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Jason Todd, who secretly loves that you love his family. Never in a million years will you get him to admit that though, no sir. He would deny until the day he died (again) that his eyes soften whenever he catches sight of you draping a blanket over Damian on your couch whenever the young boy crashes there after a long night of patrol. And his heart does not nearly melt in his chest when he watches Alfred lovingly scoop you into an embrace after the monthly family dinners that you always drag your boyfriend to. There’s no way he begins to smile when nobody is looking as he sees you and Dick teasingly throwing popcorn at one another from across the couch as you argue about your opinions on whatever movie you’re watching. He never notices when you go out of your way to buy the tea that you know Cass likes and always just happen to have it ready in her favorite mug the moment she gets to your apartment. No, you and Tim bonding over whatever nerdy hacker stuff you guys are both into has nothing to do with the way his brain momentarily short circuited. And don’t even get him started on the time he watched Bruce squeeze your hand and gently thank you for looking after his son, he did not hear that conversation and he was not teary eyed afterwards.
summary: in which you tell a teensy little lie and the red hood recruits you (kidnaps you) for a road trip.
w.c: 9.8k
warnings: smut. 18+ pls
---
Jason had learned, over the years, that Gotham ran on bad information.
Rumors, half-truths, people talking just to feel important. Most of it died before it reached him. The rest led nowhere. Dead ends. Petty criminals trying to sound bigger than they were. Ghosts of threats that never materialized.
This should have been one of those.
A Falcone soldier, drunk enough to talk. A waitress who overheard him. An informant who passed it along like it might actually matter. A girl in Crime Alley, claiming she was working for the Joker. Saying he was back.
Jason had heard worse.
He stood across the street now, helmet angled just slightly downward, watching.
The girl did not look like someone working for the Joker.
She had headphones in, head tilted faintly like she was following a rhythm only she could hear. There was no tension in her shoulders, no awareness in the way she moved. She stopped mid-step, crouching beside a stray cat slipping out from behind a dumpster, letting it brush against her hand.
Jason exhaled slowly through his nose.
This was stupid.
12 hours ago, he would have walked away already. 12 hours ago, he would have called it what it was and moved on. A bad lead. A wasted night. Not worth the time, not worth the energy.
12 hours ago, he had somewhere else to be.
The Cave. Tim under one of the bikes, swearing at a stripped bolt. Jason leaning against the workbench, pretending he cared about torque specs more than the city outside. He had said he would be there. Promised, even.
His phone buzzed in his jacket.
It had been buzzing all morning. Dick first. Then Tim. Then again. And again. The kind of persistence that wasn’t about logistics anymore. They were concerned. And rightfully so. Jason didn’t need to check to know what the messages said.
Where are you?
Pick up.
Don’t do this.
The phone buzzed again. For a second, he just held it in his hand, staring at nothing.
Then he powered it off.
The silence that followed felt heavier than the noise.
Across the street, you stood up, brushing her hands off her jeans. The cat slipped away, vanishing back into the alley like it had never been there. She adjusted her headphones, glanced at nothing in particular, and started walking again like she had nothing burdening her shoulders.
Jason watched you go. This didn’t make sense. He knew what the Joker’s work looked like. Knew the patterns, even when they tried to hide under chaos. There was always something underneath. Always a reason, a message, a trail if you knew where to look.
You skipped over a crack in the pavement.
His jaw tightened.
You were nothing like that.
Which meant one of two things. Either the rumor was garbage. Or it wasn’t.
Jason stepped off the curb. He would take whatever chance he could get. Even this one.
--
One moment you were on your way to work.
The next your cheek was smushed up against a brick wall with a man yelling into your ear. Your headphones were gone. You weren’t sure when that happened. One second they were there, the next they were dangling somewhere, the music cut off so abruptly it made your head ring.
“What--what the fuck-”
Your words came out muffled, your face still pressed into the wall. Something cold nudged just behind your jaw.
A gun.
Oh.
Oh, that was a gun.
Your stomach dropped so fast it felt like you’d missed a step going down stairs. Your hands came up instinctively, fingers splayed against the brick, like that would somehow help.
“I asked you a question.”
“What question--”
“The Joker.”
Everything in you went still.
Right.
Right, that.
For a second you considered telling the truth. It flickered through your head in a clean, simple line: I lied. It was a dare. I didn’t mean anything by it.
But the thought died just as quickly as it came. Because there was a man in a red helmet holding a gun to your head. And people with guns to your head were not people you told the truth to.
“Oh,” you said instead, because apparently that was what your brain chose in moments of crisis. “That.”
His grip tightened slightly where he had you pinned.
“Yes,” he said. “That.”
Your mind scrambled, tripping over itself trying to catch up.
It had been stupid. That was the problem. Stupid and quick and not thought through even a little bit.
You’d been walking through Falcone turf with your friends, laughing too loud, staying a little too long where you shouldn’t have been. Someone had dared you to tag their stupid little seal on the side of a building. You’d said yes, obviously, because saying no would have been boring.
