hear me out a jason todd x reader fic where they’re both always awake at the most unruly times of the night and keep running into each other and the manor (maybe reader is a family friend) and slowly building a connection
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The manor was different at night.
During the day, it was all formality and grandeur—a museum of wealth and legacy. But at night, when most of the household was either asleep or out on patrol, it became something else. Quieter. More honest. Like the building itself could finally exhale.
You'd been staying at Wayne Manor for two weeks now—a "family friend" in the loosest sense of the term. Your parents and Bruce had been colleagues once, before your father passed and your mother took a position overseas. When you'd needed a place to stay during your gap year, Bruce had offered without hesitation.
"The manor has plenty of room," he'd said. "And Alfred would appreciate having someone around who actually keeps normal hours."
Except you didn't keep normal hours.
You kept terrible, chaotic, 3 AM hours that even you couldn't explain.
Which is how you found yourself in the manor's library at 2:47 in the morning, curled up in an armchair that probably cost more than a car, reading by lamplight because sleep was a distant concept.
You jumped, book tumbling from your hands.
A figure stood in the doorway—tall, broad-shouldered, with a white streak in his dark hair that was visible even in the dim light. Jason Todd. The second son. The one everyone talked about in quiet voices, with careful words.
The one you'd been actively avoiding for two weeks.
"Sorry, I didn't—I can move—" You started to get up.
"I'm joking. Kind of." He moved into the room, and you noticed he was wearing sweatpants and a worn t-shirt, feet bare on the expensive carpet. He looked tired. "Didn't think anyone else would be up."
"I could say the same thing."
"Yeah, well. Sleep's overrated." He collapsed into the chair across from you with the heavy grace of someone exhausted. "What are you reading?"
You held up the book—some philosophy text you'd grabbed at random. "Honestly? I stopped paying attention about twenty pages ago. I'm just... awake."
"I feel that." He leaned back, eyes closed. "You're Bruce's friend's kid, right? The one staying in the east wing?"
"That's me. Professional house guest." You paused. "You're Jason."
He opened one eye. "You haven't heard the stories?"
"I've heard lots of stories. About all of you. Figured most of them were either exaggerated or none of my business."
Something like approval flickered across his face. "Smart. Most people can't resist asking invasive questions."
"I'm not most people. I'm just someone who also can't sleep at normal hours."
"Circadian rhythm disorder. Or anxiety. Or just a refusal to conform to socially acceptable sleep schedules. Pick your favorite." You set the book aside. "What's yours?"
"Nightmares. Trauma. The usual." He said it so casually, like he was discussing the weather.
You appreciated the honesty. "The usual. Right."
A silence fell, but it wasn't uncomfortable. You both just sat there, two people awake when the rest of the world slept.
"You can stay," Jason said finally. "In the chair, I mean. I'm just going to read. Or pretend to read. Whatever helps pass the time until dawn."
He grabbed a book from a nearby shelf—poetry, you noticed—and settled in. You picked your philosophy text back up.
And for the next hour, you both just existed in the same space, not talking, not performing, just... being.
When you finally got tired enough to attempt sleep, you stood carefully.
"Night," you said quietly.
"Still night for people like us." But he was almost smiling. "See you around. Or not. Manor's big enough to avoid people if you want."
"I'll keep that in mind."
You left, but you found yourself hoping you'd run into him again.
The kitchen was your second favorite place in the manor at night.
Mostly because Alfred kept it stocked with the kind of food that made insomnia almost worth it. Also because the kettle was easy to find, and tea felt like the responsible choice at 1:30 in the morning.
You were waiting for the water to boil when Jason appeared in the doorway.
"Oh good," he said. "I'm not hallucinating the smell of tea."
He slumped into a chair at the kitchen island, and you noticed he was in different clothes—jeans, boots, a leather jacket slung over the chair. He smelled like Gotham at night: rain and exhaust and something sharper.
