under a minute.

HAL JORDAN

Sick

Hal Jordan's primary response to most situations is confidence, which works extremely well in space and somewhat less well in a domestic context involving someone else's illness.

He arrives at your apartment with the bearing of a man who has this handled.

He does not fully have this handled.

"I got soup," he says, holding up the can.

"That's a can of beans," you say.

He looks at the can.

"I grabbed the wrong one," he says.

"Hal."

"I'll go back out — "

"It's fine, I have soup, I just — why did you bring a can of beans to someone who is sick?"

"The store was laid out badly." He puts the beans down with dignity. "I also got — " he checks the bag — "this is medicine. This part I did correctly."

"That's a good sign."

"Thank you." He comes and looks at you with the Hal Jordan look, the one that has crossed sectors of the universe and come back slightly changed by it, but still, underneath, just Hal. "You look rough."

"You're the second person to say that to me today."

"I'm saying it with love."

"Sure."

He gets the actual soup — you have some, he just hadn't known to look — and he heats it up with the determination of someone completing a mission objective, and he brings it to you and sits down.

"I'm not good at this," he says, which is the most Hal sentence possible. The acknowledgement without apology.

"You're doing okay."

"I grabbed beans instead of soup."

"You caught it immediately and course-corrected. That's fine crisis management."

He laughs, surprised. "Crisis management for getting soup."

"Everything's a mission." You look at him. "How'd yours go? You were out yesterday."

"Routine. Distant sector." He says it in the way he says things; he's minimizing, which you've learned to read. "Nothing interesting."

"You're minimizing."

"A little." He settles back. "Nothing I couldn't handle."

"That's not the same thing."

"No," he agrees. "It's not." He looks at you. "How long have you been sick?"

"Two days."

"Why didn't you call me yesterday?"

"You were in a distant sector doing nothing interesting."

He makes a face. "You could've called."

"I know." You look at him. "I didn't want to be the thing you worried about on top of everything else."

Hal is quiet for a moment.

"You're never the thing on top of everything else," he says. "You're the thing I come back for. There's a difference."

The soup is warm, and Hal Jordan is sitting on your couch, battered by whatever the distant sector was that he's minimizing, and he's here, which means he chose here when he could have gone anywhere.

"Hal," you say.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you for coming."

"I brought beans by mistake."

"I don't care about the beans."

He looks at you.

"I know," he says quietly. "Me either."

Drunk

There's a Green Lantern Corps event, which sounds official, and is, mostly, but there is also an open bar, and Hal Jordan at an open bar at an event where he is technically off-duty is a known quantity.

The known quantity is: he matches you drink for drink, and you both end up significantly more relaxed than the event intended.

He finds this extremely funny.

"We're the worst people here," he says, at some point, leaning against a pillar.

"We're not the worst — "

"We're comfortably in the bottom ten percent." He looks around the room at various serious cosmic entities and human officials. "Everyone here is very earnest."

"They're doing important work."

"They are. We are also doing important work." He gestures at his drink. "Morale maintenance."

"Is that what this is?"

"I'm a senior officer. I know what I'm doing."

"Hal, you just knocked over a decorative — "

"That was the pillar's fault." He looks at you, the Hal look, the one that has too much warmth in it for someone who spends so much time being the most confident person in any room. "You're having fun."

"I am," you say, surprised to realize it's true.

"Good." He takes your hand, casual, easy, like it's just a thing he's doing and not a decision. “The events are usually boring. I'm glad this one's not.”

'It's the morale maintenance," you say.

"See? Senior officer. I know things."

Later, navigating out, both of you slightly more careful about the steps than usual, the kind of careful that confirms something — he keeps your hand.

"Hal," you say, outside in the air.

"Yeah?"

"You're not exactly sober either."

"I'm aware of that, yes."

"So who's navigating?"

He considers this. "We navigate together," he says, with the confidence of a man who has crossed the galaxy and can handle one city. "It'll be fine."

"That's very on-brand for you."

"It usually works out."

"Usually," you say.

"Ninety percent of the time," he says. "Good odds."

You navigate together.

It works out.

His daughter’s next screech echoes through the living room and a painful lump forms in Jason’s throat that makes him want to claw at it till he draws blood.

White sound fills his ears and he suppresses the urge to wince, tries to shake it off instead. He sits on the couch, nails digging on his knee as he tries to ground himself.

Emmie lets out a sound of discomfort and he wants to tell her it’s okay- but his mouth is too dry.

Jason suddenly realizes that there’s no ‘lump’, it’s dirt. He feels it clogging his throat, feels it all around him- smells the soil.

Emmie gives another cry but it’s muffled this time and Jason squeezes his eyes shut, breathing slowly through his nose.

His whole body feels heavy and even holding his beloved lasso feels hard- and he opens his eyes to watch as it drops on the carpet when he opens his palm.

Through blurry eyes, he catches sight of his thumb, and sees it snapped against his palm. He moves it away forcefully but it snaps into place again involtunarely.

No, no, no.

Not now. 

“Daddy needs-” the lasso crinkles under his foot, Emmie’s cries get louder and louder, “Give Daddy a second baby-” but his voice is barely audible. 

He was buried, the dirt was swallowing him whole.

No one could hear him.

No one-

The sound of the doorbell breaks his trance and Jason heaves, letting out a few coughs like it was his first time breathing in oxygen.

Emmie had quietened down too, seemingly curious to see who was at the door.

“Mama? Is ‘t mama?” her big tearful eyes were staring into his soul, and he dreaded the moment that he’d disappoint her with his words again.

Jason sighs and stands on numb legs. He ruffles Emmie’s hair as he passes her, “Mama’s still working bug.”

Her sniffle breaks his heart into a million pieces but he puts that in the back of his head and squares his shoulders as he opens the front door.

The smile he’s greeted with is too wide and bright for his mental capacity right now and he immediately grimaces.

“Surprise!” Dick grins. He holds a bag in one hand and offers a hand with the other.

Jason instinctively takes a step back.

He couldn’t do this right now.

Jason wets his dry lips, clearing his throat hurriedly, “Dick.”

He could barely stand, or feel that he was standing for that matter. And he could still smell the dirt, feel it all around him. Between his teeth, under his nails. The lights were too bright as well. Bright and distracting and he could swear he felt a headache forming too.

Jason offers a handshake instead. Dick’s eyes drop to his outstretched hand, and he notices Jason’s thumb clinging to his palm in a weird angle.

Dick’s seen this before, years ago.

His face falls slowly, and Jason finally offers a tight smile and tries to will his panic attack away.

“Come on in.”

Dick purses his lips, itching to say something, but ultimately grabs Jason’s hand and shakes it. DIck turns the handshake into a hug anyway, pulling Jason in and squeezing him tight. 

Jason grunts by the force of the clap that Dick lays on his back, but quickly realizes that was Dick’s way of snapping him back to reality without overstepping any boundaries.

Dick pulls back before Jason could bark at him, and slips his usual easy-going smile on. “Thanks. Cute apron by the way.”

Jason looks down and throws his head back with a groan once he realizes that he never took off the cooking apron he wore a few hours prior when he and Emmie were making pancakes together.

“What are you doing here?” Jason asks as he pushes the door shut.

“Was in the neighborhood.” Dick shrugs. He throws one last look at Jason’s hand and then walks towards Emmie.

“Thought I’d drop by and-” his voice suddenly turned high pitched as he almost squeals, “-visit my favorite niece! Emmieee babyyy, did you get taller? You did, didn’t you? You’re almost taller than me now!” Emmie immediately matches his squeals and grabs at his jeans to try and claw her way up.

Dick laughs and picks her up with ease. He takes the time to finally look around the place and can’t hide his grin when he sees the ironing board in the middle of the living room, folded clothes littering the couch.

“Were you ironing?”

The moment Dick speaks, Jason decides it’s high time he took care of the mess he’d made in the kitchen earlier.

Dick’s grin turns rigid when Jason ignores him, “Will you iron mine too? I haven’t, in years.”

“Shut up.”

Dick laughs and throws Emmie up in the air a few times, making sure to blow raspberries against her belly as he does so.

An overdramatic gasp later, Dick shoves his hand in the bag he was holding, “Now, what. is. this?!” he says, pulling out an oversized plushie.

Jason, hearing the commotion, turns his head to catch a glimpse of the black and blue toy and snorts. He watches as Emmie’s excited face falls in disappointment and instead starts staring blankly at her uncle. She even pushes the toy with her tiny hand, making it fall over. Jason smirks. Atta girl.

As much as Jason hated when people came over uninvited, he was glad for the distraction. His legs were no longer numb, and his thumb was no longer that tightly snapped against his palm. Instead it was slowly easing back into place.

Dick pays no mind to Emmie’s antics and continues unhindered, “Is it a Nightwing plushie? No wayyy! Is he your favorite? He’s your favorite right?” Dick makes the plushie ‘dance’ by moving its little arms as if that would make it more enticing to play with. “You can tell me, I won’t tell anyone.” he whispers.

“Not ‘wing! Not ‘wing-”

“Ookay it takes time to acquire taste Emmie-”

Jason sharply turns around and throws him a look and Dick saves himself just in time, “It takes time for me to acquire taste. So tell me then- who’s your favorite hero?”

“Flash!!”

“... Huh. Hey, how about you uhh see how far you can throw this lil ‘wing plushie while I go speak with your dad, mkay?”

Dick stands up, not before pressing a soft kiss against Emmie’s hairline, and saunters over to Jason who’s busy wiping the counter free of flour.

Dick shoots a glance at Emmie over his shoulder before lowering his voice and hissing out, “You’re raising a little traitor, y’know that right.”

Jason rolls his eyes, “Watch your mouth.”

Dick huffs and pouts as he leans over the kitchen island, “She means Barry right? Barry’s her favorite?”

Jason’s grin is unhinged as he shoots him a look, “Nah. It’s definitely Wally, man.”

Dick groans and slumps on a chair, keeping his head upright with a palm under his chin.

“Oh! Almost forgot- I got you something too.”

Jason turns just in time to catch the bracelet that Dick throws directly at his face. 

“What’s-” the words die in his mouth as Jason inspects the bracelet, “No fucking way.” he snorts, making sure the swear word is not uttered loud enough for Emmie to hear.

He holds the candy bracelet up for Dick to see, and matches his grin, “Where’d you find this? They don’t sell these anymore.”

Dick nods, “I thought so too, but I found them at a small store in Bludhaven. Remember when we used to get them after patrols?” 

Jason shakes his head, smiling softly, “Alfred wouldn’t let me eat them before bed.” 

“But you still did.”