You hadn’t expected to get caught. You definitely hadn’t expected three very irritated men to corner you and start asking questions you did not have answers to. Who are you working for?
You hadn’t even thought about it. Just blurted out the first name that came to mind.
“I’m working for the Joker.”
It had worked, somehow. The name alone had been enough to make them hesitate. Enough of a crack for you to slip through and run before they decided to test it. You’d assumed that was the end of it.
Apparently, it was not.
“I--yeah,” you said now, your voice wavering just enough to sell it. “What about the Joker?”
There was a pause behind you. Heavy. Suspicious.
“You are working for him” he repeated flatly.
You nodded, immediately regretting it when the motion pressed your cheek harder into the brick. “Not directly.”
“Explain.”
“It was anonymous,” you said quickly. Too quickly. You forced yourself to breathe. Slower. “I don’t--he doesn’t--he doesn’t exactly sign his emails.”
There was a shift behind you. Not loosening. Adjusting.
“Details.”
“What do you do for him.”
Oh.
Right.
Your mouth opened. Closed.
“Uh--”
The gun pressed more firmly into your skin.
“I leave things,” you lied harder. “Places. He tells me where to go and I just--drop stuff off. Packages, envelopes, whatever.”
You pushed forward before he could poke holes in it.
“I don’t ask questions,” you added quickly. “That’s kind of the whole point.”
“Where.”
“A P.O. box,” you said, the lie stacking on itself now. “Edge of town. That’s how I get the instructions.”
Silence.
“I forgot the number,” you added, because apparently you were committed to this now. “I don’t have it memorized or anything--”
The gun pressed just slightly harder against your skin before it loosened. Behind you, he inhaled sharply. You could hear it, feel it--like he was holding himself together by force.
“Get in the car,” he growled.
---
By some cruel, cosmic joke, there were actually P.O. boxes on the street you pointed to.
Not just one. A whole row of them, bolted into the side of a squat little building that looked like it hadn’t been updated since before you were born.
Jason did not like how easily this was lining up.
That was the problem.
The story made sense. Too much sense. Anonymous contact. Dead drops. No direct connection. It tracked in a way most lies didn’t. And he knew lies. Knew the way they bent, where they cracked under pressure.
He also knew Crime Alley.
Kids who ran their mouths when they were scared. Said whatever they had to say to get out of a bad situation. He had been one of them once. Still was, in some ways.
Part of him had been waiting for it to fall apart.
Waiting for the moment the seams split, when the truth showed through and this became what it was supposed to be--nothing. A stupid rumor. A scared kid who said the wrong name at the wrong time.
He would have let you go, if that was all it was.
He pulled the car to a stop along the curb, eyes already on the row of P.O. boxes bolted into the side of the building.
“Stay,” he said.
You opened your mouth. He didn’t wait to hear it. The door slammed behind him. The lock clicked a second later. Final. Jason adjusted his grip on the gun as he crossed the street, helmet angled toward the building. Every step was measured, controlled. Rational.
This was where it ended.
Inside, the security clerk barely had time to look up before Jason set the gun on the counter.
“Cameras,” he said.
That was enough.
No questions. No hesitation. Just shaking hands and a quick turn toward the monitors. The feed flickered on, grainy and low quality, cycling through angles of the street outside.
“Three days ago,” Jason said.
The clerk fumbled, pulling it up.
Jason leaned in slightly, eyes scanning.
Empty street. Static movement. Nothing--
The screen glitched.
Paused.
Then cut to black.
The clerk swore under his breath. “Yeah, uh--those’ve been down for a few days now. Wiring issue. We’ve got someone coming in to fix it, but--”
Jason didn’t hear the rest.
The cameras were down. On the exact day you said.
His grip tightened, something sharp and electric cutting through his chest.
Not a lie. The Joker really is back.
Jason stepped back without another word, turning and heading for the door before the clerk could say anything else.
Outside, the air felt different. He crossed the street faster this time, something like urgency bleeding into his steps.
And then he stopped.
Through the window he could see your face twisted in concentration. Tongue sticking out, you trying to bypass the child lock on the door by shimmying something through the gap. Wait, correction. By shimmying a sock through the gap.
Jason stared.
For a second, It was almost funny. Then a soft click sounded and the door popped open. Your face lit up in excitement,,,,, then you caught sight of him standing 10 meters away.
So you ran.
Jason moved instantly.
Three strides. Maybe four.
He caught you before you made it past the hood, slamming you back against the side of the car hard enough to knock the breath out of you, his hand closing around your arm like a vice.
“For fuck’s sake,” he growls, voice cracking through the modulator. “I told you not to run.”
You struggled anyway.
Of course you did.
Jason tightened his grip, pinning you in place, his mind already moving past it, locking onto the only thing that mattered now. You weren’t lying, which means he needs to keep you for a bit.
