✨Imagination✨

It's intoxicating, how easily he's pulled into your orbit again and again. Every hobby, every habit, every thing that makes you, you is something he wants to engrave into his skin so he never forgets.

He's enamored, and he couldn't hide it even if he tried. He loses the air in his lungs when you laugh. His knees threaten to buckle every time you wind your hand with his.

But it's still not enough.

He wants so much more, all of it, everything you could offer. A life and a future and something real. The things that always seemed to be little more than a passing thought until he met you.

And now it feels more real everyday. His coffee mug sits next to yours in the cupboard. His laundry is tossed in the same hamper as yours. And it feels like something he's almost too scared to put a name to, far more than he's ever believed he deserved.

You feel it too, and how could you not when so much of him is weaved into your life? Losing him would mean tearing through the fabric of your reality, and jankily stitching it back together with far too many pieces missing.

It's not something you're willing to do, not something you think you'd survive. Not when you know the exact sound of his boots hitting the fire escape outside your window just as the sun begins to rise. Not when you've memorized the feel of his mouth against the hollow of your throat.

You want to show him every big feeling you get when he looks at you like you hung the sun and the stars. You want to find a way to scream every desperate emotion that gets stuck in your throat when he smiles at you, soft and trusting and downright moony.

Even if the words tend to fail, actions never do. Fingers curled together, heads tucked against shoulders, gentle kisses to the fluttering pulses on wrists, it all says what both you know in a language all your own.

He'd tear the world apart on your word just to see you smile, and you'd lay the universe at his feet just to lighten the weight he carries with him onto the rooftops every night.

if love was sameness, had his love killed you and reanimated you in his image of blood, betrayal, and a lifetime of aches? had this sameness pieced you from his world of hurt, where every bruise and lifted scar on skin echoed somewhere onto you? had his pierced liver and cut-open throat, bleeding rust onto his hands pricked at your liver, swiped at your jugular, stained your hands? had the guilt and rage that burrowed deep into his own stomach lining long ago passed onto you, leaving you suffering on this couched island, had his anger that boiled his spiked blood burned yours into a fever? he knew love to be this transformative and powerful beast, but to have altered you to the likeness of him—even in the most microscopic of ways—it was some cruel hand pressing at his heart knowing what he had done to you, as if some punishment in the shape of love.

jason continued to watch as you drifted into some shallow dream: how you nuzzled further into the pillow that crowned your head, how you shuffled deeper into the spine of the couch. with each of your slow breathing movements, jason’s mind crept forward watching for himself to appear in your wake. where in your soft hands resting along your waist were his bloodied and scarred ones? where on your clammy skin speckled with feverish heat was his torn and bruised flesh? where in your dozing, resting presence on the couch was his towering stature, forceful in its unnatural stance? where in your salvation, your divinity, was his damnation?

“jason,” you called, your voice almost a broken whisper from your place on the couch as you turned slowly into a wake. jason rushed to your side, kneeling beside the couch at your beckoning. it was he, after all, with his love that left you sick and on your back with wet lungs, burning skin, and crunching stomach making hole in your cavities; in dooming you to this state, the least he could do is ease the suffering even if only for a brief second’s worth.

“do you need water?” jason asked in whispered tones. your eyes were still closed to the world around you, and he didn’t want his words to bustle forth new aches.

“no,” you whimpered out. your other hand reached for him, landing on his arm with the pull of gravity as your guide. “i probably can’t stomach it like this.”

it pained him to hear you say that, to see your arm tossed over your resting eyes, limbs and all still all too warm to the touch. his love had ached your being raw, shutting down functions of necessity and replacing it all with his love burned pain.

and how could you, laying in some divine glow of urban life pained and suffering in your touch, be him? how could this feeling, this thread that has tied your internal mechanisms to his, be root in lending your lungs to his or his liver to yours?

if, whatever souls are made of, yours and his are the same—bloodied death marking his hands ashened over yours cleaned, feverish, and sleep-laced—jason surely had marked you for ruin. every time you shuffled barely to adjust your comfort on the couch as your hand still stood on his arm feather-soft and gentle, every time you twinged your fingers to pillow his rough skin and slide away his unruly worries etched onto scars defying stillness for your touch, had your heart been beating the same rhythm as his? had your lungs been born of the same piercing life? had your ribs shared wishes with his in some cosmic way?

truly, what righteousness laid in this merging towards your damnation? as if hearing his thoughts, you moved closer towards him, sliding yourself cautiously near the edge of the couch where jason kneeled tall.

“just stay,” you muttered. even in your state of silent distress, your thumb found its routine in rubbing soft circles into his arm, hypnotic in motion but all too tender in practice: “close.”

“i will,” jason whispered as his hand came to meet yours thumbing lazy loops into his skin. your hand—chilled and burning to the touch all at once, carried this sincere gentleness with every feathered touch. even when sick, you continued to love him into some gentleness; his heart ached and burned at the thought of you still steadfast in this softness he was wholly underserving. yet, did you feel it, too? if love had rendered you him, and him you, did you too feel your heart beating wildly about your chest at your hand grazing his? he moved your delicate hand towards his lips, offering a kind kiss at the edge of your paling knuckles. did you too feel the electric charge surge through you, some powerful wave of change, some late summer leave crisping at the coming of cool autumn, at contact of tender skin to tender skin?

you shuffled once more, this time unveiling your arm from your eyes, and, in the same movement, brought your hand enshrouded with his towards the expanse of your lips this time; his hand in yours some destined car crash at the site of your lips-meeting-hand as you sought him in closeness. your eyes, lovely in their shape, looked tired—yet still gazed upon jason with nothing but treasured, thundering love that wild grey storms speak over gothic, wayward seas.

It’s morning right now. You’re up bright and early at exactly 7AM. Or more specifically at 7:12AM, but no one can blame you for giving yourself a few more minutes after you basically punched the alarm clock in the face. (Your fingers still hurt from the impact).

The small open planner on your desk filled you with dread. The reminder of unfinished tasks makes you groan as you get out of bed. Your morning schedule is packed with detailed steps to start the day on a good foot. You’ve learned if you give into your morning grumpy self, you will create an incident in the labs just to vent the frustration out. (On accident, of course).

Thinking of a certain sea-green eyed man from the library does help with calming you down. What helps especially is the fact that you gave him your number.

Just like that, your personal information in the hands of a man who’s last name you don’t even know. What if he doesn’t even go here and lied to you so he can lure you away with his boyish charm? You’ve heard worse from the students at campus.

Or maybe you’re paranoid and Jason is just being nice.

Your morning routine is haunted by the promise you gave Jason of meeting up with him. (When or where? You’re not sure. You’ll cross that bridge when you get there).

You glance at your phone on your desk and remember the messages you two have been exchanging over the two days you’ve known each other. And then you immediately glance back at the mirror. You watch your frame, the tired look on your face, the dim color of your irises and wonder if it was out of pity that he approached you or did he actually find you interesting?

Interesting? Who cares? Certainly not you. It’d be irrational.

Cleaning yourself up passes by in a breeze. Every move is a practiced step, just like a well-trained robot.

You shuffle to your desk, yawning as the sunlight seeps through the small cracks between the shut curtains. Picking up the phone, you check if there’s any new messages. Could be from anyone, maybe from someone in a group project or a professor you’ve been sending emails to so they finally explain what they mean by “compelling narrative” and “emotional resonance.”

Or maybe a message from Jason.

He’s probably sleeping right now. His classes don’t start for at least another three hours. And from what you’ve noticed, he’s also a night owl. Jason might brag about it, but you don’t approve of the habit.

But you still check.

To your surprise, there’s a single thread of messages from him.

[7:04] Jason: i know you’re probably waking up right now

[7:07] Jason: wait no that sounds creepy..

[7:08] Jason: what i meant to say was, good morning. hope you didn’t forget about our study session today. o⁠:⁠-⁠) 2pm right?

Crap.

Today.

You didn’t have this written in your planner.

Wait, 2pm? Where? Definitely not his place. You still haven’t debunked the serial abductor theory.

[7:24] Jason: you know that i can see if you’ve seen my messages or not. cat got your tongue?

You grip your phone tighter. His texts stare back at you through the screen as if they’re threatening you to answer quickly so he doesn’t get weirded out by you leaving him on seen and not responding.

[7:26] You: It’s early for you to be up. You told me you were staying up last night studying.

[7:26] Jason: you caught me. wanted to text you to say hi and see how you were.

He’s deflecting. He should be resting. And you should be saying ‘hello’ and ‘how are you?’ first before interrogating him about his sleeping habits.

You try and type out a generic response over and over again and delete it just as many times you wrote it. You feel like giving up. It’s way too early to be stressing over if the tone of your words are properly expressed in the text you want to send to a guy you’ve known only for two days.

You think that maybe you should have never given him your number. While these thoughts plague your mind, a small ding from your phone breaks you out of the trance.

It’s Jason again.

[7:31] Jason: i know you have a hectic morning. try and rest a bit between classes or you’ll be too tired to meet me at the café on robinson street. :⁠-D

Wait.

Plans. He made plans. Without asking you first the details or if you even like cafés or—

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard, anxiety spiking. You should ask which café. Should you meet him there or is he picking you up? (Definitely not picking you up, that’s how people end up on true crime podcasts or worse, on dates.) Do you need to bring money? What if it’s expensive? What if—

[7:32] Jason: the morningside café. i’ll be there at 1:45pm. take your time, no rush.