"Patrol?" You asked, pulling down a second mug.
"I won't ask for details."
"Appreciated." He watched you prepare the tea with the focus of someone grateful for normal, mundane tasks. "Can't sleep again?"
"Never really tried. Figured I'd skip the tossing and turning and go straight to tea and reading."
You slid a mug across to him. "How do you take it?"
"However it comes. I'm not picky."
You'd made it the way you liked it—a little honey, no milk—and watched as he took a sip and didn't complain.
"So," you said, settling onto a stool across from him. "Scale of one to ten, how was patrol?"
"You said you wouldn't ask."
"I'm not asking for details. Just a general vibe check."
He considered this. "Seven. Could've been worse. Could've been better. No one died, which is always a win."
"Bar's pretty low there."
You smiled despite yourself. "Fair point."
He drank his tea in silence for a moment, then: "You're not freaked out by it? The whole vigilante thing?"
"Most people are either too into it or really uncomfortable. There's not a lot of middle ground."
"I think..." You thought about how to phrase it. "I think people do what they need to do to make things better. And if that means putting on a costume and fighting crime, then... okay. Who am I to judge?"
"That's a remarkably chill take."
Jason actually smiled at that—a real smile, not the sardonic half-smirk he'd been giving you. "Yeah, okay. I can respect that."
The kettle had long since cooled, but neither of you moved to leave. You ended up talking about nothing important—books, the manor's weirdest rooms, Alfred's uncanny ability to appear whenever someone was about to do something stupid.
"I once tried to eat cereal at 3 AM," you told him, "and he materialized out of nowhere to inform me that there were 'proper breakfast items' if I was hungry."
"He did the same thing to me when I tried to make a sandwich at 2. Apparently, there's a protocol for nocturnal snacking."
"Is there a protocol for everything in this house?"
"Yes. And Alfred knows all of them."
You laughed, and Jason's expression softened.
"It's nice," he said quietly. "Having someone else up at these hours. Usually it's just me and whatever ghost Dick swears haunts the east wing."
"According to Dick, yes. According to reality, no. But he's convinced."
You both sat there until the sky started to lighten, talking about everything and nothing, and when you finally went to bed, you fell asleep easier than you had in weeks.
You didn't see Jason for three nights after that.
Which was fine. The manor was huge. You were both busy. It didn't mean anything.
Except you found yourself wandering to the library at odd hours, just in case.
On the third night, you gave up and went to the gym instead—another place that was blessedly empty at 3 AM. You weren't much of an athlete, but the treadmill was good for clearing your head.
You'd been walking for maybe twenty minutes when Jason appeared, looking slightly surprised to see you.
"Didn't know you used the gym."
"I don't. Usually. But I was going stir-crazy."
He was in workout gear, and you tried not to notice the way his shirt clung to his shoulders. Tried and failed.
"Fair," he said, moving to the weights. "Mind if I...?"
"It's your house. Or, well, your family's house. You don't need my permission."
You continued walking, and he started his workout—some complex routine that involved a lot of weights you couldn't name. You tried to focus on your podcast, but you kept getting distracted.
After about fifteen minutes, Jason paused. "You're staring."
"Sorry. It's just—how much can you lift?"
"Probably three of you, then. Give or take."
He shrugged. "Training. Lots and lots of training." He set down the weights. "Want to learn some self-defense? Since you're here anyway?"
"Best time. No one around to judge if you mess up."
You considered. "Okay. But if I accidentally punch you, that's on you for offering."
The next hour was spent with Jason patiently teaching you basic self-defense moves—how to break a grip, where to strike, how to use your weight to your advantage.
"You're stronger than you think," he said at one point, adjusting your stance. "Most people are. They just don't know how to use it."
"Is this going to turn into a motivational speech?"
"No. I'm just saying you'd probably be fine in a fight. With training."
"Good to know. I'll add 'probably won't die immediately in combat' to my resume."