He cursed under his breath--quiet, strained. “I’m not--” He swallowed. “I don’t want to hurt you. I just… need to find him.”
The name sits heavy in the air. Joker.
Your skin prickles.
“Great,” you manage, voice high and shaky. “Love that for you. But I’m not talking to a guy with a--helmet for a head. It’s creepy.”
He freezes.
Then, without a word, he removes a pack of zip ties from his pocket, tying your wrists. Sits you back down in the car,, then he reaches up and unclips his helmet. The helmet hisses, then lifts off, revealing a face that should not belong to someone who terrifies half the city. Way too young, way too exhausted, way too human.
The most unhelpful thought ran through your brain. damn. wish he zip tied me under different circumstances fr.
You stared at him.
He stared back.
You snapped out of it like someone had clapped in your face.
“Actually,” you said quickly, voice a little too bright for the situation, “I preferred the helmet.”
His expression didn’t change.
If anything, it got worse.
Jason shoved your legs back into the car when you tried to angle yourself out again, one hand firm on your knee as he forced you fully into the seat. Not rough, but completely unmovable.
He reached beside you, flipping the child lock back into place with a sharp click. The sound echoed a little too loudly in the enclosed space. Final. Again.
Then he stepped back, shutting your door with a solid thud before circling around the front of the car. You watched him go, wrists bound, heart still racing, brain very much not cooperating with the severity of your situation. He slipped into the driver's seat flipping the engine back on.
“Put your seatbelt on”
You scoff. You cannot believe this.
“You kidnap me then care about road safety?”
He looked at you again. Deep green-blue eyes burning into yours.
“You should be thankful I don't put you in Arkham with all the other Joker Lackeys”
…
You click your seatbelt on.
Jason didn’t say anything after that. Just shifted the car into drive. The engine growled low as he pulled back onto the street, one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting loose but ready near the console.
“Start talking.”
You blinked.
“Oh. Right. Yeah. Talking. Love that.”
His grip tightened slightly on the wheel. “What was in the messages.”
Messages?
Right. The fake ones.
Your brain scrambled, flipping through absolutely nothing and trying to make it sound like something.
“It wasn’t--like--it wasn’t super specific,” you said, nodding like that helped. “Very vague. Mysterious. You know. On brand.”
His eyes flicked toward you for half a second.
“Define vague.”
“Like… drop-off location,” you said quickly. “Time. No names. No context. Very cryptic. Honestly kind of annoying.”
You paused. Then, because apparently you had no self-preservation--
“Bad communication style, if you ask me.”
Jason didn’t react to that.
Which somehow made it worse.
“Names,” he said.
You froze.
Oh.
Oh no.
Names required… planning. Continuity. Memory.
You had none of those.
“Yeah,” you said anyway. “There were--there were names.”
His attention sharpened instantly.
“Which ones.”
Your brain panicked.
Alphabet.
Alphabet. Go.
“Uh--Aaron?” you said.
Nothing.
“Abel?”
Still nothing.
Your heart started racing.
“Arthur?”
The car jerked slightly.
Jason’s head snapped toward you.
“Arthur Fleck?”
You nodded immediately. Too fast. “Yes. Yeah. That one. That’s--yeah. That’s what I heard.”
Silence filled the car.
Heavy. Electric.
Jason turned his gaze back to the road, but something had changed. You could feel it. The tension winding tighter, sharper--like a wire pulled to its limit.
“Say it again,” he said.
“Arthur Fleck,” you repeated, much smaller this time.
His jaw clenched.
Of course it was him.
Of course he would use his real name now.
Not hiding. Not playing games the same way. Something new. Something worse.
Jason exhaled slowly through his nose, already putting it together, already building something out of the fragments you had handed him.
“Then we start where he started,” he muttered.
You blinked. “Where he--what?”
“Ace Chemicals.”
Oh that sounded… bad.
Jason pressed down on the accelerator, the car picking up speed as he merged onto the road, his focus locked forward now, completely gone from you.
Like you had already served your purpose. Like you had just handed him something real.
You sank slightly into your seat, staring ahead.
Two lies make a truth, right?
That was a thing.
Bedmas or something.
…Right?
---
The silence lasted about thirty seconds.
Maybe less.
It felt like hours.
You shifted in your seat, wrists still bound, eyes flicking between the window and the dashboard and him. Mostly him. He didn’t look back. Didn’t speak. Didn’t even seem aware you were there anymore, which was honestly a little offensive considering the circumstances.
You leaned back slightly, studying him from the corner of your eye. No helmet now. Just… a guy. A very intense, slightly terrifying guy, but still. A guy.
“So,” you try, “do you have a name, or is it just, like, Hood comma Red full-time?”
“I’m not giving it to you,” he said flatly.
You blinked.
“Okay, but I’ve already seen your face.”
Silence.
You frowned.
“What’s the difference?”
He didn’t answer.
Of course he didn’t answer.
You sighed dramatically, shifting again. “Fine. I’ll guess.”