[7:32] Jason: and before you ask, yes i’m buying you coffee, latte or whatever you’d like. call it payment for tutoring services. ;⁠-⁠)

You stare at the screen of your phone dumbfounded. Scrap the serial abductor theory, he might have just read your mind. It’s refreshing to see someone help you plan for once and not dump the responsibility on you.

Jason interacts with you so fluidly. You’re not surprised. You could never go up to a stranger in the library, badger them about their essay and then turn that into an opportunity to get their number.

The meeting in the library was relatively not difficult to get through. Keeping up with the banter for just over an hour was easy enough. Jason made it enjoyable even with how natural he seemed at holding the conversation.

You admire him for that. You appreciate him for this.

What you don’t appreciate is that now you have to think of what to wear to a totally-not-a-date study session in a busy café.

Jason’s lucky he’s the one that’s paying.

+++

Jason has been fidgeting with his glasses for about ten minutes without stopping. His eyes stare out of the open windows. The crowded Dining hall’s sound of endless chatter doesn’t reach his ears.

His focus is somewhere else.

Past the courtyard is the Engineering Hall. He imagines you are there, walking to lectures and taking notes non-stop with a rhythm he admires more than he’s concerned with if you’re pulling all-nighters like him.

He hasn’t eaten much today. A single cup of coffee in the morning and a sandwich that was basically shoved into his hand by the red-head seated across from him.

“Seriously, Jay,” Roy tuts, and the worried expression isn’t lost on Jason. “You’re up in the clouds more than usual.”

“I’m not up in the clouds.” Jason deflects, pulling his eyes away from your building. “I never am.”

The clearly visible flustered look he’s been wearing this entire day says otherwise. He knows he’s slightly messy, but today has him in a bind.

Jason’s eyes trail back to the Engineering Hall. He’s over analyzing every detail of meeting you today. He’s thought of every outcome and he doesn’t like more than half of them.

He’s been checking his phone every hour, waiting for you to text. Maybe you’ll change the meeting time or destination. Or maybe you’ll bail altogether. He hopes not. He’s done everything as perfectly as he could.

Jason leaves the glasses alone, putting it down with more force than he intended. This gets the attention of Roy again. He raises his head from his lab reports.

“Dude, if there’s something bothering you feel free to talk to me about it.” The sincerity in Roy’s voice tugs on Jason’s heart.

“Not like you’d sour my mood. I’d forever be indebted to whatever keeps me away from the labs for a few more minutes.”

He wonders if he should tell Roy about you. He does know of you. Considering he’s told his friend about the small crush he has on you since the first time he saw you cramming for exams, hair a mess and typing away on your computer.

But you don’t know that.

Roy says it’s “adorable,” but Jason’s body feels weak every time he imagines you figuring out about his crush.

“You owe me too many debts already,” Jason smirks. “Remember that one time I had to sneak us out of that fraternity party we were not invited to?”

“In my defense, the door was open and they were being assholes.”

Roy puts the lab work away in his bag. He leans back into his chair and stares at Jason.

“What?”

“You’re distracted.”

“Maybe I have a few things on my mind.” He says, like testing the waters to see if Roy picks up on the hints. Distracted, flustered, checking the phone, fidgeting, trailing eyes…

“You wanna switch majors?”

“What?” Jason deadpans.

Roy laughs in response. “Oh c’mon! You’ve been eyeing the Engineering Hall all day. It’s not worth it, buddy.”

“That’s not it.”

“Figured,” Roy fails to suppress a grin. “Give me another guess.”

“I don’t know why I entertain you, but sure.” Jason nods, a small smile appearing on his face. “Guess away.”

“You’ve finally confessed your not so small crush on that bio-med major you totally have not been low-key stalking in the library?”

Now it’s Jason’s turn to wear the confused look. His eyes widen and the expression makes Roy snicker.

“Oh, that’s a good look.” Roy takes out his phone. “I need a picture of this—”

“Oh, for fucks sake—”

“Congratulations, Jay!” The opening of the camera app can be heard from his phone. “Watching you pine away like a puppy actually paid off.”

“Do not take a picture.” Jason moves across the table to snatch the phone away, but Roy slaps his hands away.

“This is compensation for making me the innocent victim to your obvious stares at them across the library.”

“You make me sound like a creep.” Jason rubs the back of his neck.

“Because you kinda are.” A smirk tugged at Roy’s lips.

“We exchanged numbers. It’s going well.” Jason spits out, hands drumming on the table. “I think.”

“You think?” Roy tilts his head.

“It’s complicated.” His fingers twist together.

“It usually is.” Roy gestures for him to keep going. “Start at the beginning. Or the middle, since I already know about the crushing phase.”

Jason would love to talk about anything else other than this. To have a private moment of your conversation out there for someone else to pick through is too exposing. Even if it is Roy. Though the inviting expression that the red-head always seems to wear calms Jason down. (Just a tiny bit).

“So— it’s been two days since we’ve been talking, and—”

“Two days?!” Roy jumps in. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I wanted to test the waters a bit, see if they actually like me or not— I’m not sure.”

Jason has tried to figure his feelings out, to put them in their respective boxes like shapes in frames, but it’s been a futile effort. He’s a mess and you’re hard to read.

“Of course you’d not know yet.” Roy rests his chin on his palm. “This takes time. Go with the flow.”

“The flow?” Jason raises a brow.

“Respect my advice, Jay.” He picks Jason’s glasses up, twirling it in his hands. “Don’t rush.”

(Jason now regrets not taking his contacts instead of his glasses).

“Like I already told you, I already asked them out. Kind of.”

“Kind of?!” Roy almost drops the glasses on the floor from the surprise.

“Hey, those are expensive.” Jason snatches his glasses back from Roy’s hand.

“And they said yes?”

“Does that surprise you?” Jason asks genuinely.

Roy leans back again, crossing his arms. “I share some classes with them. They’re closed off to say the least.”

Jason thinks about that assessment of you from Roy just for a second and then he decides there’s not much truth to it.

“They were nice to me.” He says, voice tinted with pride.

“Well, look at you lovebirds,” Roy chuckles. “So, where are you taking them?”

“Café. Morningside. 2pm sharp but that’s—”

“1:40 at least for you.” Roy cuts in.

“I was thinking 1:45pm. You’re right. I have to be there earlier or they’ll think I’m not taking this seriously. Do you think—”

“Okay, slow down.” Roy puts his hands up. “I’m sure they said yes to meet because they at least have an interest in you.”

“But do you think I should buy flowers?”

Something small maybe. Jason has thought about what type of flowers you might like. He remembers you mentioning a part of the garden in the courtyard that you liked. He should visit to see what drew you to that place in the first place. And maybe take you there along with him.

Roy gives him a deadpan stare. “Well, I hope not. You two only met, what, three days ago?”

“Right.” Jason groans, running his fingers through his strands. “I’m just nervous.”

“Don’t worry. Just be yourself. I’m sure it’ll go well.”

Jason hopes so. He wants to give you a perfect study date or whatever this is that’s happening between the two of you. Between Roy’s chattering and the ambience of the Dining Hall, he can faintly recall the soft tone of your hushed words in the library corner where he finally gathered the courage to speak to you.

+++

Lectures have been dragging on more than they do usually for you. The professor’s words are like buzzing chatter in which you can’t make out the words, something about statics and dynamics? The chalk on the wall isn’t getting your attention and neither is your unfinished notes.

You’re never distracted. Tired and frustrated with course work, maybe. But never distracted.

Your predicament must have been obvious by the curious looks you keep getting from the student seated near you. You think you heard a small “you okay?” from them, but your mind is so fuzzy you can’t really recall.

Or maybe that’s because you keep fidgeting with every piece of stationary near you; biting on the tip of your pen, slamming your book shut with just a little bit more force than needed and sighing every two minutes.

Needless to say, you left early. Stuffing your things in your bag and you bee-line out of the room. The open space of the hallway chips away at your attitude. You try to speed up your pace, hoping to leave the building as soon as you can.

It’s nearing 12:00pm.

Classes are over. You should be heading to your apartment to rest and then quickly get back into the rhythm of re-reading notes, highlighting and highlighting until your eyes see so much of yellow that you feel dizzy.

But you have different plans today.

While exiting the Engineering Hall your eyes instinctively trail to the Liberal Arts building. It’s right across the courtyard, dark mahogany-colored bricks and large open windows making up the old hall that’s been here for as long as Gotham University has had open doors.

As much as the sight is beautiful, you are looking for something else. Or more specifically, someone else.

You stop in the middle of the yard, putting your back to the flowers growing in the small garden behind you. This gives you an almost undisturbed view of the students passing through the different buildings, some caught up in calm chatter or running flustered trying to get to their lectures on time.

It takes you only a small glance around your surroundings for a new (infectious) thought bubble up in your head.

This is downright creepy.

Or is it? You try and find logic in searching for Jason in the crowd, trying to find those sea-green eyes he hides under contacts and sometimes glasses which you can’t take your attention away from.

It already takes a lot out of you to admit to yourself that you’re searching for him. But for what? For a single glance? Would you even approach him?

Definitely not.

You have a totally-not-a-date to get ready for. Everything is unplanned. That isn’t like you at all. You’re sure he has everything figured out, a perfectly imperfect and casual outfit along with the guarantee that the conversation will lead by him with his boyish charm and sweet words.