Jason cracks a smile as he wears the bracelet and brings it up to his lips to bite at a piece of candy. He shrugs, “I still did.”

Jason turns and opens the dishwasher, starting to take the clean tableware out of the machine, all while Dick was trying to find the right moment to speak up. “Hey, uh- you okay?”

Jason throws him a glance over his shoulder, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well you look like crap for one. When’s the last time you shaved?”

Jay runs a hand over his stubble and frowns to himself, “yn likes it.”

“yn’s lying to you. But c’mon Jay, spill. What’s going on?”

“Why do you think something is going on?”

“You’re trembling.”

Was he?

Jason’s eyes snap to his hands and fuck, he was.

“It’s cold.”

“It’s 80 degrees outside.”

“What, I become a dad and I can’t be cold no more?”

It’s Dick’s turn to roll his eyes. “Dude. C’mon.”

Dick’s persistent questioning made the last fifteen minutes flood back in Jason’s mind again.

“I-” Jason grabs a mug and hesitates to put it in the cupboard as he catches himself trembling again. “I don’t think I can do this-” his voice cracks and he hates that it does.

Dick leans in closer, his eyes wide with concern, “Do what?”

‘Don’ want you! Want mama!’

Emmie’s words echo in his mind and he clenches his jaw tight. He finally puts the mug in place, and closes the dishwasher shut with a little more force than necessary. He grabs the counter with both hands and hangs his head, letting his eyes fall shut as he tries to calm his heartbeat.

“I need a minute.” he grits out, and hears Dick stand up and round the island slowly, “Jason-”

“I said-” he turns sharply, snarl on his face, ready to take it out on Dick, but then he catches sight of her. Of his little angel. Sitting on the floor just behind her uncle and looking at her dad’s expression with wide innocent eyes. Really looking at him. Like she was picking apart every tiny detail of his face. “-...give me a minute.”

Jason’s features immediately soften and he runs a hand down his face as he pushes past Dick to the hallway, but pauses mid-way. 

“Can you- Can you please look after her. I just need five minutes-.”

Dick nods but it’s curt, “Yeah, of course. Take your time.”

Jason flees to the bathroom, and when he closes the door and rests his back against it, he closes his eyes. Breathes in and out. And all he sees is his daughter’s face, those wide eyes staring at him- at what could only be a very scary expression to her. He can’t help but think about how he came across to her at that moment. Scary probably. Her big dumb dad just snarling down at his older brother, and for what? All because he couldn’t keep his own emotions in check. 

How would she grow up to be with him as her dad? He’s tried to keep his issues away from her- tried to never let her see this broken, angry side of him.

And now she had. 

Don’t want you. 

Of course she doesn’t. How many times has she caught him with that same expression? How many times has he scared her without noticing?

Jason feels that clawing sensation at his chest again and clears his throat, taking two steps to the sink and letting water flow to splash some on his face.

He closes the tap after a while, and looks at himself in the mirror. 

He didnt;t like what he saw.

His eyes start to sting and he shakes his head, clenching his jaw tight. “Get ahold of yourself, you sorry son of a bitch.”

Jason walks back and acts like nothing happened. He announces that it’s yogurt time and grins when Emmie asks for uppies.

H obliges, and puts her on her high chair, snapping the protection belt shut and placing her a bit closer to the table. 

Dick doesn’t say anything about earlier either, just excitingly offers to be the one to feed Emmie. Jason let him, since he still had to tidy the rest of the place up before you came home. He didn’t want you to find your home upside down and feel uncomfortable or overstimulated after work.

Dick makes small talk seems infuriatingly easy as each question flaws out his mouth effortlessly.

Jason nods and listens as he puts the ironing board in place, as he gathers all the toys that were scattered across the carpet and organizes them in their proper baskets. He was always a better listener. But he also makes sure to add in to the conversation when necessary, trying his best to keep his mind on the conversation at hand and not at the thought of his daughter seemingly hating him.

Emmie takes her last spoonful of yogurt and asks, “Want s-cream?”

Dick gathers some yogurt that was about to drip on the table from her chin, with the end of the spoon, and places it inside the empty container, then tilts his head, “Do I want to scream?”

Jason smiles, a dimple showing, as he makes his way towards the hallway and into the bedrooms, holding two stacks of folded clothes against his chest. “She’s asking if you want ice cream.”

Dick gapes at him, and then turns to look at his niece again with wide eyes, pointing at himself, “You’re offering it to me? You want me to have your ice cream?”

Emmie nods, a faint dimple showing in her cheek as well. “Ncle Riri eat some scream!”

Riri- meaning Richard.

Dick fakes being shot in the heart and lets his upper body fall on the table dramatically, making Emmie let out countless breathless giggles.

“You sure grew up huh? Last time I was here you wouldn’t share a thing.”

Jason appears behind Emmie, and pinches her cheek softly making her curl in on herself and laugh louder. “Yeah, but we’ve been working on that with mama, huh baby?”

Emmie nods with more confidence now, “Sharing s’good!”

Dick’s cheeks were hurting from smiling so hard, and Jason coos down at his daughter, bending slightly to press a kiss on her head, just as the front door opens. 

And in you walk.

Dick turns his head and stands up immediately to give you a hug, “Hey sis! How was work?”

You smile, pleasantly surprised at him being here. You were all so busy these days, it was impossible to find time to meet up, and you were glad he dropped by.

While you were exchanging words with Dick, Emmie lets ou multiple excited shrieks, and claws at the belt holding her in place. “Mama, mama, mama!!” 

Jason chuckles softly, undoing the belt and holding her in his arms, “Told you she’d come, didn’t I? You wanna go say hi to mama?”

Honest to God, he was having the exact same reaction as Emmie internally. 

A bit over than eight hours without you and yet he felt like he could breathe right again with you here. You looked tired. Probably had a rough day at work, and yet you were so god damn beautiful it almost brought him to tears.

His wife. The mother of his child. His whole world.

Dick says something that makes you throw your head back and laugh, as Jason walks closer to you, trying to bite back his own smile.

Dick whispers one last thing to you and steps back to give you some space.

Jason couldn’t keep his grin at bay anymore when you gasp loudly, bending to give Emmie two big smooches on her soft cheeks, “How’s my baby doing?” you coo down at her, smoothing out her hair softly as Emmie flaps her hands around like a fish, “Mama, missed you! Missed you!”

“I missed you too, honey.” you smile brightly at her, your eyes flicking up to Jason’s and your smile widening a fraction, “Guess what mommy got youuuu…” you purposefully act like you’re trying to find said item in your bag for a long time, building the anticipation, and Jason’s chest vibrates with Emmie’s squeals.

You finally pull out a pack of stickers and hold itout to her, watching as Emmie’s jaw goes slack, her eyes widening. 

“FLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAASHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!”

She snatches the sticker pack and holds it against her chest like it’s something precious, and you and Jason bark out a laugh at her reaction. 

Dick’s puts on a fake disgusted, almost betrayed expression on his face and it makes Jason wheeze a bit.

Jason gives Emmie a small nudge as he nods towards her mother. “Manners Emmie. What do we say to mama?”

“Thank you mama!!”

Jason finally lets Emmie down and exhales deeply as he lets his eyes rake all over your face. He cradles your jaw in one palm as he bends to press a soft kiss against your lips. One that lasts longer than it should’ve. And he only pulls away when Dick clears his throat with a shit eating grin on his face. 

Jason flips him off, before wrapping one hand around your waist and pulling you skin tight against him. “Hi.” he says, as he presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then at the corner of your lips.

You giggle slightly, dropping your bag from your arm, and looking up at him in a way that has his heart clenching in his chest. “Hi yourself.”

“O-kay lovebirds, I think I’m gonna get out of your hair. Kori’s probably waiting for me at home.” 

You turn your head, body still trapped against Jason’s, and pout towards Dick, “Won’t you stay for dinner? Tell Kori to come over too! It’s been so long since we’ve seen you guys.”

Dick looks at Jason for a while before answering you, “You sure? We wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“When have you ever?”  You were too kind, and it was gonna kill Jason one day. 

Locking eyes with Jason, you raise one eyebrow and he’s immediately done for.

Happy wife, happy life. That was his motto nowadays.

“Yeah, won’t you stay a while, Dickiebird?” Jason purposefully makes his voice sweeter just so that you’d nudge his side sharply.

Dick rolls his eyes and pulls his phone out, already dialing Kori, “You better not regret those words, Jay.”

While Dick speaks on the phone with his partner, Jason gets the chance to pepper your face with countless more kisses, “I missed you too, y’know.” he mutters

You caress his cheek softly, smiling almost shyly, “Did you now?”

You squeeze your hands around him, pressing a kiss on his collarbone over his shirt, and he feels that spot of his skin warming immediately. “Me too, bear.”

He grins, leaning down to kiss you dizzy, but is interrupted by Emmie nudging his leg with her finger. 

“Dada want ticker?”

He chuckles, “Yeah sure, bug. Gimme whichever one you want.” she chooses one with Flash’s hero logo and sticks it on his palm. 

“Thank you, Emmie.”

“ ‘YWelcome! Mama?”

You and Jason exchange a look and he silently comes to terms with the fact that he’d have to let you go at one point, and couldn’t hold you in his arms for the rest of his life.

He releases his hold on you (already feeling colder than he was a moment ago), and watches you bend down to receive your own sticker.

He turns to see Dick end the call with Kori and run a nervous hand through his hair as he faces them once again. 

“Something wrong?” Jason asks

“Uhhh no. Not wrong. Well- Kori was with the Titans and they kind of.. Invited themselves over?” he grimaces.

Jason’s eye twitches.

Dick notices and gives him a lopsided smile, “Oops?”

You nudge Jason with your hip as you pass by him, and shoot Dick a bright grin, “The more the merrier! I haven’t seen them in so long!” 

“I’ll go change-” you start and Dick claps his hands together, “And I’ll get started on dinner!”

Both Jason and you pause, mouths opening to protest, “Dude, you don’t have to-” Jason starts but Dick cuts him off, “You guys are the hosts so let me at least do this for you after bringing a whole pack of people here. C’mon. Emmie will help me, right?”

Once Emmie hears her own name, she perks up, pausing her work of putting stickers on whichever surface she could find, “I’ll help!!”

You catch Jason’s gaze and shrug, so he sighs. “Fine. We went grocery shopping the other day so use whatever you want.”

Dick picks up Emmie and places her in her high chair again, pulling the chair towards the counter so she could see what was happening. “Okay, chef. What’re we making?”

“Pizza!” Emmie calls out.

“Pizza huh? D’you know if we have any premade dough?”