“Liam?” you offered.
Nothing.
“Carlos?”
His jaw ticked.
Oh, you were onto something.
“Jonathan?”
Still nothing.
“William?”
His fingers flexed against the wheel.
You leaned in slightly, squinting at him like that would help. “Mohammad?”
That one got you a look.
A quick, sharp glance, half confusion, half irritation.
You straightened immediately. “Statistically, that was the most plausible one.”
He stared at you for a second longer.
Then looked back at the road.
You grinned, just a little.
“Okay, so not Mohammad. I’ll keep trying.”
His grip tightened again.
You settled back into your seat, entirely too pleased with yourself for someone currently zip-tied in a moving vehicle.
The drive lasted thirty-seven minutes.
You counted.
Every single one.
By the time the car finally slowed, turning off onto a cracked stretch of road that looked like it hadn’t seen maintenance in decades, you were ready to start naming him numbers out of spite.
You leaned forward slightly, peering through the windshield.
An abandoned factory loomed ahead, all rusted metal and broken windows, the kind of place that screamed bad decisions.
You blinked.
“Uhhh,” you said slowly, turning toward him, “Henry, I really hope you’re not taking me in there.”
No response.
Of course.
He stepped out of the car.
You watched him go, already bracing yourself.
Sure enough--
Your door opened a second later.
Darn it
You climbed out, eyeing the place like it might bite. Which, honestly, felt possible.
The two of you found a gap in the fence a few steps later, the metal bent just enough to squeeze through if you tried hard enough.
Jason stopped, glancing at it once before nodding toward it.
“Go.”
You stared at him.
Then slowly raised your hands.
Still zip-tied.
You wiggled them slightly.
He looked down at your wrists like he had forgotten the ties existed. Then he stepped closer, and suddenly there wasn’t space anymore.You took a step back on instinct, your back hit the fence with a sharp metallic rattle, the cold biting straight through your shirt.
Up close you could see the green in his eyes had an unnatural depth to them. Something that doesn't seem real. He took one of your wrists in his hand and his lips parted in a soft breath that landed just near your forehead. A shiver ran up your spine and your own lips parted on instinct.
“I don’t like where this is going, Eric,”
“What?” he questioned, bringing his pocketknife through the layers of plastic, before stepping back.
Oh.
Right.
He was untying the zip ties.
Yes.
You clear your throat, heat creeping up your neck, and immediately ducked toward the gap in the fence, ignoring his confused expression.
The inside of Ace Chemicals felt wrong.
Your footsteps echoed too loud against the concrete floor as you ducked through a broken side entrance, the air thick with rust and something chemical that never really went away. The place looked frozen in time. Old equipment sat abandoned mid-use. Papers scattered like no one had bothered to clean up.
“Cute,” you muttered. “Super inviting. Love the vibe, Walter.”
Jason didn’t respond.
Of course he didn’t.
He moved ahead of you, slower now, more deliberate. Every step placed carefully, like he was mapping the space in real time, eyes scanning everything. You got the sense he’d been here before.
That made it worse.
You followed anyway, rubbing your wrists absentmindedly where the zip ties had been, glancing around like something might jump out at you.
“So,” you said, because silence was not an option, “this feels like a place where I die. Just putting that out there.”
Nothing.
You clicked your tongue. “Tough crowd.”
They moved deeper into the building, past rusted railings and darkened hallways until you reached a door at the end of a corridor.
Locked.
You brightened immediately.
“Oh,” you said, stepping forward, “step aside, Logan, this is my moment.”
Jason glanced at you.
You crouched slightly, already reaching toward the handle. “I actually know how to pick these. It’s a whole thing. Don’t even worry about it, Ethan, I got--”
The gunshot rang out.
Loud. Sharp. Deafening in the enclosed space.
You flinched so hard you nearly lost your balance.
The lock shattered instantly.
The door creaked open.
You stared at it.
Then at him.
Then back at the door.
“…rude,” you muttered.
Jason holstered the gun like nothing had happened and pushed the door open the rest of the way.
You followed him in, still mildly offended.
Inside, the room was smaller. Less industrial. More… administrative. Filing cabinets lined the walls, most of them rusted shut or left partially open, papers spilling out in disorganized piles.
Jason went straight to them.
Of course he did.
You hovered nearby, peering over his shoulder as he rifled through folders with quick, efficient movements. You considered helping, but knowing your luck, you’d be the one to find something real and make everything worse. Instead, you hop onto a cabinet and watch him work.
30 minutes passed. Then an hour. You were secretly glad. Hopefully he’ll reach a dead end then you could go home tonight. Maybe you could meet up again. Somewhere normal. Without the kidnapping. Dinner, maybe? He seems like the type who never had sushi. You could introduce it to him–
“You’re on the last cabinet”
You look down, mildly offended that your train of thought has been interrupted. Jason sighs and grabs your ankles, shifting them out of the way with gentle efficiency. He opens the drawer and pulls out the first file,, his expression immediately changing.