You finally leave your designated totally-not-spying spot and head towards the exit. You have to pull every trick in the book to impress Jason today.

Walking back, you try and remind yourself that you still are supposed to help him with his essay. You researched on the topic a day ago, seemingly curious about what he was learning with his own studies.

That turned into a four hour long dive into Charles Dickens and Elizabeth Gaskell. You were basically floating back to bed by that time you were so tired. Though if Jason was there to talk you through the intricacies of Victorian Literature used as social commentary you probably would have listened.

And fallen asleep to his voice too.

That last thought almost makes you trip as you exit the gate of the university. You thank whatever small bits of fried nerves you have left over to get you through the day. Or more specifically, get you to the Morningside café and have the not-so-date with Jason.

You check your phone as you walk. No new messages from Jason since this morning. That’s fine. Perfectly normal. He’s probably in class. Or sleeping, finally, like he should be. You definitely aren’t disappointed. (You are definitely disappointed).

+++

12:30 PM.

You stare at your closet and it stares back with a look of pure contempt. The sad beige, blues and grays of your clothes are offending to the eye.

You manage to lay out a wide-legged beige pants and a Cashmere jumper. Yes, Cashmere. You’re bringing out the big guns.

The pants were practical. Comfortable for sitting in a café for hours. The fact that they made your legs look good was a bonus. A very welcome bonus.

You pulled the Cashmere jumper over your head, the cream one that was soft and warm and totally didn’t make you think if Jason would notice how the color brought out your eyes.

You can’t help but feel a small smile appearing on your face. A warm feeling starts blooming in your chest like fireworks and you know that you’re finally in the rhythm.

The fact you changed four times before landing on this combination was inherently irrelevant.

01:15 PM.

Jason checks his phone for the fifth time since he’s gotten back from his lectures. He can barely move around his room, the book stacks block his movements along side the two conspicuously dangerous dumbbells placed on the floor.

The large windows let in the pale afternoon light, Illuminating the mess of clothes thrown over the tan leather chair.

Grey hoodie, black sweatpants. Too casual.

Light blue jeans and a brown leather jacket with a black tee. Better, but too much.

Jason thinks back to Roy’s advice. Just be yourself. I’m sure it’ll go well. Right, because that always works on a first date. He thinks about how you’re already ready, you must have looked in your closet once and picked up an outfit that looks effortlessly beautiful on you.

He sifts through his closet making a mess of the clothes in the small space. A black and gray plaid flannel gifted to him by Dick (so definitely expensive) catches his eye. Jason takes a mental note to thank his brother and Roy for fussing over clothes and appearances when it came to him because now he actually has an idea of what to wear.

Flannel, tan wide-legged pants and brown leather boots. And maybe a small accessory.

Among the disaster that is his room as if it’s been hit by a hurricane named Jason Todd, he finally stands tall in his outfit, feeling proud and totally not yet ready to face you.

More A/N: Well, I’ve been writing the entire thing on and off for about a week now. I decided to cut it up. You’ll see the rest in part 3 (or part 4, we’ll see). I love this AU so much, considering Jason doesn’t get the chance for this kind of softness in canon. If there are mistakes with the grammar or plot it’s probably because I’ve got the memory of a goldfish.

Across the common room, Sirius and you were on the couch in front of the fire. Sirius had his back to them and had turned himself completely to you so one leg was tucked underneath the other, with an arm on the back of the couch to support his leaning head. You were sat criss-crossed in front of him leaning against the armrest, talking casually about your day—your voice ringing softly off of the stone floor, almost as warm as the hearth blazing in front of you.

Sirius was no stranger to romance and affection—the opposite, really. He was true to the reputation he’d slowly acquired after years of dating person after person; none of them sticking around for longer than a week or two. He was never aloof about it—always upfront with them about wanting something casual, that he enjoyed the familiarity of knowing someone’s body so well that he could make them seamlessly fall apart with minimal effort, but that was all. People ogling after him weeks after he’d ended things, is what inevitably gave people the impression that he was a heartless playboy.

You, however, had never wanted any part of Sirius’ shenanigans, innocent or not. You’d always been friendly with the Marauders, especially after bonding with Remus over your love of literature, but something about Sirius always had you creating extra distance. Not because you disliked him, rather, because you knew he’d worm his way into your heart if you gave him the chance. And, well, that’s just not something you wanted to put yourself through. With Sirius assuming you just had no interest in bonding with him, you easily rotated around each other’s lives with little disruption.

That all changed the day Slughorn paired you up in Potions in sixth year, and you found Sirius to be incredibly—almost annoyingly—easy to talk to. One question led to another, and soon he was making you double over the nettles you’d been finely chopping in laughter. When you asked Sirius about his ambitions and seemed to take a genuine interest when he talked of being an Auror, he found himself tackling a sudden infatuation—an infatuation that turned into a strong questioning of why the hell he hadn’t tried harder to be friends with you.

It wasn’t immediate, in truth he thought the feeling would pass; but a slight disinterest in spending time with whoever he was dating that week became a complete disinterest in dating anyone at all. You’d tried to revive the distance you’d once treated so carefully, but Sirius found himself desiring your company more and more. He started to sit beside you in the Great Hall every meal, and asking if he could join you whilst you did your homework in front of the fire in the common room. One day he noticed how the light caught your eyes and by the time the end of the year came around, he was brushing off questions from the others about his sudden celibacy, taking a notice in when you were having a bad day, and trying to find every reason under the sun to make you laugh because Gods, he loved your laugh.

When he spotted you on the train two days prior, your hair was lighter, and the sun had freckled your cheeks over the summer: it sunk in. This wasn’t hot, fleeting desire, this was want—he wanted to feel the ease he felt in the dungeons with those nettles you were chopping; wanted to feel understood by you and understand you in turn; he wanted to put in the leg work. Especially if it meant seeing you light up the way you did when your eyes finally met from down the carriage hallway.

You’d been all but oblivious to Sirius’ change in feelings towards you. Mostly a denial that he could even entertain the idea of you as anything but a friend; but with him in front of you on the common room couch, chin in his hand and stars in his eyes like you brought peace to his angry bones, you were scrambling to figure out if you were imagining the static in the air. Had he always looked at you like that? Sure, you’d realized his extracurricular activities had come to a stop, but you just assumed he grew out of it—and about damn time, too.

“And I swear, Snape looked mortified. You would’ve died laughing,” you finished telling Sirius about the events of Divination, in which Snape’s apparent soulmate was “waiting for him in the beyond” according to Professor Trelawney.

Sirius let out a laugh that was softer than his usual boisterous howling, his eyes never left yours.

From across the room, James looked over at Remus who looked back at James like he’d just seen a creature believed to be mythical—which he had, in a sense.

“Knew I should’ve taken Divination,” Sirius said, smile still wide.

“Yeah, you’re missing out.”

“Clearly,” Sirius said, voice falling soft. The silence stretched for a moment too long, and Sirius fought the urge to look down at your lips (and lost). You swallowed.

“So, um, how was your day?” You asked.

“Not as interesting as yours, but it was fine for the most part. Would’ve preferred not being cooked in the sun during Quidditch tryouts, but,” he shrugged his shoulders.

You decided to test the waters. “I would’ve thought you’d be all for it.”

He furrowed a brow. “Why’s that?”

You shrugged. “I dunno. Fit players, hot sun. Sounds right up your alley, no?”

Sirius paused, his eyes moving over your face like that might answer the questions bouncing around in his head. “No, I’ve been feeling like I’m moved on from all that, actually.”

Your stomach flipped. “Oh?”

Remus leaned forward in his seat. James stopped breathing altogether.

Sirius moved the arm that was supporting him and flopped against the back of the couch in such a way that had him leaning closer to you. If you reached out, you could brush your pinky along the arm of his robes.

“Think so,” he looked up at you, “sort of trying to figure out my… feelings.”

You laughed lightly. “How’s that going so far?”

“It’s really bloody difficult, actually,” he answered as soon as you asked, half-joking, tone light. He craned his head further up so he could watch your eyes crinkle when you laughed.

“Well, you let me know if I can help, yeah?” You avoided his eyes, lightly touching a thread that had begun to escape the lining in his robes and was draped over your knee.

The silence between you was thick. Sirius opened his mouth with a sharp inhale, as if he were to say something—you met his eyes at the gasp, holding your breath, trying to keep your heart from slamming against your ribs.

He seemed to decide better of it, relaxing his mouth back into a soft, boyish smile. “Will do, love. Thanks.”

You nodded. “Any time.”

“I may take you up on that.”

You breathed a laugh. “Well, I um… I should head to bed. Divination really took it out of me.”

There was a flicker of disappointment in Sirius’ eyes, but he sat up properly, so you had room to stand without knocking into him.

“I’ll see you in the morning, yeah?” Sirius looked up at you from tired eyes of his own.

You nodded and made your way around the couch. “Night,” you said over your shoulder, pulling your sleeves over your hands.

Sirius didn’t answer, but instead turned his body lazily, so he could prop his chin on the back of the couch, and watch you walk up the stairs.

When you were gone, Remus sat with his mouth slightly open.

James let out a long sigh of surprise. “Mate…”

"I would be here when you arrive from work, with a terrible dinner and, I don't know, an apron or something," he rambles, sleep starting to kick in.

You huff a laugh, "You wanna be my house husband?"