Jason nods, already following your trail without even realizing it, “Yeah we do- I just don’t remember where-” he pauses at the threshold of where the hallway starts, his body inching to follow you, and his brows furrow, already getting annoyed at missing those few second he could’ve been near you as he struggles to remember where the dough was.

Dick laughs, “I’ll find it Jay, just go. You look like a lost puppy.”

“Shut up.” Jason throws, before walking towards your shared bedroom, “and keep an eye on-”

“On Emmie, I know!” he hears Dick yell from the kitchen and shakes his head.

Jason enters the bedroom just as you pull a shirt over your head, and he catches a glimpse of the swell of your breasts as you pull the shirt all the way down. 

His mouth instantly waters, and he inches closer. Sees you smile softly to yourself.

“Y’left our guest all alone?”

He shrugs, coming up behind you and pulling you against his chest with his hands around your middle. 

He kisses down your neck and you let your head fall against his shoulder, “And I’d do it again.”

You gasp when he kisses a spot under your jaw, and drags his teeth against it.

His hands roam across your belly, squeezing your skin appreciatively. 

“You’re so pretty. So soft.” he mutters against your ear and you moan breathily when his hands come up to cup your tits, holding and palming at them gently. 

He grinds himself against your ass and moans lowly, biting at your shoulder to keep himself in check. “I love you-”

“Love you, Jay- but I gotta change- Dick’s-”

Jason growls, “Dick can wait.” 

He turns you around, and almost lets out another moan when he sees your half lidded gaze, parted lips just begging to be kissed. He grabs you by the back of your neck and slams you against him, kissing you like it’d be his last time ever doing it.

You grab at his arms, his face- his hair. You bite at his lip and he moans against your open mouth, before pulling away.

“You gotta change.” he clears his throat, repeating your earlier words, in an attempt to distract himself from taking you right then and there.

He pops the button of your jeans open and you inhale sharply. “Jay-”

“I won’t. I…” he drags your jeans down your legs and has to bite his lip tightly to hold in the groan that escapes him once he sees your lace panties. “I won’t. M just helping you.”

You nod up at him, eyes dazed, and he drops to his knees. Keeps pulling at your jeans until they fall at your calves. You bend to get your feet out, but he clicks his tongue, raising each foot against his knee and pulling the material all the way down of each leg, himself.

“You’re so needy today.” you run your hands through his messy hair and he hums, leaning against your touch, “Just missed you ‘s all.”

He runs his hands over your legs twice, and presses a kiss above the hem of your panties just to see you squirm, before he stands up.

You pout, “You hate me.”

He laughs, pressing a kiss against your jaw, “I love you.”

“You hate me and that’s why you torture me like this.”

“I love you very much and I would never dream of torturing my wife.”

You roll your eyes and he lays a sharp slap against your ass when he steps around you to grab a pair of sweatpants from the dresser.

He repeats his earlier ministrations, helping you get dressed as if you were made of glass, all while you tell him about the fucked up day you had at work. He hummed and listened to every little detail, but simultanusley dreaded the time he’d have to do the same.

“And… yeah. That was everything I think.” you conclude, catching sight of the ironed clothes on your bed sitting in careful piles. “Thank you for ironing by the way. I was gonna do it over the weekend-”

Jason shakes his hand, stopping you. “Don’t even worry about it.”

You press a soft kiss on his lips, and he pretends not to notice your tongue poking at his lower lip. You were gonna kill him. 

Just as you both get ready to come out of the bedroom, and Jason thinks that he got off lucky, you ask- “How was your day with Emmie?” 

He freezes. 

‘Don’ want you! Want mama!’

You wait for him to reply and smile so fucking bright that it hurts his very soul. 

Jason clears his throat hurriedly, scratching at his stubble. “It was fine.” 

You raise an eyebrow and cross your arms against your chest, leaning back against the dresser. 

You always knew when he was bullshitting you.

He lets out a sigh, and walks to sit on the bed, his elbows on each leg.

“It was fine. I’m just overreacting.”

You were still not saying anything, giving him the space and quiet he needed to gather his thoughts. To realize if he wanted to talk about this now or not.

And he did. Fuck, he always wanted to talk to you. About everything. So even though the topic raised bile in his throat, he still tried to open up.

“I think she doesn’t- I think Emmie doesn’t want me.”

He closes his eyes tightly, but hears you move, hears you take small steps until you reach the bed, feels the bed dip slightly as you sit next to him. 

“What do you mean?” you ask, and it holds no criticism nor judgement.

God, he loved you.

“As her dad. She doesn’t want me as her dad.”

…

“Wow.” 

Jason’s eyes open and he raises his head to look at you.

“That’s gotta be the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard you say, Jay”

He groans, letting his body fall back against the mattress, “I’m serious.”

“Jason, she lights up the moment you walk into the room. She feels safe with you, loved. I can tell. Why would she ever not want you as her dad?”

He swallows the lump in his throat, “She told me so.”

You furrow your eyebrows, placing a hand on his chest and searching his face for answers. “What? There’s no way. Tell me exactly what she said.”

“She said and I quote, ‘I don’t want you. I want mom.’ ”

You mull over his words for a while, and then lay down next to him, pressing a kiss against his cheek.

“Damn, she learned to speak in full sentences today?”

Jason cracks a small smile and pokes your ribs softly.

“Still, bear, I’m sorry to tell you this but you’re taking this too seriously. She’s always asking for you when you’re gone as well.”

Now it’s his turn to furrow his eyebrows as he turns to his side to look at you properly, “She does?”

“Of course. Cries for hours on end sometimes and I can only calm her down by showing her videos of you and her playing together.”

Jason feels a sudden urge to burst in his kitchen, and squeeze his daughter tight in his arms. 

“She’s just at that age where she blurts out all kinds of bullshit Jay. Hell, especially if she doesn’t get what she wants.”

Jason scoffs, smile never leaving his face, “Don’t I know it.” he wraps a hand around your shoulders and brings you closer to him, kissing your temple softly.

He gnaws at his lip for a while, and finally says, “That’s not all. Dick cornered me and I kind of- I raised my voice at him. And looked at him in a way that can only be scary for her. She saw, and fuck- it was as if she was looking right fucking through me. I-I don’t want to be this-this impulsive angry dad-”

“Jason.. It’s okay-”

“No, it’s really not.”

“It is. We all get angry Jay. It’s fine for her to see these things, it can’t always be sunshine and rainbows all the time. She’s seen me angry too, especially when I’m working from home. I know how much you try, and you’re in no way an ‘impulsive angry dad’. Far from it. You’re so gentle with her. Really.”

Jason looks deep in your eyes as you talk, and swallows harshly. Tries to let your words seep into his veins. 

“I wouldn’t lie to you about this. You’re an amazing dad.”

Jason squeezes your hip once, nudging his nose against yours, “And you’re an amazing mom.”

You lay quietly for a while, just smiling at each other, faintly hearing Dick and Emmie laugh and giggle from the kitchen.

“She told me she hates me the other day because I wouldn’t let her eat a whole pack of biscuits.” you confess in the quiet room, your voice suddenly low and vulnerable.

Jason pulls back to look at you better, his eyes widened- scared. “What? It’d kill me if she said that to me.”

You smile but it’s wobbly, and it makes his heart break. “Yeah.”

He hugs you tight against him, and you hug him right back, “Honey-”

“It’s stupid.” you sniffle. “I k-know I’m a good mom. Kids say the meanest shit sometimes-” your voice cracks and Jason squeezes you tighter, “And it’s h-hurtful, so I know how you feel. But she doesn’t mean it. She can’t.”

You pull back to look him in the eyes and your tears make his chin wobble a bit as well, “If she makes you cry again I’m cutting down all her sweets and screentime.” 

You laugh through tears, and press the softest of kisses on his mouth. 

“I think we’ve spoiled her rotten, Jay. That’s gotta be it. I mean, Bruce Wayne is her granddad. She has her own seat in his private jet, for God’s sake.”

Once Bruce’s name leaves your lips, your eyes widen, and your tears stop falling. You wipe at them quickly and sit up as you sniffle.

“Bruce. Your family-”

Jason shakes his head, still laying down,  keeping his eyes shut. “Nope. No.”

“We can invite them over too-”

“No.”

“But it’s been so long-”

“Sweetheart we won’t be able to fit everyone here-”

“We’ll ask someone to bring a a foldable table or something-”

“There’s not enough chairs-”

“Then foldable chairs too.”

Jason refuses to open his eyes. Because he knows he’ll fold when he does.

“C’mon, Jay.” you poke at his chest, “Bruce has been asking to meet for weeks now. He misses Emmie. He facetimes me just to see her somedays.”

Jason sighs, “I know. He texts me too.”

You smile and poke him some more.

“He loves her. Loves you, too. Everyone that’s gonna come today, does.”

Jason groans, throws a hand over his eyes dramatically.

“Y’know.. If Bruce comes over we can convince him to take Emmie for a couple of days.”

Jason stills.

“And that would leave me and you… alone…”

Jason springs up, grabbing his phone from the front pocket of his apron and dialing Bruce immediately. He presses a kiss on your lips giddily as you laugh, and hops off the bed to saunter over to the kitchen with you in his arm.

“Hey Bruce uh.. We were having a get together at ours today, if- I don’t know. If you had the time to- Yeah? You can? Alright, can you let the others know too- Great, thanks. We’re waiting for you, then.”

He ends the call just as he reaches the kitchen, “Emmie baby, your grandad’s gonna come over today.”

Emmie lets out her loudest screetch of the day yet.

“POP-POPPPPPP!!!”

Dick barks out a laugh, “No shit? Bruce’s coming over?”

“No shit!!” Emmie repeats giddily and Dick’s face gets void of any color as he slowly turns to look at Jason.

Jason, though, was busy whispering something against your ear to notice what was happening.

Dick slowly turns to look at Emmie again, who could barely sit still in her chair. “Don’t tell your dad you heard me say that. Ever.” he whispers.

2026 © l13 | Do not steal, copy, edit, translate or re-post any of my works.

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ALL WORKS :

A small vibration interrupts you as soon as you have finished scanning the content pages and settled on the chapter to read first, Dick’s name flashing in a text message.

Want to come to the park with us? Weather’s nice. Jason, Steph, Barb and Wally are coming.

Nothing sounds better right about now, but the guilt of pushing your work aside again would eat you alive. Dejectedly, you settle on a “Can’t, at the library :(“ and dive back into your book. The writing is better in this one, so you actually work through the chapter at a decent pace. The sounds of the library fade, replaced by the soft, low music your headphones emit, sealing the small bubble you sink into.