“Arthur Fleck,” he said.
Your stomach dropped.
Holy fuck you did it again. Sitting on evidence. Where is this luck when you buy lottery tickets?
You leaned closer, reading the file alongside him while he angles it so you can get a look. There is some basic stuff, name, date of birth (DAMN he’s old), family including a mother in a nursing home, yadda yadda basic stuff. Then you see it the same time Jason does. An address.
“He’d go back,” he said, almost to himself.
You blinked. “People usually don’t, actually.”
No response.
“He’d revisit it,” Jason continued, voice quieter now, more focused. “He’s using his old name. He’s feeling nostalgic. He is leaving clues like a puzzle to play with me.”
A beat.
“Like he wants me to follow.”
You shifted slightly. “Or,” you offered, silently pleading with him to drop it because these coincidences are coming from your lies, “its just a file?”
Jason ignored you completely, already moving towards the door.
“Where are we going?” you asked, scrambling to follow.
He didn’t slow down.
“Old Gotham.”
---
Old Gotham looked worse at sunset.
The light didn’t soften it. Didn’t make it pretty. It just dragged the shadows out longer, stretching them across broken pavement and hollow buildings like something trying to crawl its way back to life.
You followed a step behind him, arms crossed tight over yourself, eyes flicking to every movement in your peripheral vision.
Nobody lived here and that was the problem. Places in Gotham were supposed to be loud. Messy. Alive in some way, even if it was ugly. This place was quiet and abandoned.
The building loomed ahead of you, all cracked concrete and boarded windows, the front door hanging just slightly off its hinges like it had given up trying to stay closed.
Jason didn’t hesitate.
Of course he didn’t.
He stepped inside.
You lingered for half a second.
Then followed.
The stairwell smelled like mold and something worse you didn’t want to identify. Your shoes stuck slightly to the floor with every step, peeling away with a soft, wet sound that made your stomach turn.
“Cool,” you muttered. “Love this. Great atmosphere. Really thriving neighborhood, Daniel.”
Something moved in the corner of your vision. A rat darted across the landing, disappearing into a hole in the wall. You refused to acknowledge that for your own wellbeing.
You reached the apartment and Jason stepped in first. The door was unlocked. Jason’s eyes lit up like that means something. The space was small. One room bleeding into another, a sad excuse for a kitchenette shoved against the wall, cabinets hanging open or missing entirely. The floor was stained in ways you didn’t want to think about.
He was already moving through the space, scanning it, checking corners, opening drawers that didn’t open properly, like he was expecting something to be hidden just out of sight.
You stayed near the door, not touching anything. Partly because it was disgusting. Mostly because, at this point, you did not trust yourself not to accidentally uncover something real.
Jason worked with a quiet efficiency as he combed through the drawers of discarded junk, when thunder sounded outside. Classic gotham rain. But this means that the light is fading fast.
You tried the light switch. No electricity, no lights. Just the faint glow of whatever leaked in through the broken windows and the occasional flash of lightning. Jason slammed a drawer shut with frustration as he couldn't see its contents in the dark anymore.
“We’re staying”
You glanced toward the door. Then back at the windows. Then at him.
“Can I say no?”
Jason doesn't answer, just walks into the bedroom while you follow after hoping he’ll change his mind. The bedroom is worse, radioactive green walls and one mattress on the floor. A mattress which looks thin and discolored, like it had absorbed every bad decision ever made in the room.
He shrugged off his jacket like this was just another night, just another place, dropping it onto the floor before lowering himself down beside the mattress. He rolled it into a rough bundle and tucked it under his head like a makeshift pillow.
“Take the bed,” he said.
You turned your head slowly.
Looked at the mattress.
Then back at him.
Then back at the mattress.
“…Gee,” you said flatly, “thanks.”
---
A few hours passed.
Or maybe less. Maybe more.
Time felt strange in the dark.
You sat on the far edge of the mattress--the one corner that looked the least offensive--legs pulled in slightly, arms wrapped around yourself. You had tried not to think about what the rest of it had seen. You were succeeding. Barely.
Jason lay on the floor, His jacket was balled up under his head, one arm thrown over his eyes, the other resting loose at his side. Relaxed. Or at least pretending to be.
The rain hadn’t stopped.
It hit the broken windows in uneven bursts, the sound filling the silence just enough that it didn’t feel completely empty.
You stared at the ceiling.
Then at him.
Then back at the ceiling.
“…Vincent?”
You shifted slightly. “Why do you want to find the Joker?”
There was no hesitation.
“I’m going to kill him.”
Oh.
Okay.
You blinked.
“…Noted.”
You glanced down at your hands. Then back at him. “Am I an accomplice?” you asked, because apparently your brain still didn’t know when to stop.
“I’ll make sure Batman doesn’t know you were involved.”