You say it almost as a joke, but Jason gets silent for a moment. You feel the exact second the idea sinks its hooks into him.

Jason goes very still on top of you, the way he does when he’s turning something over in his head like it’s a live grenade. Then he lifts his chin just enough to rest it on your sternum, eyes half-lidded and suddenly, achingly soft.

“I could,” he says, quieter. “I mean… I’m already home most nights before you anyway. And the safehouses are paid off. Roy keeps telling me I’ve got enough fuck-you money to retire twice.”

You keep tracing slow circles between his shoulder blades, letting him talk it out.

“I could cook,” he continues, voice getting that sleepy-dreamy quality it only ever has with you. “Like, actually learn instead of just burning pasta. Greet you at the door. Have the place clean. Maybe… get a cat. A black one. He’d hate me, but he’d love you.”

You snort. “You want a cat that judges you daily?”

“Already used to it,” he mumbles, nuzzling back into your stomach. “Plus I’d get to see you come home to me every day. Carry your bag. Kiss you stupid the second the door closes. Run you baths when you’re sore. Be… waiting.”

His arms tighten around your waist, possessive and gentle all at once.

“I want that,” he says, so quietly you almost miss it. “I want to be the thing you come home to.”

Your hand stills in his hair. You feel your heart do something complicated, squeeze and melt at the same time.

“Jay,” you say softly, “look at me.”

He does, immediately. Those green eyes are nervous, like he just confessed a sin instead of the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to you.

“Are you sure?” you ask. “I love the idea—God, I love it—but only if it’s what you want. Not just for me.”

He thinks about it, really thinks, brow furrowing the way it does when he’s defusing a bomb.

“I’ve spent years being needed out there,” he says finally. “I think… I want to be wanted in here.”

You lean down, kiss his forehead, then his nose, then his mouth.

“Then stay,” you whisper against his lips. “Be my house-husband. Burn dinner. Adopt three cats. I’ll come home to you every single day and kiss you stupid for the rest of our lives.”

He makes a sound between a laugh and a sob, and buries his face in your chest again.

“Deal,” he mumbles, voice thick. “But I get to pick the cat names.”

You smile into his hair. “Deal.”

He falls asleep like that, arms locked around you, breathing finally even. You stay awake a little longer, imagining it: coming home to Jason in sweatpants and an apron, flour on his cheek, a black cat glaring at him from the counter while he grins at you like you’re the best part of his day.

“Do you wanna go get ice cream?” you ask. It’s a warm day in early summer, the sky alight in a vibrant blue outside, but here you are, in a garage that smells so strongly of sweat and old motor oil that you could almost taste it. You’ve been sitting in on band practice with Corroded Coffin, but it’s been hours in the stale heat and now you’re desperate for relief.

Eddie laughs as he finishes packing away his gear. “You’re sitting on the ice cream, dumbass.”

You glance down at the chest freezer you’re cross-legged on top of. That wasn’t what you meant, and he knew it. He was just pushing your buttons. “That’s boring. Let’s get sundaes.”

“You mean, let’s go swoon over Steve Harrington.” He finally vocalises it. You fold your arms stubbornly across your chest, but you know he’s right. He gives you a smug grin as he grabs the keys to his van.

The mall is packed with bodies moving through the space, the air conditioning above working overtime to cope with the mass. The two of you manage to worm your way through the crowd stiltingly - to be fair, it helps that a lot of people took one look and move out of your way. Neither of you look like you belong in the neon utopia: Eddie with his wild curls and his Hellfire Club T-shirt emblazoned with a demon and his denim battle jacket; you with your smoky black eyeliner and your vibrantly dyed hair and your half-black half-tartan trousers that you’d made yourself.

“Ahoy,” Steve greets you with a smile when you finally make it to the front of the queue. “Where are we sailing to this time?”

You’ve been here so many times over the past few weeks that Steve quickly dropped his usual ‘ocean of flavour’ spiel, but somehow he still managed to keep his opening remarks on theme. You’d never really had a crush on him until recently - he’d been such a jerk in early high school that you’d never have considered him no matter how conventionally attractive he was - but since splitting up with Nancy he’d become surprisingly mature and his time spent with Dustin and the other kids in that group had clearly brought out his dorky side. Suddenly you’d found yourself giggling like an idiot at the stupid little remarks he made and finding excuses to be around him just to hear them more.

“What do you recommend, captain?” you return his smile with one of your own. Even though you can’t quite see him, you can tell out of the corner of your vision that Eddie is rolling his eyes.

Steve ponders for a moment. “I’d say… chocolate wafer cone, banana ice cream, strawberry sauce, chocolate sprinkles. All classic combos, the strawberry and banana is very fresh and summery, but then the dark chocolate gives it a bit more depth instead of being too sweet. You seem like you’d be into that,” he finishes with a light flourish to his words and a flush to his cheeks.

You grin, flattered despite knowing he’s just trying to upsell. “Sounds good, let’s do it.”

He nods, turning to Eddie, who you now see has a shit-eating grin and a twinkle in his eyes. “Sounds terrible, Harrington. I’ll take rum and raisin in a cup.”

The two of you settle into a booth with your ice creams. A mother trailing a trio of screaming children looks like she’s about to complain about you taking up a larger table than you need, but the moment she makes eye contact she seems to change her mind. You take the first lick of your cone. Damn, Steve was right. This is good. You cast a glance back at the counter, where he’s serving a group of girls in tight, vivid lycra.

“You know,” Eddie muses around a mouthful of rum and raisin, “you should really put the guy out of his misery and ask him out already.”

A sprinkle must have gone down the wrong way; that must be why you choke on nothing. “Shut up. He’s not into me, he flirts with literally everyone.” You pointed at the crowd of girls, the way Steve was leaning on the counter with a smirk painted across his face.

Eddie shrugs. “He doesn’t flirt with me.”

“He probably would if you tried,” you mutter. Eddie’s face lights up into a wicked grin again, and you hurriedly raise your hands to ward off whatever idea he’s brewing. “No, no, I take that back, don’t-”

“Too late.”

—

It’s only been a few days, but Eddie seems to have dropped the subject. You’ve almost let your guard down when he suggests going to the mall to watch a movie. That’s odd. Just last week he was complaining about the lack of decent listings. It’s all cheesy romances and ‘generic’ sci-fi action stuff, apparently. You’re even more suspicious when he tells you to wear something cute.

“You better not be up to something,” you warn him down the phone while you drag unappealing clothes out of your wardrobe.

“Oh ye of little faith,” he replies dramatically. “Am I not allowed to want a fun day out on the town with my best friend in the whole wide world?”

You pinch the bridge of your nose as you toss another shirt to one side. “Not when you say it in that tone, you’re not.”

He picks you up half an hour later, appraising your outfit out of the van window. You’ve gone for a loose patterned red shirt, paired with a black miniskirt, fishnet tights and your least battered pair of high-tops. The look is finished with a pair of sunglasses perched on top of carefully tousled hair. He nods with approval as you slide into the passenger seat.

“Cute,” he acknowledges. You blush in spite of yourself.

He’s made an effort too. He’s still dressed like himself, in a Corroded Coffin top and his chunky silver rings picking out the matching chain which hangs from his waist, but he’s traded the vest for an open checked shirt and his jeans are ones with fewer rips than usual.

“You scrub up alright, too.”

“I do, don’t I?” he beams as he puts the van into gear.

Eddie stares in faux shock at the listings outside the movie theatre. You can tell he’s trying so hard to look convincing, but the curl at the corner of his lips gives him away.

“Aw shit,” he practically kicks himself, scuffing his foot across the carpet. “I could have sworn it said the movie was now! I must have got the days mixed up. It’s not for another hour.” He turns to you with that meddling glint in his eyes. “Do you want something to eat while we wait?”

You consider your options, pointedly avoiding the obvious. “Burgers?”

“Nah, it’s too warm for that.” You know what he’s about to say before the words even form on his lips. “How about ice cream?”

You shove his shoulder even as you start heading towards the parlour. He recovers quickly, trailing behind you with an uncharacteristic spring in his step.

Scoops Ahoy is less busy today; you suppose most people are either already in the movie theatre or not dumb enough to show up a full hour ahead of schedule. There’s a group of younger teens in front of you, complaining about the fact their cones have melted. You peer forward, and sure enough their hands and clothes are stained with a sticky array of pink, brown and bubblegum blue.

“That’s because you bought them half an hour ago,” Steve says with a strained smile. He’s trying so hard to maintain his customer service front and not launch himself over the counter, you can tell. The thought of watching him bludgeon a thirteen year old with their own ice cream cone makes you laugh involuntarily, and his head snaps up at the sound. He gives you a weary salute, telling the kids to clear off and make room for real customers.

“Sorry about that,” he sighs as you and Eddie approach. “You… look nice.” His eyes rove swiftly over your outfit. You blush again.

“Aww, thanks, so do you,” Eddie jumps in, propping his elbow on the counter and resting his face against his palm. “So, hot stuff, what’s the suggestion of the day?”

Never in your life did you think you’d get to see Steve Harrington physically malfunction, but it’s a sight to behold. His face goes as red as the trim on his uniform. His mouth opens, then closes. It opens again, and a small noise escapes him before he aggressively clears his throat. “Um, rocky road with extra marshmallows?”

“Sounds good to me. Same for you, babe?”