-

Jason’s frown is immediate when he reaches the park and fails to spot you amongst the others, the second cup of coffee he brought proving obsolete in your evident absence. He doesn’t even sit down, standing behind Dick while Wally shields his eyes from the sun to properly see him. “Why do you look more grumpy than usual?” “Where is she?” Delighting in the petulant tone in his younger brother’s voice, Dick can’t help but snort at the nigh pout on his face. “She cancelled. Something about library and studying.”

“She’s working on her paper,” Barbara explains, but Jason barely hears the end of her sentence, already turned around on his heals and walking away from the group.

–

The sight of a coffee cup being placed in your peripheral vision makes you look up finally. The faint twinge in your neck from being hunched over is evidence of how long you spent reading and making notes. When you meet Jason’s eyes, you take your earphones out. “What are you doing here?” He snorts at that and pulls out an empty chair to face you before sitting down. “What? No hello? How are you? Thank you for the coffee?” You have the decency to give him a sheepish smile while reaching for the cup.

 “Thank you. But I thought you were at the park with the others?” The shrug you receive is non-committal; meant to soften the significance of his choices and deter from any deeper meaning one could read into them. “I just got bored.” Lie. “I wouldn’t survive that without you anyways, not Dickhead and Wally at the same time.” Less of a lie.

He places a water bottle and an ibuprofen on the table next, and this time you are sure your eyes reflect your gratitude. “You’re my hero.” He grins with a wink and opens the bottle for you while you unpack the pill, swallowing it down with a few sips of water. “And now? You want to suffer here with me?” He takes out a book and holds it in the air for a moment for you to see. “Keeping you company.”

Though, arguably, Jason barely registers the words he was reading, using his angle as an excuse to subtly watch you work. Every detail, every new facial expression, ingrains itself in his mind. The way you frown when you are concentrating on something, or how you chew your lip when trying to figure out how to phrase a sentence. It is oddly endearing to catalogue these things, you the object of his very own secret studies. He’s almost caught when your eyes suddenly lift to him, just so able to look back at his book. You haven’t noticed, carrying on like nothing was amiss.

“Dinner when I’m done? I’m craving summer rolls from that place downtown.” He nods without missing a beat. “Anything you want.” With a smile, your gaze returns to your books, and his stays on you.

––––

Level 2: Teamwork

Dick plops down next to you with a groan, hand on his stomach and head tipped back in bliss after the dinner Alfred prepared. It’s a rare afternoon with everybody in the manor; Bruce having convinced each of his sons to come. You were there because you’re friends with most of the others… and maybe Jason refused to come until your name was mentioned. When Dick slides sideways to lean most of his weight against you, you playfully shove at him but ultimately settle down and succumb to your fate of being used as a human sized pillow.

Everybody gathers on the remaining couches, Bruce in his armchair, Tim on the floor, Damian at the far corner of one couch so to not seem like he enjoys spending time with his family for once. It’s a curious sight every time you witness this mismatched family and how they care for one another more than they like to show outwardly.

When Jason’s joins as well, having helped Alfred with the dishes, you pat the spot next to you and he readily settles there, thigh brushing yours.

“How about a game?” Steph suggests after her five-minute food coma. Dick perks up. “Monopoly?”

“I refuse to play Monopoly with you anymore,” Tim grumbles half-heartedly. You remember the last time. Dick’s a cheat, and he Monopoly Incident last year still haunts you. He makes a scandalized sound, hand on his chest. “Not my fault you landed on my hotel.” “You stole money from the bank,” Tim looks about ready to lunge at his older brother. “Did not.” “Did too.” “Did not.”

“We could play Uno,” you interrupt their spat, earning a few grateful glances.

Soon everyone is gathered around the coffee table. It’s a brutal game, you don’t remember a deck consisting of so many Draw 4s. Steph and Damian were arguing about rules, Dick was slipping cards up his sleeve when he thought nobody was watching, even Bruce cheated and somehow always had a card to avoid having to draw. In the middle of the game, you tap Jason’s leg so he can discreetly look at your cards beneath the table. When he frowns at the sight, two of your remaining three cards Draw 4s, you subtly take one of his number cards to switch out for one of them, a scheme taking its course. If Dick – who just proudly yelled “Uno!” to Jason’s other side – can play dirty, so can you.

Jason seems to read your mind; you can see the faintest upwards pull of his lips even if the others don’t. Maybe because you keep looking at– you shake out of your thought when it’s your turn, placing down your Draw 4 and then watch Jason do the same, Dick’s face falling. Everybody breaks out in laughter, glad to see Dick lose for once.

What neither you nor Jason sees is Bruce watching you with a soft smile behind his cards. He saw the whole exchange of cards, but he also saw your lingering look and the way Jason gravitates towards you. Even now he was leaning into your space, the gap between him and Dick much larger than the one between the two of you.

He’s just glad to see Jason finally find happiness in life.

––––

Level 3: Ease

The gala was loud, pompous, and obnoxious. At least those are the words you’d use if posed with the prompt “describe Bruce Wayne’s soirées in three words.” The only upside seems to be the excuse to dress up nicely, and the fact that no matter how miserable you were, you can name four individuals that are even worse off than you.

Dick was able to mask his gloominess rather well with a charming smile and a few well-placed words in a conversation. Bruce’s golden child does not need much sweet talking to woo his opposite. It helps that he has years of experience on the others in these matters. Tim was less successful but played the part of the future Wayne Enterprises CEO by taking to important business partners and sticking by Bruce’s side. Damian you spot next, he seems as brooding as ever but you suppose the years of being trained by the league in plenty of matters included decorum at events like these. He elegantly avoided speaking to too many people by finding excuses to walk towards somebody new, only to turn halfway through the crowd when he’s out of sight.

Jason has resigned himself to a corner, an untouched glass of champagne in hand, and a frown on his face that steers off anybody even remotely interested in talking to Bruce’s lost and them resurfaced second son. But when has that frown ever stopped you from approaching? With parts of your dress in hand so you walk faster, your heels clack against the polished marble while you snake around the people separating you from the sombre figure by the fountain.

“Dance with me?” You hold out a hand when you stand before him, glossed lips pulling in a bright smile. Everything in you seemed to ease in you now, coiled muscles relaxing while your anxiety ebbs in his presence.

Jason raises a sceptic brow, eyeing your hand. “I don’t dance.” “Please.” It’s more a whine than a plea. Nevertheless, it works. The victorious grin on your face when his hand takes yours and you lead him to the dance floor has his signature glare replace the frown. You laugh and let him pull you into position. When the song changes, you move, almost immediately stepping on his toes. “I should have mentioned I don’t know how to dance.”

“I know you don’t,” he adjusts you without much fuss, but by the third time he takes your waist and lifts you just enough to place your feet onto his. It might seem goofy to the people around you but that doesn’t matter right now. The faces fade and it’s just you and him dancing. Well, him dancing and you following along.

The trance you find yourself in — neither of you talking but the eye contact disgustingly intense as Dick will recount later — ceases when the song stops and Bruce is called to make a speech. Your face heats up and you step back again with a small smile, turning to the front to listen and entirely missing the way Jason’s eyes linger on you with a fondness in them either of you only read about in those classics you read.

––––

Level 4: Deep Deep Denial

Barbara’s laughter echoes through your apartment on a rare day you two get to spend alone together. The wine glasses have been filled for the third time already, and a mindless reality dating show has been your source of entertainment for the evening.

“I mean— what does she see in him?” You huff. “That guy is all fake tan, muscles that scream I avoid food to look shredded, and his brain lack basic levels of intelligence.” Barbara snorts, “and yet he’s the best catch there. A tragedy for modern dating.”

The episode comes to an end when Barbara turns toward you and pauses before the next starts automatically. “Which one of them would you be most willing to date?” “I’d rather cut off my own leg,” you take another sip from your glass. “But if I’d have to choose… Thomas seems alright. At least he has actual hobbies that exceed going to the gym.” Her approving hum and the sense of ease you feel are cut short by her next question.

“What is your ideal type then? I mean, I’ve seen the people you dated, and they never follow a certain pattern…” You shrug, “I guess it varies. I don’t have a dream person.” “Everybody has the ideal version of a person they’d date.” You shake your head in amusement. “Not me.” The deflection does not seem to satisfy the red head and she pouts dramatically. “Try.”

“Fine,” you relent and set down your glass. “I suppose… I mean if it’s a man I’d like him to be taller than me, dark hair preferably. The eye color isn’t important as long as they’re kind. I don’t like overly muscly, but I like strong, you know? Something about knowing he can lift me up easily but would also eat two pizzas in one sitting with me just hits the spot. I also can’t anymore with dim men. Just have an interest, read books, have a niche thing or whatever. Just be— “

“Jason?” That makes you pause. “What?” “You’re describing Jason.” “No, I’m not.”

The look she gives you makes every argument you have die in your throat. Yes, you are utterly head over heels for your best friend. At least that he was that is something you can admit. But admitting to your feelings out loud would make them real. Now, they were simple fantasies, a small crush that will disintegrate sooner or later, not love. Love would feel different, surely. Is it not to be exciting and full of butterflies. What you feel beside Jason is neither. It’s warm, comfortable, safe. But surely that’s because you see him every day and he’s kept you safe on more accounts than one.

“Hello?” Barbara asks a little louder, eyes crinkled with quiet laughter. “Are you daydreaming about your knight in leather armour with a red helmet?” “Shut up.” You hide your bashfulness in your glass, hoping the wine serves a distraction from the wordless admission to your feelings. A futile thing to try with a trained detective. “I knew it.”

“Even so,” you grumble and start the next episode. “It’s a one-sided crush, no need to dwell on it.”

“If you truly think that crush is one sided, then you are blinder than I thought you are, babes,” Barbara mumbles into her glass, too low for you to hear over the intro.

––––

Level 5: Acceptance

It’s a rare occurrence for you to be woken up in the middle of the night, but the window sliding open and a loud thud is enough to make you sit up in shock and clutch the nearest thing you have as a weapon. Arguably, there is better things to defend yourself with than a half empty bottle of water, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

The weapon reassumes its position on your bedside table when you recognize the figure slumped against your wall. His name is barely a breath that leaves your lips, almost inaudible over the rustle of the sheets when you scramble up. A second body threatens to crumble to the floor when the stubborn fabric tangles with your legs, but you catch yourself. “Are you okay? What happened? Why are you here?” Hands hover around him, unsure where to settle. The grin on his face filters through the mechanic rasp of the voice modulator. “Nice to see you too. I need your medical skills.” His breath was ragged and he peels back his jacket to reveal blood seeping through his armour, staining the black at his side an even deeper black. “’S not too bad,” your worried contemplation must have been written on your face in that moment, Jason quick to placate. “Just a stitch or two, bullet’s out.”