Your stomach dropped. An unexplainable panic started rising in your throat. Everything was fine up until now. Yes you lied, but it's not like the lies seemed to have any impact. But hearing that Batman is involved? That has you regretting ever opening your mouth.
Jason’s eyes narrowed slightly as he noted the shift in your behaviour. People were scared of Batman. Of what he represented. Of what happened when you ended up on the wrong side of him. He pushed himself up onto one elbow, watching you more closely now.
“You’re fine,” he said, quieter. “He’s not--”
You shook your head quickly.
“No, I know,” you cut in. “I just--”
You hesitated.
Then shrugged, a little awkwardly. “It’s weird,” you admitted. “Because you did, like, have a gun to my head this morning, but I think you’re safer.”
“…What?” he said.
You leaned back against the wall, pulling your knees in a little tighter.
“In Crime Alley,” you said, like it explained everything. “People talk.”
Jason didn’t interrupt.
“They don’t really talk about Batman like that,” you continued. “He shows up, does his thing, disappears. It’s… different.”
You glanced at him.
“You help people.”
Silence.
“The Red Hood gets things done,” you added.
Jason stared at you like you’d said something that didn’t make sense.
Like you’d gotten it wrong.
“…You think that?” he asked.
“Don’t let it go to your head, Henry,” you add quickly, like you can take it back if you say it fast enough.
“You used that one already.”
You sit up with a grin. “So you are paying attention.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly.
The word hangs there, low and rough, and suddenly the room feels smaller. The faint chemical stink from years of decay lingers in the cracks of the walls, the rain drums harder against the broken window, but all you can hear is your own pulse and the slow creak of the mattress as you shift.
You slide off the edge first on instinct, maybe, or just needing to move before the air chokes you. Your knees hit the cold floorboards.
You don’t get far.
His hand closes around the back of your neck. Firm enough that your breath catches. The other finds your waist and yanks you forward in one clean pull. You stumble into him, knees bracketing his thighs, and then you’re in his lap, straddling him, chest to chest.
The kiss is immediate and punishing. You break just long enough to drag your lips along his jaw, under his ear, down the corded side of his neck. You nip light at first, then harder when he growls low in his throat. His hand slides up under your shirt, rough palm skating over your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through your bra
You rock against him instinctively. Slow grind at first, testing, then deliberate rolls of your hips so the friction drags a hiss out of him. You can feel him thick and hard through the layers, and the realization makes you groan into his mouth.
He answers by gripping your ass with both hands and grinding you down harder, setting a brutal rhythm for a few beats that steals your breath. Then he catches your bottom lip between his teeth and holds just long enough for the sting to bloom before he soothes it with his tongue. You whimper, nails raking down his shoulders through the fabric.
You yank at his hoodie. “Off… come on, Brent.”
He lets you peel it over his head, a rough huff escaping him at the wrong name. Scars map his chest and stomach like a violent history book with bullet wounds, blade marks, like a jagged mess across his ribs. Your fingers pause on one, tracing it without thinking. He tenses.
You lean in and kiss the scar instead of saying anything.
He exhales hard through his nose, then his voice comes out low and rough right against your ear.
“The fuck are you doing to me?”
Your shirt goes next. He drags it up and off slower, eyes locked on yours the whole time like he’s memorizing you. Bra stays, but his thumbs hook under the straps and slide them down your shoulders anyway.
He begins to lift you off his lap. “Lay down. Wanna taste you”
You glance at the floorboards. Grimy, splintered, probably hasn’t been swept since the ‘80s. “I’m not fucking on that biohazard, Adam.”
He doesn’t argue. Just grabs the leather jacket he was using as a pillow. He spreads it on the floor, leather creaking as it settles over the worst of the filth. The thoughtful gesture makes your heart skip.
“Better?” he asks, voice gravel.
You grin, already lying back on it. “Romantic.”
He’s on you in the next second, but instead of letting you settle on your back he flips you with a rough grip on your hips.
“Face down,” he murmurs. Then the roughness slips back in: “Let me see you.”
You brace on your forearms, cheek pressed to the cool leather. He yanks your pants and underwear down together, then spreads your knees wider on the jacket. The position leaves you open and exposed, heart hammering.
He doesn’t tease.
His mouth is on you instantly. He licks a long, slow stripe from clit to entrance like he’s tasting something he’s been dying for, then seals his lips over your pussy and makes out with it. Messy, obscene, tongue pushing deep, sucking your clit hard before flicking fast and relentless. One big hand grips your ass cheek, spreading you wider; the other slides underneath to rub tight, perfect circles on your clit while his tongue fucks into you.
Your loud moans muffled against the jacket, curses, a new name breaking out every few seconds. You reach back and fist his hair, pulling hard. He groans right into your pussy at the tug, the vibration shooting through you.
You come hard, thighs shaking, a broken cry tearing out of you as pleasure crashes through every nerve. He works you through it with softer licks and gentle kisses to your clit until you’re whimpering and oversensitive, then presses one last soft kiss to the back of your thigh.