You make a sound not dissimilar to the one that came from Steve. Eddie has never called you that before. He turns his gaze on you expectantly. You swallow and focus on Steve, who is watching you with parted lips and the cogs whirring behind his eyes so quickly you feel like you can hear them. “Sure,” you manage to choke out.

“Cup or cone?” Steve asks, his voice somehow more gruff than it was when he was reprimanding the kids. “Let me guess, one of each?”

Eddie actually bats his eyelashes, and you feel like it’s not just Steve that’s losing his mind. “You know us so well.”

Steve hands over your ice creams without making eye contact with either of you.

You sit at a table this time, in clear view of the counter. Eddie is already enjoying his ice cream, spoon perched jauntily between his lips, by the time you sit down with an incredulously horrified look on your face.

“What the hell was that?” you hiss.

Eddie smirks, like he’s told a joke you haven’t yet figured out the punchline of. You normally love it when he smiles like this, it lights up his whole face with a youthful mischief, but now that you’re on the receiving end it makes you nervous. “Isn’t it obvious?"

“Should it be?”

“Well, yeah. I’m making him jealous.”

You can’t help the scoff that bursts from your lips. “Jeez, Eddie, you were laying it on so thick I was starting to get jealous.”

“Listen, it’s foolproof. I show him how charming I am and what a cool couple we are, he steps up his game to prove he’s better than me because we all know he thinks he is, he flirts harder with you than any other customer and ends up falling madly and deeply in love with you if he isn’t already.”

You raise an eyebrow, a smirk creeping onto your face which mirrors his. “Are you sure you’re not just using me as an excuse to flirt with Steve?”

Eddie points his spoon at you with a scowl. “I told you, I’m into Glenn Hughes and K.K. Downing, not some poser who’s a little too dedicated to scooping ice cream. Besides, in this scenario there’s no way I’d actually choose him over-” He cuts himself off.

You bite your tongue to stop yourself from pointing out that Steve looks a little like Glenn Hughes if you squint. He wouldn’t take too well to you defiling his icon like that. Instead, you glance at the counter. Your eyes lock on Steve’s, observing the two of you attentively, but as soon as he sees you've caught him he becomes very focused on cleaning the top of the nearest ice cream cabinet.

Hang on. Did Eddie say you were a couple?

—

This goes on for a few weeks, you and Eddie going on ‘dates’ to Scoops Ahoy. To your surprise, it almost seems like it’s working. Steve is definitely paying you more attention and doing more to make sure he’s holding yours, nearly falling over himself every time you flirt back. One time, you rejoin the queue with your empty cup to ask for a refill of soda, and by the time you get to the front Steve already has a fresh cup filled with your favourite drink. As he slides it across the counter, he leans over with it and gets unnecessarily close to murmur that it’s on the house, immediately straightening to serve the next customer with only a sidelong wink as acknowledgment of the fact that you’re clinging to the counter to support your rapidly weakening knees.

What’s unexpected are the other side effects of this little game that Eddie’s playing. His flirting with both of you has got more intense and, if you didn’t know better, more earnest. When he keeps it up when the two of you go out for dinner one night, despite Steve being nowhere in sight, you consider saying something, but the truth is that you’re enjoying it too much to risk making him stop. You’d agreed to all this in the hopes of winning Steve over, but somewhere along the way you find yourself wondering what it would be like to be dating Eddie for real. By far the most surprising aspect of this whole thing is the interactions between the two guys. Eddie has never hidden his attraction to men as well as women from you, so it’s not too surprising the ease with which he flirts with Steve, but you know deep down that the plan doesn’t require it, nor does it have anything to do with the fact that Steve gets equally as flustered around both of you and has almost started flirting back with your supposed date as well as you.

One Saturday, after a week of unseasonable rain, you’re on the verge of going stir crazy from being stuck inside. Eddie comes over and drapes himself upside down off the side of your bed while you sit on the floor, sewing supplies spread around you as you attach the collection of patches you’ve been making all week to your jacket. Eddie’s hair is fanned out on the carpet, his eyes free of his bangs for the first time in you’re not sure how long. He looks different like this, open and calm as he watches you bite through a thread.

“You up for a mall date?” he proposes after a while. You glance round, and the way he’s looking at you makes your heart skip a beat. “No ulterior motives today, I just want some new cassettes. Unless you want to visit your beloved, of course.”

This isn’t the first time he’s suggested a ‘date’ that hasn’t been a part of the plan. You start to wonder if you might be pursuing the wrong boy. Sure, Steve is showing more interest than he did before you started this whole thing, but there’s only one guy who’s actually asking you out right now and it isn’t him. But Eddie’s just being a supportive friend… right?

“Sure, I wouldn’t mind a new record.”

He rolls off the bed and jumps eagerly to his feet, holding out a hand to help you up.

Eddie insists on carrying your bag as you leave the music store. You’ve ended up buying two vinyls, and he’s got a handful of cassettes that he drops into the plastic once you hand it over. He’s adding the extra weight, he reasons, it’s only fair that he bears the burden. You eye Scoops Ahoy on the landing above as you pass.

“You want to go up there, don’t you?” he asks softly. You almost think you detect a note of regret, but he covers it with an amused tilt of his head.

You bite your lip. You kind of do, but you’re also having such a good time with Eddie and the last thing you want to do is spoil this very real moment to go after someone you’re still not sure likes you that way.

He must sense your hesitation. “It’s okay. Gareth said he’d be around here today, he’s probably in the arcade. I’ll come up and find you in a bit, okay?” You nod, any response you might have given catching in your throat when he reaches out and squeezes your hand before disappearing into the crowd. You’re questioning your decision more and more by the second.

Steve smiles widely as you walk in, glancing around as though he’s waiting for Eddie to follow you in. When he doesn’t, the smile wavers ever so slightly.

“Ahoy there, y/n,” he greets you. “Sailing alone today? Your boyfriend isn’t with you?” There’s a hint of probing in that second part.

“He’s just gone to find a friend,” you explain, pretending to consider the rows of flavours in the cabinets even though you know you’re going to have whatever the boy behind the counter suggests.

“Oh.” Why do everyone’s voices have a tinge of disappointment today? “Well, his loss. Lucky you, you get my undivided attention and first try of this combo I’ve come up with that I think you’ll really like.” You feel your cheeks grow warm. He’s been planning this.

“Hit me with it,” you nod. Now’s your chance. “And he’s not exactly my boyfriend, by the way.”

“He’s not?” Steve frowns as he rinses off the scoop. “So he’s- I mean, you’re single?” The disappointment is replaced with hope.

You take a steadying breath, praying you’ve read the stumble in his words right. “Yeah, we’re both single.”

He looks like he’s about to say something, but thinks better of it. He places all his attention on the ice cream, not you, as he speaks. “Huh, I was so sure you two were dating. But, like, you’re so awesome, and-” He looks up sharply, very aware of what he’s just said. “And he’s cool too,” he adds hurriedly, “You’re both… both very cool people. You’re so suited to each other, not-” He trails off again and clears his throat awkwardly. “Anyway, see what you think of this.” He hands you what you think is apple and salted caramel with fudge pieces, and you hand him the cash.

Eddie finds you out in the hallway, one boot casually propped against the wall as you lean back, slowly eating some sort of white and beige ice cream combination.

“How did it go with lover boy?”

“Weird,” you huff. “I think he’s into me, which is… good?” You intentionally say it a little hesitantly, watching his reaction. He keeps a mostly straight face, but there’s a glow behind it that tells you maybe you’re right to be hesitant. Maybe Steve’s not the only one who’s got jealous along the way. “But I think you’ve gone slightly overboard on the charming thing. I told him you’re not my boyfriend, and he was just as interested to learn that you’re single as me.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Eddie heaves a sigh even as his eyes light up. “Stay here.”

He barges into the parlour. There’s a girl behind the counter, her name tag announcing she’s called Robin. Eddie marches to the front of the queue, ignoring the protests of the line of customers.

“Hi Robin,” he gives a forced smile. “Where’s Steve?”

“Hi doofus,” she mimics his smile with a scathing edge. “I don’t know you. And there’s a line.”

“I’m Eddie.”

Her eyes widen a little in recognition. “Oh, you’re Eddie? Shit, okay. Back room.”

He plays that back in his mind as he heads for the door with the porthole. Steve must have mentioned him.

The boy in question is sitting alone at a table, one hand drumming on its surface while the other cradles a mug of coffee.

“Eddie!” he leaps to his feet the moment he sees who’s at the door. “You… shouldn’t be back here.”

Eddie shrugs. “Blame the delightful Robin. Look, man, I just wanted to say I’m sorry if things got out of hand, but none of it was y/n’s idea. She really likes you, and you’re an idiot if you can’t see that.”

Steve sinks back into his chair, bewilderment painted across his face. “I… what? Dude, I’m so confused right now. You’re telling me to ask her out?”

“Praise the lord, he gets it!” Eddie replies sarcastically.

“But…” Steve looks like steam is going to start coming out of his ears. Eddie almost feels bad for how much confusion he’s caused, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a little proud to have sent the Steve Harrington into an emotional crisis. Steve continues, trying desperately to piece things together. “But you’ve been flirting with her for weeks, but she was flirting with me, and you were flirting with me, and I know I was flirting with her but I- you- we- I don’t get it.”