These situations were never easy to you. You’re not even remotely trained in these things. Your sewing skills were mediocre in the first place, but suturing? His stubbornness to insist you patch him up was a thorn in your side. “Alfred truly proves better at these than I do, Jason.” No answer is expected, the argument recurring and always shot down with a simple “I don’t care.”

“My non-existent medical skills will not always suffice,” you grumble but retrieve the medical kit you keep for him regardless. The injury is not too deep, and you work in silence. It’s almost mechanical by now. Stop the bleeding, clean, stitch up, clean again, bandage. The same procedure each time. 

The next time you look up, convincing yourself it’s to check on him, his helmet is gone and your eyes are met with tired blues. You quickly look down again. Fuck. “Don’t stare at me.” with the last stitch done, you clean the blood off and bandage the wound.

“Can’t help it.” If you were to describe the cadence of the words, you could not. It’s as if your mind draws a blank, blacks out, erases the details of the situation so it stays as fleeting as it feels in that moment. When you look up, his eyes are fixed on your lips and your heart speeds up impossibly further. Can this induce a heart attack? Is this why you feel so hot all of a sudden?

Deeply buried in panicked thoughts, neither of you registers the gravitational pull that forces you to lean closer. Maybe it’s your sleep-addled brain or his exhaustion, but in the moment neither of you truly cares for the reason. You feel his breath fan across your lips, the very tip of his nose brushing yours. Just a millimetre closer and your fates would be sealed. You would both give in to the feelings you’d long accepted in yourselves but denied in the other. The crackle of his helmet makes you flinch back, the moment gone as quickly as it arrived with Roy’s voice cutting through the silence. “Red? You okay?”

“Yeah.” If Roy heard the small crack in the word, he doesn’t comment on it (yet). “I’ll meet you in a bit.”

Jason is gone a few minutes later and you’re back in bed with your pillow pressed against your face. So much for sleeping eight hours.

––––

Stage 1: Surrender

Jason has been avoiding you for the past three days and you’re beginning to get fed up. With anybody else, you’d give them their space, maybe send them a text that invites them for a talk and asks if everything is okay. But this was so unlike Jason that your insecurity morphs into anger. To have the audacity to spend most days with you, eating your food, sleeping on your couch, and getting patched ip by you, just to ghost you now? Yeah, no way.

After Tim confirmed for you that Jason was at home, you march over to his apartment building, used your spare key to get inside and then for dramatic effect, knock on his door loudly until he opens. Before he has enough time to compose himself and potentially close the door again, you push inside and start to go off.

“I don’t know who you think you are Jason Peter Todd, but I want you to know that you messed with the wrong person. Who the fuck thinks it’s okay to just drop off the face of the earth like that. Leaving me on read? You have a death wish. I have to answer your texts in five minutes, or you break down doors, and now you think I don’t get to hold you to the same standards?”

Jason was just staring at you during your rant, admiring your hair, your nose, the way your eyebrows scrunch together when you get angry. He so rarely gets to see you angry, he wants to savor every moment of this. Only when you step closer does he realize it’s his turn to speak now.

“I’m sorry.” “Sorry doesn’t cut it anymore, I want reasons.” With your hands on your hips, you stare up at him expectantly. Did he turn the heater on? He’s sweating. His breathing is faster, in tandem with his pulse. You make him nervous. You *fluster* him. He’s screwed.

“I can’t tell you.” That earns him a scoff. “Please, what possibly could it he that you can’t tell me? You told me about the time you landed in a trash container after jumping off a roof and showed me the surveillance footage, but this you can’t tell me?”

“Yep,” he nods, trying his very best to seem nonchalant.

“Jason,” you warn him and then it’s two minutes of simply staring at one another. It feels like an eternity. An era. An epoch.

“I can’t tell you,” he breathes again. It’s not for a lack of trying. His brain simply refuses to put the adequate words together in a way that could make sense to you. “Jason, I’m not leaving before I don’t know what I’ve done. If I can fix this, just tell me how.”

“You haven’t done anything.” Your anger simmers into frustration, it’s like talking to a wall. You hate secrecy like this. Usually, what people declare none of your business is something you do not pry about. They have a right to their privacy. But if it directly involves you and affects your friendship, then you see yourself having the right to know what happened.

You are about to say something else when all your senses are enveloped by Jason. You smell his bodywash, feel his warmth, and taste the mint toothpaste you steal whenever you sleep over. It takes a moment for your brain to catch up with the situation and realizes that Jason Todd is kissing you. As soon as it registers, however, your hands are in his hair, and you eagerly return the kiss.

It’s messy at first, charged with months of pining and impulse control shattering above your heads. Then it softens a little, just slightly, so you can catch your breath.

“I crave you,” Jason whispers against your lips, and you swallow his words, breath hitching. This was more than an admittance of love, this was two souls reaching out to one another, desperate to intertwine and merge. To bind their fates together.

This was Jason’s way of saying he loves you, of confessing to need you, to be dependent on your stability, your presence.

Once you pull back, you seize the moment to simply look at him. His pupils were dilated and his cheeks flushed. He looked younger than he already was, and you can’t help but utter the words he’d longed to hear since he met you.

“I love you.”

You know him.

What you don't know — what you have no framework for, no training for, no version of yourself that has ever needed to know — is what to do when you're in the wrong place, and someone points a gun at the back of his head.

It turns out your body knows before you do.

It's not supposed to be a thing.

That's what makes it — that's the part that Jason will turn over later, in the specific way he processes failures, looking for every point where it went wrong. It's not supposed to be a thing. You're picking him up. That's it. He'd texted — can you come get me, 4th and Morrison, don't ask — which is a Jason text, which you've received variations of before, which means something went sideways with transport and he needs a quiet exit, and your car is the quiet exit.

You'd parked on Morrison.

You'd waited.

He'd come out of the alley in the civilian clothes he keeps for exactly this purpose — the ones that make him look like a large man who has been somewhere, which is true, rather than Red Hood, which is what he's been — and you'd seen him and gotten out of the car because it was a nice night and you'd been sitting for twenty minutes and your legs wanted the air.

That's the variable.

You getting out of the car is the variable.

Because if you'd stayed in the car you'd have seen it but not been close enough, and the man who comes out of the shadows behind Jason with the gun already raised would have had his moment and then Jason's training would have kicked in and Jason would have handled it, probably, would have turned at the last second or dropped or done something that you don't have the vocabulary for but that he does.

But you're out of the car.

And you're closer than the car.

And Jason is looking at you and not behind him.

And your body moves.

Later, you won't be able to reconstruct the decision.

Because it isn't one. A decision implies a moment of choosing, a pros and cons, a moment where you weigh the variables and select an outcome. What happens is not that.

What happens is: you see it, and then you're moving, and then you're between Jason and the gun, and then there's a sound, and then there's a pain in your side that is so immediate and total that it whites out everything else for a second.

Then the ground.

Then Jason's voice, which is a sound you've never heard from him before, which is outside the entire vocabulary of Jason Todd sounds you've catalogued over the time you've known him.

Then his hands.

He catches you before the ground does, which is something which he will be grateful for later, but cannot access right now because right now he is — he is not okay, Jason Todd is not okay, the armor is off,  the mask is off, and there's blood on his hand,s and it's yours.

The man with the gun is not a concern anymore.

He'd been a concern for approximately four seconds after the shot, and then he was not, because Jason had dealt with him with the focused efficiency of someone who has a much more immediate priority and needs this particular variable removed.

He's on the ground with you now.

His hands on your side, the wound, applying pressure with the practiced certainty of someone who has done field medicine in worse conditions and is currently finding that knowing what to do and being able to do it clearly are two different things when it's you.

"Hey," he says. His voice is doing something he can't control. "Hey, look at me."

You look at him.

Your face is doing the thing faces do when the body is processing something large — very present and very far away simultaneously.

"Hi," you say.

"Don't hi me," he says, which doesn't make sense, which is what comes out. "I need you to stay with me. Can you do that?"

"I'm here," you say. "I'm —" you make a sound that you're trying to make smaller than it is. "That really hurts."

"I know. I know it does." His hands are steady. His hands are always steady. "I've got you. I've got pressure on it. You're going to be okay."

"Is the guy — "

"Don't worry about the guy."

"Jason — "

"He's handled. Don't worry about the guy." He looks at your face, doing the assessment, the field assessment, cataloguing everything he can see. "I'm going to call — I need to call this in. I'm going to keep pressure, okay? I need you to hold this." He takes your hand and puts it over his. "Press. Like this. Don't let up."

You press.

He makes the call one-handed, fast, the terse, efficient language of someone reporting a situation, coordinates, injury type, and then he hangs up, and his other hand comes back to yours, and he's looking at you with an expression you haven't seen on him.

Not one you have a name for.

"Four minutes," he says. "They're four minutes out."

"Okay," you say.

"Talk to me," he says.

"About what?"

"Anything. Talk to me about anything."

You look at him.

His jaw is doing the thing. The thing where he's holding something back through sheer structural force of will, where the thing that wants to come out is too large and too immediate, and he's keeping it contained because right now, contained is what's needed.

"You didn't hear him," you say.

"No," Jason says. "I didn't."

"He was behind you."

"I know."

"I saw him and I just — I didn't think, I just — "

"I know," Jason says, and his voice cracks slightly on it, just at the edge, just enough. "I know you did. We're going to — we can talk about that later. Right now, I need you to keep talking."

"My car's in a tow zone probably," you say.

Something happens on his face. Not quite a laugh. The shape of one, without any of the air in it. “Yeah, it probably is.”

"You're going to have to deal with that."

"I'll deal with it."

"The fine's going to be — "

"I'll deal with it," he says again, firmer, the firmness of someone who needs you to understand that every single thing that is not you right now is completely irrelevant. "I'll deal with everything. Just keep talking."

"Okay," you say.

You keep talking.

You tell him about your day, which is a strange thing to tell someone while you're bleeding on the street, but he asked for anything, and your day is what you have. The meeting that went long. The lunch that was good. The drive over, the radio station you'd had on, the song that had been playing when he texted.

He listens to all of it.

His hands don't move.

Four minutes is four minutes, and then there are people and noise and Jason's hands are replaced by other hands, and someone is talking to you, and Jason is still there, right there, not moving, and the last thing you see before they load you is his face —

Still doing the thing you don't have a name for.

Still doing it.

The hospital is the hospital.

Jason knows hospitals. He has a complicated relationship with hospitals that involves a significant amount of personal history and a general preference for avoiding them, but he knows how they work, and right now, how they work is: he sits in a chair, and he waits.