He laughed—actually laughed—and the sound did something strange to your chest.
By the time you were both exhausted, sweaty, and significantly more awake than when you'd started, the sun was threatening to rise.
"Same time tomorrow?" Jason asked as you both headed toward the showers.
"Yeah, okay. Same time tonight."
The library became your unofficial meeting spot.
Sometimes you'd both read. Sometimes you'd talk. Sometimes Jason would disappear for hours, then return and collapse into his chair like gravity had increased tenfold.
Tonight was a talking night.
"Can I ask you something?" You said, setting your book aside.
"That depends on what it is."
"Why are you always up? I mean, I know you said nightmares, but..."
Jason was quiet for a long moment. You thought he might tell you to mind your business.
Instead, he said: "I died once."
You processed that. "Okay."
"That's it? Just 'okay'?"
"I mean, I heard rumors. And you live in a family of vigilantes where apparently death is more of a suggestion than a rule. So... yeah. Okay." You paused. "Does it hurt? Remembering?"
"Sometimes. Mostly it just means sleep is..." He gestured vaguely. "Complicated. Dreams and memories get mixed up. So I stay awake instead."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It is. But it's better than the alternative."
You wanted to say something comforting, something meaningful. Instead, you said: "Want to watch a terrible movie? I think Alfred has every film ever made somewhere in this house."
Jason looked surprised. "What?"
"A bad movie. The kind where you can make fun of it and not feel guilty. I find it helps when my brain won't shut up."
"Says the guy who died and came back."
He actually smiled. "Fair point. Okay. Let's watch a terrible movie."
You ended up in one of the manor's several living rooms, finding the most absurd action film in the collection. It was gloriously awful—physics-defying stunts, dialogue that sounded like it was written by someone who'd never had a human conversation, explosions for no reason.
You both tore it apart with the kind of joy that only comes from shared mockery.
"Why does he need to jump off the building?" You asked during one particularly ridiculous scene.
"Because it looks cool. That's it. That's the only reason."
By the end of the movie, you were both half-asleep on opposite ends of the couch, commentary getting gradually less coherent.
"Thanks," Jason said quietly as the credits rolled.
"For not making it weird. The death thing. Most people either treat me like I'm broken or like I'm some kind of miracle. You just... didn't care."
"I care. I just figured it wasn't my business to pry." You pulled a blanket over yourself. "Plus, everyone's got something. Your something is just more dramatic than most."
"That's one word for it."
You both fell asleep there, on opposite ends of the couch, as dawn broke over Gotham.
Alfred found you both asleep in the library and said nothing, just left a tray with coffee and breakfast pastries.
This became a pattern. You and Jason, finding each other in the small hours, existing in the same space. Sometimes talking, sometimes not. Building something neither of you had a name for.
One night, you found him reading poetry again.
"What is it about poetry?" You asked.
He showed you the book—Pablo Neruda. "It's honest. No bullshit. Just feelings distilled down to their essence."
"Read me something. Please. I want to hear what you like."
Jason looked uncomfortable but flipped through the pages. When he started reading, his voice was quiet but steady:
"'I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride...'"
He continued through the poem, and you watched him instead of the book. Watched the way his expression softened. The way he held the book carefully, like it was precious.
When he finished, the silence felt heavy.
"That was beautiful," you said.
"Yeah." He closed the book. "It is."
"Do you think love can be that simple? Without problems or pride?"
"I don't know. Seems like everything I care about comes with complications." He looked at you. "What about you?"
"I think..." You considered carefully. "I think maybe the best things are the ones we don't overthink. The ones that just happen naturally. Like this."
"This. Us. Meeting in the middle of the night. Talking. Existing together. We didn't plan it. It just happened."
Jason was very still. "Yeah. It did."
The moment stretched, charged with something unspoken.
Then Alfred's voice came from the doorway: "Master Jason, you have a phone call. Master Bruce requires your assistance."