Only then does he sit back, breathing ragged, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
You barely catch your breath before you’re crawling back into his lap, straddling him. He helps you, hands steady on your waist even as his grip tightens with need. You push his pants down just enough, line him up, and sink down slow.
The stretch pulls a hiss from both of you.
You pause when he’s buried to the hilt, foreheads together, breathing each other in. Then you start moving with deep rolls of your hips, grinding your clit against him on every downstroke.
His hands flex on your waist, letting you set the pace for a moment. But the desperation wins. He grips your ass, lifts you, and starts thrusting up hard with sharp, deep strokes that punch the air out of your lungs.
You’re panting, riding him harder, the wrong names still slipping out between moans because your brain is too scrambled to stop the game.
“Shit. right there, Lucas… fuck--”
He growls, hips snapping up sharper.
Then it happens.
The rhythm turns punishing, perfect, and the name just falls out of your mouth on a broken moan, pure coincidence, no thought behind it:
“Jason-- fuck, Jason--”
His whole body stutters.
His grip on you turns bruising for half a second, a raw, guttural sound ripping out of his chest. Hearing his real name fall from your lips like that while you’re clenching and falling apart around him shatters whatever control he had left.
He slams up into you once, twice, burying himself as deep as he can go, and comes hard with a choked groan, pulsing deep inside you in hot, endless waves. The feeling of him losing it so completely drags your own orgasm even higher, leaving you shaking and whimpering through the aftershocks, still completely lost in your climax.
You stay tangled together afterward, his arms wrapped tight around your back, one hand stroking slow, soothing lines down your spine. His heartbeat is frantic under your ear. After a long moment he gently rolls you onto your side so you’re facing him on the leather jacket, both of you still catching your breath. You turn your head to look at him, half-expecting regret.
“What is it?” you ask.
“I want to kill the Joker,” he says quietly, “because he killed me first.”
Pause.
“.....Like, metaphorically?”
“No”
You push yourself up slightly onto one elbow, staring at him. “I am not comprehending, Jamie.”
For a second, you thought you saw a flicker of disappointment at the new name option. Like he wants you to get it right. But he brushes it off and turns back to the ceiling.
“The Joker killed me. Like… actually. I died. And when I came back, he was still walking”
“And now we just fucked in your murderer’s old apartment. That’s karma, Ryan”
He laughed at that. Big, beautiful. You can't help but grin too.
You wince slightly as you sit up, pushing yourself off the floor and grabbing your discarded shirt. You’re halfway to the bathroom when he speaks again.
“Thought I was past it.”
You pause.
Slowly turn back.
Jason hasn’t moved.
Still staring at the ceiling.
Like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.
“Past what?” you ask, quieter now.
“Needing it,” he says. “Revenge.”
He exhales slowly, like he’s forcing the next part out.
“Got better,” he adds. “Or… I thought I did.”
He shifts, lifting a hand up like he’s trying to grab something that isnt there before letting it fall back against the floor.
“Then I hear his name again,” he says.
His jaw tightens.
“And everything I built to keep it down just--”
He exhales sharply.
“Gone. Since you showed up.”
You swallow, not knowing what to say.
He turns his head to look at you again. “Thank you”
Your stomach drops.
“For what?”
“Helping me get closure.”
Your heart shrivels.
You nod quickly, already turning away before he can catch the look on your face.
The water is colder than you expect. It shocks through your system the second it hits your skin, dragging you out of whatever haze you’d been floating in. You grip the edge of the sink, breathing out slowly as you splash your face again.
It doesn’t help.
When you look up, your reflection stares back at you through the grime-streaked mirror.
Your cheeks are still flushed. Your lips are swollen from where he bit them earlier. You press them together, like that might fix it. Like that might take back the lies that spilled from them all day and brought you to this moment.
You thought you could deal with it all and go back to your life when he realized there is no Joker and the entire thing was a wild goose chase.
But then he thanked you.
The audacity.
“Okay,” you say, like you can force yourself into it. “Okay. We’re fixing this.”
Your reflection nods once.
“I’m telling him.”
Right now.
No waiting. No overthinking. No making it worse.
You push away from the sink before you can talk yourself out of it, wiping your hands on your shirt as you step back into the main room.
He’s on the floor, just like before. One arm over his eyes. Breathing slow and even. He’s asleep. He looks peaceful.
His jacket is still spread out next to him like he left it there on purpose to make space for you. He trusts you enough to lie next to him and trusts you enough to not run away. You approach slowly, making sure he is still asleep as you lower yourself onto his jacket.
You take it back. You can't tell him. Not now. Maybe in a few years when you're both old and gray and on your deathbeds.
Not that you are thinking about growing old together.
---
“Hey.”
Your eyes blink open and you immediately regret it with the soft light coming in through the window.
He is crouched in front of you.
Close. Not looming, not sharp like before. Just… there. His voice is quieter than you’ve heard it, like he’s trying not to startle you. Your brain lags a second behind the moment.