Roy arrives twenty minutes in.

He sits in the chair next to Jason without asking if Jason wants company, which is the correct call, and he looks at Jason's hands, which still have blood on them, and he doesn't say anything about that either.

"She moved," Jason says.

"I know," Roy says.

"She's a civilian. She has no training. She doesn't — she's never — " He stops. "She just moved. Like it was obvious. Like there was no other option."

"She could have — if it had been six inches to the left, she could have — " Jason stops again. His hands are on his knees, and they're not steady now, not anymore. The field is over, and the steadiness has gone with it. "She could have died."

"She didn't," Roy says.

"This time."

"This time is the one that happened." Roy looks at him steadily. "She's in there, and she's going to be okay, and that's what's true right now."

"She did it for me," Jason says, and the words are bare, just the bones of them. "She threw herself in front of — for me. She got shot for me."

Roy doesn't say anything.

"I don't — " Jason looks at his hands. "I've had people get hurt because of me. Because of what I am, because of proximity, because I exist, and existing makes the people near me targets. I know that. I've always known that." He exhales. "This is different. She chose it. She saw it, and she chose."

"Yeah," Roy says. "She did."

"That's — " He can't finish it.

Roy puts a hand on his shoulder.

They sit.

She's out of surgery in two hours.

The doctor says through and through, clean exit, no organ involvement, she's going to be sore for a while, but she's going to be fine, and Jason stands there receiving this information and nods and says thank you in a voice that is mostly functional.

Then he sits back down.

Roy brings him coffee from the machine down the hall. It's bad coffee. Jason drinks it.

'You can go see her,' Roy says, eventually.

"In a minute."

"Jay — "

"In a minute," he says again.

He needs the minute because he knows what's going to happen when he walks into that room — he knows his own face, knows what it's going to do when he sees her, and he needs a minute to find the version of himself that can walk in there and be present rather than the version that's been sitting in this chair for two hours with blood on his hands.

He takes the minute.

Then he goes.

You're awake.

That's the first thing. You're awake, and you turn your head when he comes through the door, and your face does — your face does the thing, the specific thing, the one that's just for him, and something in Jason's chest that has been locked for two hours releases without permission.

He comes and sits in the chair by the bed.

He looks at you.

You look at him.

"Hi," you say, for the second time tonight, and this time he doesn't tell you not to hi him, he just exhales.

"Hi," he says.

"I'm okay," you say.

"I know. They told me."

"You look terrible," you say.

"You're the one who got shot."

"And you look worse than me," you say, which isn't true and is also exactly true, and something in his jaw does the thing.

"You scared me," he says.

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Don't — " he stops. "Don't apologize. I'm not — " He looks at your hands, folded on the blanket, and he reaches over and puts his over them. "You shouldn't have done that."

"He was going to shoot you," you say.

"I know."

"In the back of the head, Jason. He had it — "

"I know," he says, quieter. "I know what he had. I know what would have happened. I know." His hand tightens over yours. "And I know why you did it. I'm just — I need a minute to be terrified before I can get to grateful."

"Okay," you say.

"You're a civilian," he says. "You have no — you didn't — there was no reason that should have been your instinct — "

"You're the person I love," you say, simply. "That was my reason."

Jason looks at you.

The thing on his face — the one you didn't have a name for on the street — is still there, and you can see it clearly now, in the hospital light, without the field and the blood and the four minutes.

It's something that looks like grief and looks like gratitude and looks like a man who has been certain for a long time that he is someone things happen to and not someone things are chosen for, looking at evidence to the contrary and not knowing what to do with it.

"That can't be enough of a reason," he says.

"It was," you say.

"You could have — "

"I know what I could have. I know the math, Jason, I'm not — I knew what I was doing." You look at him steadily. "I'd do it again."

"Don't," he says. "Don't say that."

"It's true."

"I know it's true. That's why I'm asking you not to say it." His hand over yours, both of his now, the way he holds things he's afraid of losing. "I need you to not be — I need you to be alive. That's the only thing I need. Whatever I am, whatever this costs, the one non-negotiable is you being alive."

"Okay," you say.

"Okay," he repeats, like he's checking that the word means what he needs it to mean.

"But Jason," you say.

"Yeah."

"Same goes," you say. "You being alive. That's the thing. That's why I moved." You hold his gaze. "So we're even on the non-negotiable."

He looks at you for a long time.

"We're not even," he says. "You got shot."

"Minor," you say.

"Through and through is not — "

"The doctor said clean exit. That's basically a graze."

"It is categorically not a graze — "

"Jason."

"What?"

"Come here," you say.

He looks at the chair. At the bed. At you, shifting slightly to make room, which makes you wince, which makes him immediately say don't move, stop moving, and stand up.

"Carefully," you say.

"I'm not — "

"Carefully," you say again, and he carefully sits on the edge of the bed and carefully doesn't jostle you, and you put your head against his shoulder, and he puts his arm around you with the specific gentleness of someone handling something precious.

"You scared me," he says again, into your hair.

"I know," you say. "I'm sorry about that part."

"Just that part?"

"Just that part," you confirm.

He exhales.

You sit in the hospital room, and he holds you carefully, and somewhere down the hall, Roy is being told he can't have more than one person in the room and is arguing about this with the specific Roy Harper energy that means he's going to win eventually.

"The car's in a tow zone," you say, after a while.

"I know."

"You said you'd deal with it."

"I'll deal with it tomorrow."

"The fine is going to be — "

“I'll deal with it,” he says, for the third time, which this time means something slightly different, which is: I will deal with every fine, and every logistics problem, and everything that is not you being okay, because you being okay is the only variable that matters, and everything else is administrative.

You understand this.

You lean a little more into his shoulder.

He holds on.

He doesn't leave the hospital.

Roy brings him food at some point, bad vending machine food, which Jason eats without comment. A nurse tells him visiting hours are technically over, and he looks at her with a look, and she decides the policy has some flexibility.

You sleep.

He watches you sleep the way he watches things that matter to him — precisely, completely, as if he looks away, something might change.

You don't.

You're there when you wake up, and he's still in the chair, and the sun is coming through the hospital blinds, and his hands are on his knees, and he's watching you with that expression.

"You stayed," you say.

"Obviously," he says.

"You should have slept — "

"I'm fine."

"Jason — "

"I'm fine," he says, and it's the rare version, the one that's actually true. "I'm fine. You're here. I'm fine."

You look at him.

He looks at you.

"Okay," you say.

"Okay," he says.

Outside, Gotham is doing what Gotham does.

In here, you're here, and he's here, and the thing that almost happened didn't happen, and that's the whole of it, that's the entire thing.

Jason Todd is not someone things are chosen for.

Except that you chose.

He's going to have to find somewhere to put that.

It's going to take a while.

That's okay.

He's got time.

You didn’t even recognize the fact that you were in nothing but Jason’s old sweatpants and one of his hoodies that had been lying on the dresser as you threw open your apartment door, only to come face to face with Tim.

The boy had been leaning against the wall across from your place, face paler than usual as he bit on his thumbnail, a nervous habit you had noticed he more often than not picked up whenever he was overly stressed.

On the way to the hospital in one of the many cars that were in the Wayne Manor garage, you vaguely remember Tim explaining that he hadn’t been with the others during the mission that had landed your boyfriend in the hospital. He had been on research duty in the Batcave that night and had taken it upon himself to come and get you as soon as the words ‘Jason in the hospital’ had so much as been uttered over the comms.

None of them had wanted you going out alone this late at night, let alone in the state of complete disarray they had guessed you would be in.

And they had guessed right. Your hair was no doubt sticking up every which way, you wore nothing but Jason’s old clothes, and if you looked down at your feet tapping nervously against the vehicle's floor, you were 90% sure you would find you had mismatched shoes on.

The others must’ve texted Tim to let them know what room his older brother was in, because when you got to the hospital the boy simply put a hand on your back and steered you towards the elevator as calmly as possible.

Even though you were with the Tim Drake at 3:30 in the morning in Gotham’s most busy hospital, no nurses or doctors spared the pair of you a glance.

You supposed you could thank Bruce’s hush money for that. A lot of hush money, you would bet because and entire wing on the eighth floor had been cleared to give the family privacy.

Not just that, but the man that was currently being treated was still legally dead in the eyes of everyone outside of his hospital floor, so you could make the bold assumption that Bruce wanted no questions asked whatsoever. Let alone tip-off’s to whatever paparazzi seemed to always be lurking around the family at the most inconvenient of times.

As soon as the elevator doors slid open with a soft ‘ding’ you threw yourself from them and bolted towards a nearby door that currently had familiar figures huddled around it, talking amongst themselves in hushed voices.

Dick and Bruce, ceased their speaking the moment your frantic footsteps fell upon their ears, and they turned to you with tight expressions. They both wore casual clothes, having smartly rid themselves of their vigilante suits- which you could only hope for Jason’s sake they had done for the man as well before bringing him here.

“What happened?” You all but panted out, gasping for breath as your head whipped back and forth between the two, “Where’s Jason? Is he okay?” Your voice was coming out pleading- complete and utterly scared- but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care in the slightest.

From the moment Jason’s elder brother's name had flashed across your phone screen, your heart had dropped in your chest and it still had yet to be picked back up. Fear clawed at every fiber of your being embedding itself into every thought you had and breath you took.

Dick caught you with ease as you practically stumbled to a stop in front of them, a gentle grip on your forearms being used to pull you closer into a hug.

Your heart pounded frantically against your ribcage, but you allowed your shaking form to burrow itself into the man’s chest for a moment. Wrapped in the familiar, and comforting embrace, your tremors finally ceased just the tiniest bit.

In the years since you had been in a relationship with Jason Todd, you had found yourself growing close with his family. When he had finally allowed them ‘the privilege’ - as he called it- to meet you. You oftentimes joined them for monthly family dinners, having to practically drag Jason there with you, and always had what you liked to call ‘an open window policy’ for any of his family members.

Whether it be they need some company during the day, or some hot coco after a long night of patrol, they were always welcomed in your shared apartment.

Much to Jason’s pretended dismay, of course.

When you finally peeled yourself from Grayson’s hold, you stared up at him with tears in your eyes, “What happened?” You asked again, but your voice shook even as you spoke the simple two words.

You watched as the man’s blue eyes shot behind you to where his father and brother stood, silently watching the exchange, and you can only assume Bruce gave a small nod as a go-ahead before Dick sighed and looked at you gently once more.

“There was… an explosion.” He explained softly, his hand finding your shoulder to rub comfortingly, “Jason had been getting some last minute civilians out of the way, and was standing too close to the blast.” You could tell that him talking about the accident his little brother had pained him, but he still took a deep breath and shouldered on for your sake, “He’s in surgery now, but he was knocked unconscious. Multiple broken bones from what we could tell. And what we couldn’t…” He swallowed thickly, “It was bad.”