Eddie’s done it. He’s broken Steve’s brain. He sighs. “Okay, look. Y/n has liked you for a while, so I was pretending to flirt with her to make you jealous so you’d ask her out, but I kind of got into her along the way, and then I was also flirting with you because it’s funny, but then she got kind of jealous too and I guess I like you too now and it’s got all complicated. Tada.” Steve’s staring at him like he’s just said that entire thing in German. He sighs again, more shakily this time. “Y/n likes you. I like you. I like her. You like her. See? You should ask her out.” He really can’t spell it out more simply than that.

Steve takes another moment to process. Slowly, a devilish glint creeps into his gaze that Eddie doesn’t know if he likes (he does). “So, you’re saying you don’t want me to ask you out?”

It’s finally Eddie’s turn to malfunction. He blinks in shock. He opens and closes his mouth. He gives a huff of reluctant respect at the satisfied smirk on the other boy’s face. “You bastard.”

Steve’s smirk turns into a full-on mirthful grin. “I think you missed two very crucial points out of your rundown. Let me see if I get this right. Y/n likes me. You like me. You like her. I like her. I like you. She likes you. See?”

Eddie picks his jaw up off the floor and leaves without a word. For a moment, Steve worries that he’s said the wrong thing. He’s already worried he’s driven you away, despite what Eddie just said, and now he might have scared the boy off too. Suddenly the door bursts back open and Eddie returns with you in tow.

“Stevie-boy here seems to think you're into me,” he says, his tone almost accusatory.

“Eddie,” you respond calmly, “I've been flirting with you for weeks.”

“Because you're into him! That was the whole plan!” he gestures frantically at Steve, who is inching further into the background and looking more confused by the second.

“No, that's why you were flirting with me.”

“I was flirting with you because you're hot!”

You falter. “You think so?”

Steve braces himself and dips back into the conversation. “So you don't want to go out with me?”

“No, I do!” you and Eddie protest in unison.

“But you’re dating each other?”

“No, we're-”

“Well, we-”

You glance around. Everyone's faces are flushed. You feel like your head is about to explode. Eddie looks like he can't decide which of you to jump. Steve seems ready to sink into the ground. You're pretty sure Robin is eavesdropping through the hatch.

After what feels like an age, Steve steps forward, running a hand through his hair. “Okay. Okay, um… This is… Where do we go from here?”

You bite your lip. Of course it would come to this. You all have to choose. Whatever happens, someone's going to be disappointed. You've got a horrible feeling it's going to be you, even if one of them chooses you. It's not going to be the same.

Eddie looks at you, at the torment painted across your furrowed brows. He turns to Steve, whose hand is still tangled in his hair. “Oh, fuck me,” he groans.

Your eyes meet Steve’s, the beginnings of a childish giggle tugging at your mouth. He's holding back a similar reaction, and watching him desperately purse his lips shatters your resolve. A laugh erupts up from deep within your chest, doubling you over and bringing tears to your eyes. Another laugh joins you: Steve is leaning on the back of his chair, positively howling. Just like that, the tension in the room lifts and you can breathe again.

“Do you want to go get something to eat?” Steve asks when he regains the ability to speak.

You stare at him. “Me or Eddie?”

He frowns. “Both of you, duh. Makes sense, right?”

“Come on then, hot stuff,” Eddie steps back into the conversation, wrapping an arm around Steve’s waist and leaning up to plant a melodramatic kiss on his cheek. “Let’s go.”

Steve swings him into a dip. It's like something straight out of one of those cheesy rom-coms Eddie refuses to watch. He grins wolfishly down. “After my shift, babycakes. Can you both survive until then?”

Eddie reaches out a hand and drags you into the embrace. He plants a similarly huge kiss on your cheek, while Steve chuckles.

The two of you are waiting in the parking lot when Steve emerges, dressed in a polo shirt and jeans. He looks good. Your heart flutters.

“Aw gee, Harrington,” Eddie pouts, “I was hoping you'd still be in that saucy little sailor suit.”

“Don't push your luck, Munson.”

It was always like this with the two of you. The too casual flirting, the banter, being the one other person either of you could patrol with without wanting to shoot the other. You’d lost count of how many times you shot at Tim and Steph when they teased the two of you to just fuck already and get it over with. Because that’s definitely not what this relationship is. Absolutely not. You’re partners.

Just partners.

That’s what you told yourselves anyway. The both of you had a plethora of issues, it was almost a requirement for being a vigilante in Gotham. No sane person willingly took this job. And because of that neither of you thought you deserved the other. 

You always told yourself that Jason was too good for you in the sense that he was smart, wickedly so, and capable. He was cool in a way that you couldn’t even describe. You rationalized that he deserved someone on his level, someone like Artemis maybe.

Jason, on the other hand, thought he was too damaged for you. Too angry, too volatile. When he looked at you all he saw was sunshine. You made him have a faith in people that he thought died along with his fifteen year old self. 

It was exhausting to everyone around you.

When you finally finish the stitches on Jason’s side you stand to start cleaning up while he looks over your work.

“Not bad, Doogie Howser.” He comments gruffly, making you stop in your tracks.

“Jesus Christ,” you snort a laugh at the outdated reference, “How old are you?” 

“Don’t worry about it.” He waves you off before standing, pulling his tank top down. You’re quick to look away before Jason can catch you staring. Again. 

“So,” he wonders his way into the kitchen, following behind you. “Food?” He asks before opening the fridge.

“You need to rest.” You tell him pointedly as you toss the used medical waste. “Go sit down or something, I’ll cook.” You stand behind him and you almost swear he stiffens for the splitest of seconds before he relaxes

“I’m not an invalid just because I got stabbed, ya know.” He looks over at you. He holds the fridge open and just stands there, looking like he’s looking at the ingredients inside, when in reality he can’t stop staring at you. 

“Never said ya were, big guy.” You mumble as you look over how little food there really is. You don’t notice the way the tips of Jason’s ears turn red. 

“Big guy?” He questions. He takes a step back and crosses his arms over his chest. He doesn’t even flinch when his stitches tug, he’s too focused on you because yeah, you said that.

You purse your lips together briefly before you straighten and offer a one armed shrug, “Yeah, whatever. Just let me see what shit you have in here.” You’re trying to deflect away from the slip up. “When was the last time you went grocery shopping?” Jason snorts at that.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“That’s–” you stop yourself to give Jason a dead stare. “Yeah, I would. You don’t have shit in here. And I’m pretty sure that what you do have is expired.” You chuckle to yourself, the sound quickly dissolving into a groan as you run a hand down your face.

Jason bristles just a bit at the accusation. You’re not wrong but it makes him feel a weird sort of.. guilt? He doesn’t want you to go hungry.

“Yeah well, stocking multiple safe houses across the city with fresh groceries is a little time consuming. Sue me.” He grunts before stepping away from the fridge. He knows he needs to create distance between the two of you before he does something stupid. 

It’s quiet while the two of you go over options for a meal before he pulls out a bag of rice and you find some frozen vegetables and a few eggs that you’re hoping and praying are still good.

You start by cooking the rice on the stove, also hoping and praying that you still remember how to do it without burning it or undercooking it. Jason is next to you at the stove, cooking the vegetables with the few spices he has. It’s quiet again between the two of you but it’s not uncomfortable, it feels more domestic than anything. And, unbeknownst to the other, you both are doing your best to repress the feeling.

“Hey,” Jason finally breaks the silence but he keeps his voice down low, something more serious this time, “how are you holding up? You took a nasty spill…” He watches as your brows pull together in confusion, like you had no idea what he was talking about.

Right. You had fallen during patrol, tripped and rolled through it after landing wrong from a jump.

“Hm?” You shake your head, trying to dismiss his concern. “It’s– I’m fine. Seriously. Probably just a few little scraps, bruises, nothing I’m not used to.” You glance out of the corner of your eyes and see Jason hesitate before he’s turning to you.

“Can I check?”

“What?”

“Can I check? Just you know, just to make sure.” He asks in a softer tone of voice. You hesitate to answer but ultimately give him a short nod and motion to your back.

Jason’s touch is so gentle when he lifts the hem of your shirt. He’s so respectful with the gesture that it makes you tense, only lifting your shirt enough to see the barely there road rash that adorns your back and ribs. You feel his thumb ghosting over the edges of the scrapes and goosebumps start to flush your skin. If Jason notices he doesn’t say anything which you’re thankful for – you’re not sure if you’d be able to survive that embarrassment. 

He shifts his weight, moving to stand directly behind you now, and his palm grazes over your ribs. The heat from him sends a spark of something down your spine. 

“You’re right,” He all but whispers, “s’not so bad.”

Your breath catches in your throat the second his fingers start to dig into your skin.

“Jason–” his name comes out in a breathless warning. He stops, his grip on you loosening, but he doesn’t move. Not yet.

“Yeah?” Is all he asks. He’s so close that he’s almost burying his nose into your hair. Your heart feels like it’s trying to claw its way out of your chest cavity.

“What are you doing?”

Jason completely stills at that. You can feel the way he’s starting to close himself off when he slowly lowers your shirt.

“Nothing.” He mumbles. It’s clear he’s feeling some form of embarrassment and you silently curse yourself for it. You didn’t want him to stop, per se, it was just a… surprise. 

He takes a step back and you almost protest but the words die on your tongue. Because this is for the best. You two are friends. You don’t deserve him, he deserves better. Right?

Jason, on the other hand, feels like an absolute creep for letting himself get carried away. Because why would you want him, of all people, to touch you like that? ‘Idiot’, he calls himself in his head. His jaw works as he bites at the inside of his cheek so hard that he starts to taste blood.