The spell broke. Jason stood quickly. "I should—I'll see you later."
He left, and you sat in the library alone, heart racing for reasons you didn't want to examine.
Jason avoided you for two days after that.
When you finally found him again—in the gym at 3:33 AM, predictably—he was beating the absolute hell out of a punching bag.
"Want to talk about it?" You asked.
You waited, because pushing never worked with him.
After a few more minutes of violence against the innocent punching bag, he stopped.
"I'm not good at this," he said, not looking at you.
"This. People. Caring about—" He stopped. "I'm better at keeping distance."
You moved closer. "Jason, you don't owe me anything. If you need distance, take it. But don't push me away because you're scared."
"Yes, you are. And that's fine. But don't insult my intelligence by pretending."
He finally looked at you. "What if I screw this up?"
"Then you screw it up. And we figure it out. Or we don't. But at least we tried."
"You make it sound simple."
"Maybe it is. Maybe we're the ones making it complicated."
Jason laughed, rough and tired. "When did you get so wise?"
"I contain multitudes, remember?"
He stepped closer, and suddenly the space between you felt charged.
"I don't want to mess this up," he said quietly. "Whatever this is."
"Then don't overthink it."
"I overthink everything."
"Then let me think for both of us." You reached out, slowly, giving him time to pull away. When he didn't, you took his hand. "Hi. I'm someone who also can't sleep at night. Who likes your company. Who wants to keep meeting you in libraries and kitchens and wherever else we end up. Can we do that? Without making it complicated?"
Jason looked at your joined hands. "Yeah. Yeah, we can do that."
You stayed like that for a moment, just holding hands in a gym at 3:30 in the morning. It wasn't dramatic or earth-shattering.
A week later, you had a routine.
2 AM: Meet in the kitchen for tea.
2:30 AM: Library or living room, depending on mood.
3:00-whenever: Talk, read, watch bad movies, just exist together.
Tonight, you were on the couch again, some nature documentary playing quietly in the background. You were half-asleep on one end, Jason reading on the other.
You opened your eyes. "What?"
He set his book down and patted the space beside him. "You're going to get a neck cramp sitting like that."
You moved, settling next to him. Jason shifted so you could lean against his shoulder, and it felt natural. Easy.
His arm came around you, and you felt him relax.
"Thanks," he said after a while.
"For being weird too. For being awake when everyone else is sleeping. For not making this harder than it needs to be."
You fell asleep there, tucked against Jason's side, and for once, neither of you had nightmares.
Three months later, you were still there.
The "temporary" stay had become indefinite. Your gap year was being spent in Gotham, in the manor, in the company of people who'd become something like family.
And Jason... Jason had become something else entirely.
You were in the library—always the library—when he found you.
"Here I am. Where else would I be at 2 AM?"
He settled into his chair—not opposite you anymore, but next to you. Close enough to touch.
"I was thinking," he said.
"Shut up." But he was smiling. "I was thinking about that thing you said. About not overthinking."
"I've been overthinking this for months. Us. What we are. What we're doing."
Your heart started racing. "And?"
"And I think..." He took your hand. "I think maybe we should stop pretending this is just two insomniacs who happen to like each other's company."
"What should we pretend it is instead?"
"I'm not good with words—"
"Jason, you read poetry. You're great with words."
He laughed, nervous. "Okay, fine. I think we're dating. Or we should be dating. Or—I want us to be dating. Officially. If you want."
"Took you long enough to figure that out."
"Jason, we've been having what are essentially dates every night for three months. We cuddle. We hold hands. We fall asleep together. I was waiting for you to catch up."
"You could have said something!"
"Where's the fun in that?"
He stared at you. Then he was kissing you—soft and careful and perfect.
When you broke apart, you were both smiling.
"So," he said. "Same time tomorrow?"
"Yeah. Same time tonight."
And for once, being awake at 2 AM felt like exactly where you were supposed to be.
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