He released a shaky breath as a lone tear streaked its way down your cheek.

You whipped around to face Bruce, who watched you with a soft expression that he often didn’t let show under his tough exterior, “But he’s gonna be okay, right?” You demanded, not caring how harsh or demanding you sounded at the moment, “You’re going to make sure he’s okay.” The second part wasn’t a question.

Bruce sighed gently, reaching up to tenderly wipe the tear off your face in a rare show of soft affection, “He’s going to be okay.” He promised in that deep, sure voice of his.

And in that moment, all four of you knew that he had no way of knowing for sure. That even he, the great Batman, could not say such things with complete certainty.

Another tear slipped down your face.

—

You couldn’t tell exactly how long had passed since you and Tim wound up at the hospital during the witching hours of the morning.

All you knew was that hours had to have gone by, and that was only determined by the fact that the sun had long since risen in the sky.

Jason had come back from surgery, and according to the singular doctor that came to speak with Bruce- again, must’ve been the hush money to have a limited, yet highly capable, staff taking care of his son- he would be alright. He was currently stable.

The man had been wheeled into what you could only assume to be the largest and nicest room in all of the hospital a while ago. And while he had yet to wake up, you had yet to leave his side from the moment you eyes locked onto his unconscious form.

Currently, you sat in a chair pulled all the way to the side of Jason’s bed, hunched over as you delicately held his hand, as though even squeezing it slightly would break it. But you also couldn’t bring yourself to lose this skin-to-skin contact. It was the only thing grounding you in the moment. The only thing keeping you sane by telling you that the man you loved was in fact there, and would make a full- albeit slow- recovery.

Up until a few moments ago, the room hadn’t been completely empty other than for you two, but Bruce, Dick, and Tim had stepped out to let the rest of the family know what was going on.

Still, even when Dick told you softly what they were doing, all you could manage was a nod. You hadn’t even looked his way, too absorbed in staring at every inch of Jason’s face.

You had long since memorized the faint scars that littered every inch of his skin, had come to love them through soft traces and late night kisses pressed against them. Now, however, more scrapes adorned his features, the skin under his eyes were sunken in, and bruises blossomed on unfairly pale skin.

The only time your gaze faltered was when it drifted to his chest, which had a stark white blanket pulled up to it, and rose and fell with his steady breathing. Every once and a while you had to make sure it was still moving rhythmically.

God, you would do anything to go back in time. To the night before, when you had given him a soft kiss and a lingering hug before he slipped out of the window for patrol that night.

You should’ve held on longer. You should’ve insisted that he stay and have a movie night with you, god knows it was long overdue.

But, no. You had simply smiled up at him, had told him to be careful, and let him be on his merry way.

And now? Now he was in a hospital bed that he was far too large for, yet looked unnecessarily small in.

If you had any tears left in you, you were sure that they would’ve escaped once more. But you didn’t, your glistening face full of dried tears said all it needed to.

The hospital room door opened with a slight creak, a quiet but firm footsteps shuffled over to where you were. It was only when you felt a presence directly at your side did you tear your eyes away from Jason’s face.

“Hi, Dami.” You croaked, voice coming out scratchy as though you hadn’t used it in hours. And maybe you hadn’t, how would you know?

The young boy gave you a nod, holding out a styrofoam hospital to-go cup that had steam rising from the top of it to you.

You took it without question, and when you glanced down at it, the first small smile in a long time broke its way onto your face. It was a hot chocolate with four marshmallows and some whipped cream. The same as you always made for Damian whenever he stopped by your apartment after a particularly grueling night of patrol.

“Thank you.” You told the boy sincerely, reaching out with your free hand that you had finally slipped from Jason, and grasped his, giving it a singular squeeze as you did so.

“You have not had any form of nourishment since you’ve been here.” The youngest Wayne’s usual clipped tone was present, but was softened slightly around the edges in ways that it normally wasn’t, “I believe father and Grayson have called Pennyworth for some food and have collected you some as well.”

A small shake of your head was all you could give, “I appreciate the hot coco, Dami, but I don’t think I could stomach anything to eat right now.”

Alarmed eyes shot to you, “But… you always eat.” The boy said slowly, as if assessing the armed robbery situation.

That almost made you laugh a little, but you were able to at least smirk softly, knowing that had Jason been awake, he would’ve reached over and attempted to strangle the boy for the implications. Of course, it wasn’t what Damian meant, but your boyfriend would have attempted to defend your honor nonetheless.

“I’m too worried about Jason to eat,” You admitted lightly, having known the dark haired boy well enough by this point to know that sometimes he needed things like this explained out for him to understand, “If I eat right now, I might vomit all over this pristine room.” You added the second part teasingly, hoping to ease some of the concern from his tight features.

It didn’t appear to help, however, as the frown on Jason’s youngest brother deepened, “Well, that is unacceptable. I shall call father and tell him to get you something lighter so it will not upset your stomach.”

Your heart practically melted at the young boys worrying over you. It was sweet in ways you knew he would die before admitting, and as he stood like a guard at your side, you reached up and squeezed his hand once more, “Thank you, Dami.” You repeated, knowing that it was the only sentiment he would accept at the moment without the tips of his ears turning red.

The boy lingered a moment longer, his green eyes sweeping over you, then one last time to his elder brother, before nodding curtly and exiting the room to no doubt give Alfred and Bruce his new orders.

While sipping gingerly on the warm drink, you took Jason’s hand in yours once more and swept your thumb over the back of his rough and cracked knuckles that the doctors had cleaned up.

Slowly, you lifted your intertwined fingers and placed a delicate kiss to the back of his, “I love you.” You whispered into the space between you, “Take your time healing, Jay, I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

—

“You look like shit.”

After eating your plain rice- which had been specifically requested for you personally by Damian- under the young boy's watchful eye, as well as Dick, Tim, and Bruce’s, you had once more been left alone in the hospital room.

You could only assume that another couple of hours had passed since they had gone back to the manor to shower off the horrors of the night and change into fresh clothes. And though they had tried to insist you do the same, you had not budged from your seat, you refused to leave Jason alone.

What if you weren’t there when he woke up? What if he looked for you? What if he needed you?

So, no thank you. You would stay right where you were until you could leave the hospital hand in hand with your beloved boyfriend.

Your eyes shot up to the door, where Stephanie, Cass, and Babs and just entered through.

Cass sent a sharp jab of her elbow into the blonde haired girl's side, who doubled over slightly with wide eyes, “What?” She cried dramatically, “I’m just stating the obvious!”

The corner of your lips ticked up at the girl's bluntness that you had long since not only grown used to, but grown to love.

“Thanks, Steph.” You chuckled quietly, leaning back slightly in your chair but keeping your ginger grip on your boyfriend's hand.

“We just came to check up on you and Jay.” Barbara explained, wheeling over to where you sat with a soft smile. You accepted her quick hug by wrapping one arm around her in return.

You gave the same to Stephanie, who shot you and apologetic smile before bending down at the waist to embrace you, closely followed by Cass who also dropped a quick kiss to the side of your head.

“How is he?” Gordon asked, shooting a worried look to the man who still lay unmoving and unconscious.

A hand was run down your face as you heaved a small sigh, “The doctor just came to check on him a few minutes ago and he’s still stable. Might just take a while longer for him to wake up.” You informed the girls, who hummed in acknowledgment.

“We can take over from here.” Stephanie offered, dropping sideways into a chair previously occupied by Dick with her legs kicked up over the side, “You should go home and get some rest. We’ll watch out for him.”

You had no doubt in your mind that they would do so, but you still gently shook your head, “No, I’m good where I am.” You promised them, ignoring the skeptical looks that they shit between one another.

Babs sighed long and heavy, “There’s nothing we can say to convince you otherwise?” And when you shook your head once more, she grumbled, “You’re just as stubborn as he is.”

That elicited another small smile out of you as your gaze found Jason’s steadily rising chest once more before floating up to his gentle features, “Yeah, I guess I am.”

—

Jason’s family members continued to filter in and out of the hospital room, sometimes lingering in silence, sometimes trying to convince you to go home and take care of yourself. But through it all, you remained unmoving.

Nothing in the universe could’ve gotten you to leave your boyfriend's side, and though you’re sure the others had figured that out long ago, that hadn’t deterred them from attempting to help you.

You appreciated their efforts, truly you did, but what you needed more than anything in the world was to be there for Jason. You owed him at least that much.

It wasn’t until much later when you were once more all alone that the man finally stirred, that his eyes fluttered open and effectively stopped your heart from beating all together and air from entering your lungs.

“S-sweetheart?” Jason’s voice was gravely as he attempted to squint up at you, those beautiful green orbs that you loved so much flashing with confusion.

“Oh, Jason,” You all but sobbed, falling from the edge of your chair where you and been perched to your knees beside his bed, “You’re awake.”

With a gentleness you never thought yourself capable of, you reached up and brushed his beloved white streak from the center of his forehead, tears you had thought long gone filling your eyes.

The man’s eyebrows furrowed as a tear streaked down the side of your face, and he lifted a shaky hand to gently brush it away, “W-why are you-“ He cut himself off with a series of harsh coughs, and it immediately snapped you out of whatever trance of happiness you had been transported into.

Your eyes flew wide in a panic and you stumbled to your feet, accidentally tearing your hand out of his in the process, “Wait, Jay, don’t try to talk.” You hurriedly looked around, “I need to get you some water. And, god, you’re probably hungry to. Oh, Bruce and the others will want to hear you’re awake. And, oh my god, I have to get the doctor-“

“Baby.” Jason had pushed himself into a sitting position with a slight wince, and reaching out to lock your fingers together once more, effectively cutting your ramblings off, “I’m- I’m okay, sweetheart.” When he tipped his lips upwards in a soft smile, everything inside of you short circuited, just as it always did, even after all this time together.

“Oh, Jay,” You practically fell into his arms, though you were extremely careful to keep the entirety of your bodyweight off of him even as you snuggled into his chest, “I was so worried about you. I got a call saying to come to the hospital- and I assumed the worst and I-“ Another sob wracked through your body.

Jason shushed you soothingly, one arm secured around your waist while his other hand ran gently through your hair, “I’m alright, baby, I promise I am.”

You pulled back just enough to see his face through blurry vision, “Don’t you dare ever-“ You cut yourself off with a small hiccup, “Ever do that to me again, Jason Peter Todd, you hear me?”