You can still feel the ghost of his touch on your skin. It burns like a brand. And suddenly the thought of Jason branding you makes your stomach flip.

“I didn’t tell you to stop.” It slips out of your mouth before you really think about it. And it almost comes out as a command but your voice is too uncertain for it to be taken that way, like you’re afraid he’s going to laugh in your face and tell you that you’re being ridiculous.

But Jason? Jason stops in his tracks and looks at you through his lashes. His lips part like he’s going to say something but he’s agonizingly quiet for a solid ten seconds before he rasps out,

“No, guess you didn’t.”

In an instant, before you can even breathe, he’s on you. His left hand on your shoulder, his right holding onto your waist - just below your ribs where your scrapes are.

“Fuck–” The sound you let out makes your skin heat up, something between a gasp and a whimper.

“Fuck?” Jason’s voice rumbles as his lips ghost over the nape of your neck. “That’s what I’ve been trying to do for months now.” 

You can feel that shit eating grin come across his face again. Your first instinct is to roll your eyes again but now you’re pushing back into him. His breath catches as he noses at the side of your neck.

“Guess you weren’t trying hard enough.” You quip back, your lids fluttering shut. Jason huffs out a laugh at that, his warmth breath spans over your skin and your stomach flips again.

"I don't do Christmas."

Jason said it on December first, standing in the doorway of your shared apartment with takeout bags in hand, staring at the single strand of garland you'd draped over the bookshelf. His expression was carefully neutral, but you'd learned to read the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw set when he was drawing a line in the sand.

"Okay," you said simply, taking the bags from him and heading to the kitchen.

He followed, suspicious. "Okay?"

"Okay." You started unpacking the Thai food, not looking at him. "You don't do Christmas. I heard you."

"That's it?" He leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "No speech about holiday spirit or making new memories or whatever?"

You glanced up at him, at the defensive set of his posture, the walls already up. Jason Todd had spent so many Christmases and holiday seasons alone, cold, and angry at the world. You had heard stories from him about his childhood, and none of it had included the Christmas magic you had grown up loving. You could read between the lines, so you knew everything you needed to, even if he'd never said it out loud.

"That's it," you confirmed, handing him a container of pad thai, leaning up to give him a kiss. "I like Christmas. You don't. We can both exist." A small smile came to your lips, leaning in and giving him a few soft kisses on his lips.

He studied you for a long moment, clearly waiting for the catch. When none came, something in his shoulders relaxed slightly. "The garland-...."

"Is on my bookshelf. In my space." You smiled at him, soft and without pressure. "I'm not going to make you celebrate, Jason. But I'm also not going to stop being myself."

He grunted, which was Jason-speak for reluctant acceptance, and the subject was dropped.

And the garland stayed.

Three days later, Jason came home to the smell of sugar cookies baking.

"What are you doing?" he asked, dropping his jacket on the chair and eyeing the kitchen like it might explode.

"Baking." You grinned over your shoulder before pulling a tray from the oven, golden edges perfect. "Want one?"

"I don't do-..."

"Do Christmas, I know Jay." You transferred the cookies to a cooling rack. "These are just cookies... that just happen to be shaped like stars." You pursed your lips and blew on a cookie before taking a bite with a hum.

He stared at the star-shaped cookies, and you could see the war in his expression. They smelled good—butter and vanilla and warmth. His stomach growled audibly.

"They're not Christmas cookies even if I eat them in December?" he asked, and there was the tiniest hint of humor in his voice.

"They're whatever you want them to be."

He took one. Then another. He didn't say they were good, but he ate six of them while cleaning his guns at the kitchen table, and that felt like a victory.

The music started on December eighth.

You kept it low, just background noise while you worked on your laptop — Bing Crosby and Ella Fitzgerald and all the old crooners that made you think of snow and warmth and home. Jason walked in, stopped, and you waited for the protest.

It didn't come.

He just grabbed a beer from the fridge, settled on the couch with a book, and said nothing. But you caught him glancing at you once, twice, watching the way you hummed along under your breath, your fingers tapping against your mug of tea.

The music stayed low, it was soft enough to blend into the background, but still audible and enjoyable. Regardless of that, Jason stayed on the couch all night, even once you migrated to his side with your head on his arm reading over his shoulder.

It felt like progress.

"Absolutely not."

You looked up from where you were untangling a box of string lights, blinking innocently at Jason's scowl. "What?"

"We're not getting a tree."

"I didn't ask you to get a tree."

"You're looking at tree lots on your phone."

"I'm allowed to look at things." You went back to the lights, fingers working through the knots. "I like trees. They smell nice."

"They're a fire hazard."

"So are you, but I let you stay." You blew a kiss over your shoulder with a cheeky smile coming to your lips.

His mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but close. He watched you struggle with the lights for another minute before sighing and dropping onto the floor beside you. "You're doing it wrong."

"I'm doing it fine." You huffed in defense, continuing to fiddle with the lights, though the frustration was beginning to seep through. Especially once you started cursing under your breath, and moving from incomplete section to incomplete section.

"You're making it worse." He took the strand from your hands, his fingers deft and sure, and started working through the knots with the same precision he used to clean a weapon. "If you're going to do something, do it right."

You bit back a smile and let him work, watching the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the way the lamplight caught the white streak in his hair. He untangled the entire strand in silence, then plugged it in to test it. Half the bulbs were out.

"See?" he drawled, absolutely vindicated. "Fire hazard."

With an eyebrow raised, your arms folded over your chest and your lips jutted to the side. "Babe, you do realize we could just replace the bulbs."

He gave you a look that said you were being deliberately difficult, but the next day, there was a package of replacement bulbs on the counter. He didn't say anything about it. You didn't either.

The lights went up around your bedroom window three days later. Just your window. Just your space.

Jason looked at them once, said nothing, and went to bed.

But you woke up at 3 AM to find him standing at the window, staring out at the Gotham snow starting to fall, the colored lights reflecting in the glass. He didn't know you were awake. You watched him for a moment, admiring the set of his shoulders less tense than usual, his expression distant but not angry.

You closed your eyes and pretended to sleep, but the small smile and content in your rest was something that carried even into your sleep.

The tree appeared on December fifteenth.

You came home to find Jason standing in the living room, glaring at a small, slightly lopsided pine tree in a pot. It was maybe four feet tall, sparse in places, with a crooked trunk. It was perfect.

"It's not a Christmas tree," he said immediately, defensively. "It's just a tree. A regular tree. That happens to be pine."

"Okay," you nodded calmly, fighting to keep your expression neutral, but just like the Grinch your heart was growing three sizes. You didn't care the slightest bit that he was caving, it was a victory of course, but the fact that he was willing to come around to this, for himself, meant everything to you.

"Roy was selling them for some charity thing. I felt bad."

"Uh-huh."

"It's going back after New Years."

"Sure."

"I'm serious."

"I believe you." You didn't believe him at all.

He scowled at you, then at the tree, then back at you. "If you put ornaments on it, I'm leaving."

"Noted."

The next morning, there was a single strand of lights wrapped around it — the ones he'd untangled... and finished replacing the bulbs after you accidentally broke one. You didn't comment. He pretended he didn't notice you noticing.

The tree also stayed.

December twentieth brought the first real snow.

You were sitting on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, watching the fat flakes fall past the window. The apartment was warm, the lights from the tree casting soft colors across the walls, and Nat King Cole was singing about chestnuts on low volume. You had a mug of hot chocolate in your hands, the kind with too many marshmallows, and you were content.

Jason came out of the bedroom, freshly showered, his hair still damp. He stopped when he saw you, something flickering across his face.

"What?" you asked.

"Nothing." But he didn't move, just stood there, looking at you in the soft light. At the tree. At the snow. At the whole scene that you'd built, piece by piece, without ever asking him to participate.

"Want some?" You held up your mug.

He should have said no. Should have made some comment about sugar content or how hot chocolate was for kids. Instead, he crossed to the kitchen and made his own mug, heavy on the marshmallows, and settled on the couch beside you.

You didn't say anything. Just shifted the blanket to cover his legs too, and went back to watching the snow. Your head gently settled in the crook of his neck, and your free hand came to pluck a marshmallow off of the top of his drink.

"This song is old as hell," Jason muttered under his breath with a huff.

"It's a classic."

"It's ancient."

That made you tilt your head so it was in front of his. Your eyebrows raised and his lips were pulled into a tight line. You knew that look anywhere, that asshole was trying his hardest not to laugh. "You're reading a book from 1847. You don't get to judge."

His mouth twitched again, and he took a sip of his cocoa. You felt him relax against the couch, his shoulder warm against yours, and something in your chest went soft.

"I'm not decorating the tree," he grumbled after a while.

"I didn't ask you to."

"Just so we're clear."

"Crystal clear."

But two days later, you came home to find a single ornament hanging from one of the branches. It was a red ball, simple and plain, hung right in the front. Jason was in the kitchen, pointedly not looking at it, so your eyes naturally darted between him and the ornament a few times, but you didn't mention it. He didn't either. But it also stayed.

And every time one of you was out, it seemed like a new ornament was added. One of the Bat Symbol, then a Santa, then a star, and so on.

Christmas Eve came quietly.