Jason lay perfectly still, staring at the ceiling while his heartbeat struck against his ribs with such force it felt like something was trying to claw its way out. His hands had curled into fists beneath the blanket, his fingernails pressing crescents into his palms, and the muscles across his shoulders felt drawn tight enough to tear. Every breath wanted to become a gasp, but he held it behind his teeth and let the air out slowly through his nose.

He had learned how to wake without moving.

It was a skill, like clearing a room or stripping a gun in the dark; one of the softer, stranger techniques his life had required. He knew which floorboard creaked near the bed and how much weight the mattress could take before the springs complained. He knew how to swallow panic without letting it make noise, how to pull his hand away from a weapon before he was awake enough to understand whose apartment he was in.

Most importantly, he knew how not to wake you.

You slept beside him on your stomach, one arm beneath the pillow and the other folded near your face. The blanket had slipped low over one shoulder. Your breathing remained deep and even, untouched by whatever had dragged him out of sleep.

Jason turned his head toward the clock.

5:03 a.m.

The middle of the night, as far as he was concerned.

He had gone to bed a little after two, which counted as an early night by his standards. You had already been asleep, though you had left the lamp on beside him and a note on his pillow reminding him to rinse the plate in the sink. 

The nightmare had not been one of the worst ones, he told himself, though that was a truth that only felt comforting after dawn. There had been no crowbar this time; no laughter scraping against the inside of his skull, no bright camera flash, no chemical stink so foul it seemed lodged permanently behind his eyes. His mother had not been shooting up in the next room. His father had not been disappearing through the door with a careless glance over his shoulder. Bruce had not stood above an open grave, silent and too late.

It had only been the coffin.

Only waking beneath six feet of earth with his lungs already beginning to burn.

Jason loosened his hands and flexed his fingers beneath the blanket. Pins and needles moved through them. He concentrated on the small irritations of the room—the seam of his shirt twisted beneath his back, the ache in his left knee, the dry air catching in his throat. Mundane discomfort helped; it gave his mind something ordinary to dislike.

Beside him, you made a sound.

Jason froze.

Your breathing changed, but you did not wake; your face pressed deeper into the pillow, brow drawing together as though you were arguing with someone inside a dream. He watched you for a moment, waiting for your eyes to open.

They did not.

Carefully, Jason began to sit up.

The mattress shifted by a fraction. He moved one shoulder, then the other, keeping his weight close to the edge so the bed would not dip beneath you. His feet had nearly reached the floor when your hand moved across the sheets.

It found the space he had left.

Your fingers opened and closed once against the warm indentation in the mattress; then, still asleep, you reached farther.

Jason stopped.

Your hand brushed the back of his shirt, merely a drag of your fingertips over the fabric, but something inside him wavered. You made another sound, quiet and incomprehensible; the words had no true meaning, no more than a soft complaint.

Jason looked down at your hand.

He had no idea how you did it.

He had become nearly perfect at leaving the bed without disturbing you; he had done it on mornings when patrol ran late, on nights when sleep refused him entirely, on the occasional emergency that pulled him toward the window before his phone finished vibrating. You rarely woke. Yet there were times—only these times, only when the nightmare had followed him out—when some hidden part of you seemed to notice the difference.

Need.

You tugged weakly at the back of his shirt.

“Mm—no,” you mumbled into the pillow.

Jason’s mouth softened despite himself. “No what?”

You did not answer clearly. The next sound might have been his name, or it might have been a demand to lie down, or a complaint about the dishes, or an accusation directed at some unrelated figure in your dream.

Your fingers remained curled in his shirt.

Jason looked toward the window.

The blinds rattled in the draft. The city beyond them was beginning to pale from black to the opaque blue that came before sunrise, though the alleys below still held their darkness. He could get up. Drink water. Stand beneath a shower until the memory of dirt left his skin. He could sit in the kitchen with every light on and wait for his pulse to come down.

He had done all of that before.

Your grip tightened again.

Jason let out a slow breath and eased himself back onto the mattress.

You moved immediately, your knee catching against his thigh and one arm sliding heavily across his stomach. Your face found the space beneath his chin, your nose pressed against his collarbone, and your breath warmed the skin above the neck of his shirt.

Jason went still beneath the sudden weight of you.

You sighed. The sound was quiet and deeply satisfied, as though this had corrected whatever had gone wrong with the night.

One of your hands spread over his chest.

His heart was still beating too hard. There was no possibility you could miss it; it struck beneath your palm with embarrassing force, fast and uneven, the rhythm of an alarm that had not yet realized the fire was out.

You did not wake. Your thumb moved against his shirt.

“Here,” you murmured.

Jason closed his eyes.

The word had come out blurred by sleep, almost incomprehensible; he might have imagined it. Even so, it sank into him slowly, warmth moving through cold muscle.

Here.

He was here.

Not beneath the ground. Not inside that warehouse. Not sixteen and choking on blood and deafened by laughter. He was in a badly insulated apartment owned by a landlord who believed mildew was no more than a cosmetic defect. There was a plate in the sink he had almost rinsed, and a grocery list on the refrigerator in your handwriting, and your elbow was digging into the tender space below his ribs.

The pressure hurt a little.

He loved it.

Jason lifted one arm and settled it around your back, carefully, because some part of him still believed too much movement would break the spell. You responded by pressing closer, your leg sliding over his until half your weight rested against him. The blanket bunched awkwardly between your knees.

“You’re a furnace,” he whispered.

You breathed against his throat.

The answer was entirely unintelligible.

Jason rested his cheek against the top of your head. Your hair tickled his nose. The room smelled was cold, smelling of morning, old radiator heat, and the citrus hand cream you used before bed. Beneath it was the warmer, softer scent that was simply you, familiar enough that his body began to unclench around it.

His hand moved slowly up and down your back.

He did not need to think about the motion anymore. Somewhere along the way, he had learned the shape of you in sleep—the place between your shoulders where his palm fit, the way your muscles softened when his fingers traced small circles near your spine, the exact pressure that made you sigh and go heavy against him.

You had learned him too—more than anyone else ever had. 

Everyone who knew Red Hood knew he carried weapons inside his jacket and anger beneath nearly everything else, but you knew the ordinary details. You knew he hated being cold after a nightmare because it reminded him of graves and winter dirt, so you tucked your feet between his calves even though they were usually freezing. You knew silence was sometimes safer than questions; you knew not to touch the back of his neck suddenly, and that he could tolerate almost anything if he felt your palm against the center of his chest.

You also knew he left cabinet doors open.

You knew he always used the last of the coffee and returned the empty container to the shelf as though perhaps a new supply might generate inside it. You knew he would wash every dish in the apartment complex if you asked directly, but somehow remained incapable of rinsing one plate before sauce hardened on it.

Love, Jason had discovered, was humiliatingly domestic.

It was not only the grand things—the nights you cleaned blood from his hair, the mornings you counted bruises while pretending not to worry, the arguments about risk and honesty and whether a person could belong to a city without letting it consume them. It was also you standing in the kitchen holding a fork with dried egg welded to it, asking what thought was going through his brain. It was you handing him the landlord’s phone number and saying, with complete sincerity, that you could not bargain.

Your hand shifted over his chest.

Jason looked down.

Your face was relaxed again, your mouth slightly agape against his shirt. There was a crease on your cheek from the pillow. You looked nothing like the holy thing his mind sometimes tried to make of you after nights like this; you were a real person who stole the blanket, forgot where you left your phone while holding it, and had once started an argument at midnight because he had used your good towel to clean gun oil from the table.

You were not an angel sent into the dark to drag him toward the light; you were sleepy and warm and drooling on his collarbone, holding him because some part of you had noticed he was hurting.

Jason’s throat tightened.

He lowered his mouth to your forehead.

The kiss barely touched your skin.

You shifted beneath it, brow furrowing for a moment, then tightened your arm around him. Your hand caught a fistful of his shirt and held on.

“Don’t go,” you murmured.

This time, the words were clearer.

Jason stared into the dim room.

He had not been planning to leave—not the apartment, at least—but he understood what you meant anyway. There were many ways to go without opening a door. He had spent years mastering them; he could leave a conversation while sitting across from someone, could vanish behind a joke or a fight or the blank red face of the helmet. He could make himself absent even while his body remained.

You always noticed eventually.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered.

Your grip loosened slightly.

Jason settled deeper into the mattress and pulled the blanket over your shoulder. He tucked the edge behind your back, creating the tight pocket of warmth you preferred, then he let his hand rest at your waist.

His pulse slowed.

The coffin still existed somewhere in his memory, waiting with all the other rooms he could not demolish; if he closed his eyes too hard, he could feel wood beneath his bloody nails and taste soil against his teeth.

Jason breathed in.

Your chest rose against his.

He breathed out.

The tension eased, pain draining from his muscles. His jaw unclenched. The ringing in his ears faded until he could hear the refrigerator humming in the next room and the scrape of branches against the building.

You made another noise.

Jason ran his fingers along your side. “What are you saying?”

Your mouth moved against his shirt. He caught only the last word.

“—dishes.”

A laugh escaped him before he could stop it. He pressed his lips into your hair to hide the sound. “I rinsed them.”

You frowned without opening your eyes. “Liar.”

Jason looked toward the bedroom door, through which the edge of the kitchen counter was just visible. The plate sat in the sink.

There was probably still sauce on the underside.

“Mostly,” he amended.

You exhaled, clearly disappointed. Then your hand drifted upward, slid over his collarbone, and came to rest against the side of his neck.

Your fingers were warm.

Jason leaned his face into your palm.

“I’ll do it in the morning,” he whispered.

You were already gone again, sunk deep into sleep; still, your fingertips threated lightly near his jaw, not quite a caress and not quite accidental.

He closed his eyes.

The nightmare waited at the edge of sleep, as it always did.

Sometimes it wore the Joker’s face. Sometimes Bruce’s. Sometimes his mother was calling from a room he could never reach, her voice drowned beneath the sound of a train. Sometimes Jason was still dead, and everything after had only been a final chemical spark moving through a broken brain.

Tonight, the grave remained open.

But you were heavier than the dirt.

Your arm lay across his chest, your leg pinned his beneath the blanket, and your breath warmed the hollow of his throat. Every place you touched him carried a small, undeniable pressure.

Here.

Here.

Here.

Jason covered your hand with his and held it against his heartbeat. Your nose was cold where it touched his neck.

By the time the blinds began to glow pale around the edges, his breathing had finally fallen into the same rhythm as yours. His last clear thought was that the landlord still needed to look at the ceiling; his second-to-last was that he should clean the plate before you woke and discovered his definition of rinsed remained questionable.

Beneath those thoughts, quieter and deeper, was the certainty of your arms around him.