You'd half expected Jason to disappear, to take a patrol shift or find some excuse to be anywhere but in an apartment that had slowly transformed into something warm and bright and dangerously close to festive. But he stayed. He was there when you woke up, making coffee in the kitchen, and he was there in the evening when you started pulling out cookie dough from the fridge.

"I'm making more cookies," you announced, not asking permission. A clear giddiness in your tone as you bumped your hip into the drawer to close it.

"Okay," he didn't argue, which was basically him cheering at this point.

You worked in comfortable silence, rolling out dough and cutting shapes — stars and trees and bells. Jason sat at the table, cleaning his guns and gear as usual, but you caught him watching you. Not with irritation or resignation, but with something softer. Something that looked almost like contentment.

"Youuuuu.... wanna help?" you asked, not expecting him to say yes, turning to face him you licked the spoon clean before setting it in the sink with a smile.

He looked at the cookie cutters, at the dough, at you. "I don't know how."

"It's not hard. You just press down."

He hesitated, and you could see the war in his expression—the part of him that wanted to maintain his distance, his insistence that he didn't do this, and the part of him that was tired of being on the outside of warmth.

Finally, he stood and came to the counter. "Show me."

You handed him a star-shaped cutter, guiding his hand to press it into the dough. His fingers were warm under yours, careful and precise. He cut out one star, then another, his movements methodical.

"See? Not hard," you smiled, your head tilting to the side, your eyes meeting his, and when he looked back to you from the dough, there was something that made your heart melt.

He briefly narrowed his eyes before his shoulders relaxed and he nodded, "It's just cutting shapes."

"It's just cutting shapes," you agreed, kissing his cheek with a small smile tugging at your lips.

But he kept going, cutting out stars and trees while you transferred them to baking sheets. The kitchen filled with the smell of butter and sugar, and the radio played something instrumental and soft, and Jason Todd — who didn't do Christmas, who carried winter like a wound — was making cookies with you.

You slid the first tray into the oven and turned to find him staring at the tree in the living room, at the lights reflecting off the window, at the snow still falling outside. His expression was unguarded in a way you rarely saw, something raw and uncertain and almost hopeful.

"Jason?" you called softly.

He looked at you, and there was something in his eyes that made your breath catch. "I don't hate this," he muttered quietly like he was confessing something. Like he was surprised by his own words.

"Hate what?" You prompted, because you knew damn well what he was saying, but you wanted him to say it and admit it for himself.

"This." He gestured vaguely at the apartment, at the tree, at the cookies, at you. "The... all of it. I thought I would. I thought it would feel like..." He stopped, his jaw working. "But it doesn't. It just feels like home."

Your chest went tight, warm and aching in the best way. "Jay..." You couldn't find the words fast enough, so your feet carried you to him slowly and delicately.

"I'm not saying I love Christmas or whatever," he added quickly, walls trying to rebuild themselves. "I'm just saying it's not... terrible. Like this. With you."

You crossed to him, reaching up to cup his face in your flour dusted hands. He leaned into the touch automatically, his eyes closing briefly. "It doesn't have to be Christmas," you whispered gently. "It can just be December. It can just be us, in our apartment, doing things that make us happy. It doesn't have to mean anything more than that."

"But it does," he said, opening his eyes. "It does mean more. It means I get to have this. That I get to..." His voice cracked slightly, but he covered it with a thick sigh. "I didn't think I'd get to have this. Normal things.... Good things."

You pulled him down into a kiss, soft and sweet and tasting like hot chocolate and hope. When you pulled back, his arms were around your waist, holding you close like you were something precious.

"You deserve good things," you whispered against his lips. "You deserve all of them."

He didn't argue. Just held you there, with cookies baking and snow falling and Christmas Eve settling soft around you both.

Later, after the cookies were decorated — Jason's stars were surprisingly neat, each one carefully iced — you ended up back on the couch. The tree lights were on, the apartment was warm, and some claymation movie was playing on low volume. Jason had his arm around you, your head on his chest, and he was absently stroking his fingers lazily down your back.

"We could do this again," he said suddenly. "Next year. If you want."

You tilted your head to look up at him. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." He looked almost embarrassed. "I mean, we already have the tree. Seems wasteful to not use it."

"Very practical."

"I'm a practical person."

"You made twelve perfectly decorated star cookies."

"They're just cookies."

"Uh-huh."

He scowled, but there was no heat in it. "Don't make a big deal out of this."

"I wouldn't dream of it." You snuggled closer, smiling against his chest. "For the record, though? I'm glad you don't hate it."

His arm tightened around you, and when he spoke, his voice was soft. "I'm glad too."

Outside, Gotham was cold and dark and dangerous, the way it always was. But inside your apartment, with lights twinkling and cookies cooling and Jason Todd holding you close, December didn't feel dark at all.

It felt like coming home.

Your smile grew even more, and your lips met his, "Also I totally got you presents, I was just going to hand them to you... but now they're definitely getting wrapped. So you're banished to the room for a little bit tonight."

← MLIST. ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2025.

The bar was too loud, too crowded, and too full of women who didn’t know how to mind their damn business.

You weren’t usually the jealous type. You’d dated before, you’d seen your fair share of wandering eyes, and you’d always chalked it up to human nature. But Jason Todd wasn’t just anyone. And tonight, apparently, neither were you.

He stood beside you at the bar, one hand resting on the small of your back, the other nursing a beer. His leather jacket creaked every time he shifted, and his laugh was low and a little rough, but every time you heard it you felt it in your spine.

So did every other woman in a five mile radius, apparently.

You clocked the first girl the second you walked in. Brunette, tall, legs for days, leaning against the far end of the bar with a drink she hadn’t touched in ten minutes. She’d looked Jason up and down like he was a dessert menu. Then came the redhead by pool table, who’d “accidentally” bumped into him twice already. And now, a blonde in a backless dress was eyeing him like she was trying to memorize the shape of his mouth.

Jason, in his defense, seemed oblivious... or maybe just indifferent. He wasn’t flirting back, in fact he barely looked at them, but that didn’t stop the heat curling in your chest like smoke.

You didn’t say anything, but you didn’t need to.

Instead, you shifted closer, letting your hand slide up his chest as you leaned in to speak near his ear. “You want another drink?”

He turned his head slightly, his breath brushing your cheek. “Nah, I’m good. You?”

You shook your head, but didn’t move away. Let them look, and let them see the way his arm tightened around your waist, the way your fingers curled into the collar of his jacket like you owned it. Like you owned him.

Because you did.

Jason glanced down at you, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You good?”

“Mhm,” you hummed in a way that was all too sweet. “Just enjoying the view.”

“Mine or theirs?” He raised an eyebrow, amusement sneaking into his voice.

You didn’t answer. Just smiled, slow and sharp, and tilted your head until your lips brushed his jaw and gave it a kiss. You let your breath linger against him before planting one on his scarred lips.

Jason chuckled, low in his throat. “You’re trouble.”

You shrugged, feigning innocence. “God forbid a girl kiss her boyfriend.”

“Uh-huh.”

He didn’t press. He never did. Jason knew you well enough to read the shift in your posture, the way your fingers lingered a little longer on his chest, the way your gaze flicked — just once — toward the girl who was now pretending not to stare.

You weren’t going to cause a scene, or start a fight. But you were going to make it very, very clear that Jason Todd was not on the menu.

So when he turned to say something to Roy, who’d just arrived with a round of beers, you took your chance.

You stepped in front of him, casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Your back pressed to his chest, his arms instinctively wrapping around your waist. You leaned into him, letting your head rest against his shoulder, and smiled at Roy like you hadn’t just declared silent war on half the women in the bar.

Jason didn’t question it, he didn't know what games you were up to. He just knew that he was always going to be your accomplice, and so, in true partner in crime fashion, his grip tightened on you.

You stayed like that for a while — talking, laughing, sipping your drink while Jason’s hands traced lazy circles on your hips. You didn’t look at the girls again. You could feel their stares cooling, their interest waning, their silent calculations shifting from “maybe” to “not worth it.”

Eventually, Jason leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You sure you’re okay?”

You turned in his arms, looking up at him. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

He gave you a look, the kind that said he saw right through you. The kind that made your stomach flip. His eyes half-lidded but attentive as ever, his lips pulled in an unimpressed, tight line.

You sighed, letting your fingers toy with the zipper of his jacket. “They were looking at you.”

Jason blinked, a flicker of something dancing across his face. “Who?”

You rolled your eyes and shoved your hand against his chest with a grumble. “Don’t play dumb, Jay.”

He grinned, all teeth and mischief. “You jealous, sweetheart?”

You didn’t answer. Your eyes moved up and met his, and after holding his gaze for a moment too long, you just tugged him down by the collar and kissed him — slow, deliberate, a little possessive. His hands tightened on your waist, his breath catching just slightly, and when you pulled back, his pupils were blown wide.

“Damn,” he muttered. “Okay. Noted.”

The corner of your lips tugged up, your hands smoothing his jacket on his chest as if that was all you needed to hear.

Jason leaned in again, this time pressing a kiss to your temple. “Bu... you know I only see you, right?”

You nodded slowly, but your voice was softer now. “Yeah.. I know.” It was true, you did know that.. but it didn't mean that you were oblivious to the world around you two. Or that you were immune to insecurities and fears.

“Then come on,” his voice was still low so that only you could hear, taking your hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

You didn’t look back as you left. You didn’t need to. Jason’s hand was warm in yours, his jacket slung over your shoulders, and the weight of his gaze never left your face.

ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2025.