“Oh,” you mumble. “Hi.”
His hand drops back slightly, like he hadn’t realized how close it was to your face until you woke up.
“I found something,” he says.
That wakes you up.
Immediately.
You sit up too fast, your stomach already dropping before you even know why. Of course he did. Of course he found something.
“What kind of something?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady.
He’s already moving, grabbing the file from where he left it, flipping it open like he’s run through this a hundred times already.
“Postcards,” he says. “Recent.”
Your chest tightens.
Recent?
“They were sent here,” he continues, tapping the page. “Address matches. But they’re not from Gotham.”
A small pause.
“Iowa.”
Oh.
Oh no.
You stare at him, your mind scrambling to catch up, to understand how this is still happening, how your stupid lie is somehow still… working.
“He’s revisiting old places,” Jason says, more to himself now. “Old identity, old addresses. It’s deliberate.”
He sounds certain.
“He wants a trail,” he adds. “Breadcrumbs. He sent these postcards here on purpose so that I would find them”
Your hands feel cold.
This isn’t even your lie anymore.
This is something else. Something bigger. Something you don’t understand and definitely didn’t mean to create.
“Or,” you try, your voice weaker than you’d like, “it could just be, like… someone else? Sending stuff? By accident?”
You swallow, your throat suddenly dry. This is it. This is where you stop it. Before it gets any worse. Before he builds anything else on something that doesn’t exist.
“George–”
“What.”
Your heart starts racing.
The words are right there. You can feel them, sitting heavy in your chest, ready to come out.
“I--”
Say it.
“I think--”
Say it.
Your mouth feels dry. Your chest too tight.
“I think we should leave,” you say instead, too quickly. “Like, soon. Immediately. This place is--uh--not great.”
Jason watches you for a second.
Then he nods once, already turning away, already moving.
“Get your stuff.”
---
The sun is barely up when you get on the freeway. That grey-blue light that doesn’t feel like morning yet, just the promise of it. The roads are mostly empty. The city fades behind you faster than you expected.
You sit in the passenger seat, hands folded tight in your lap.
You haven’t said much since you left.
Jason hasn’t said anything at all.
Iowa.
You swallow.
You should say something.
You should have said something already.
But every time you open your mouth, the words get stuck somewhere between your chest and your throat and refuse to come out.
“Alex?” you say.
He hums signalling you have his attention. This is bad. You two are familiar now.
You exhale sharply. “I need to say something.”
Silence.
You grip your hands tighter. “I--okay, I lied.”
The words come out too fast.
Like if you slow down, you won’t say them at all.
“About everything. The rumor, the Joker, the P.O. box--I made it up. I just said it to get out of a situation and then you showed up and I panicked and it just kept going and I didn’t know how to stop it and--”
“…What?” he says, processing.
Then you see the physical change in him. His eyes get sharper. His jaw settles. The boy from last night is gone and the Red Hood is back.
“How long have you been lying to me.”
“All of it,” you admit. “Since the beginning, I--”
Then the car jerks as he yanks it onto the shoulder.The tires screech slightly against the pavement as the car comes to a hard stop. You jolt forward, heart slamming into your ribs.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
You freeze.
Jason turns to you fully now.
“Do you have any idea what you just did?” he shouts. “Do you have any idea what you’ve been playing with this entire time?”
Your throat tightens. “I didn’t mean to--”
“I don’t care what you meant!” he cuts you off, voice rising, sharp and vicious. “You think this is a joke? You think you can just make something like that up and it doesn’t matter?”
Your chest tightens, something sharp rising up in response.
“Do you know what that name does?” he snaps. “Do you know what it means?”
“I was trying not to die!” you fire back. “What did you want me to say? They had me cornered--”
“So you picked the Joker?” he cuts in, incredulous. “That was your genius plan?”
“It worked!” you snap. “I got out, didn’t I?”
“And then you kept going!” he shouts. “You didn’t stop!”
“Because you put a gun to my head!” you yell back. “You think I was gonna go, ‘oh hey by the way I lied’ and just hope that worked out for me?”
His jaw tightens. “I wasn’t going to kill you.”
“You literally had a gun to my head!”
A beat.
“And now we’re on a freeway to Iowa because you believed me!” you add, your voice cracking now. “That’s not on me alone!”
“Get out.”
Your stomach drops. “…What?”
“Get out of the car.”
You stare at him. “You can’t be serious.”
He gestures to the gun in the backseat. “You have ten seconds,” he says.
Your breath catches.
“You’re bluffing.”
He looks at you. You still think he is bluffing but the Gotham in you won’t let you take that chance.
You scramble for the handle, shoving the door open and stumbling out onto the shoulder, slamming it rough behind you.
The engine revs. And he whips off like he’s in a competition with the flash.
“FUCK YOU RED HOOD YOU FUCKING DIPSHIT I HOPE YOU CRASH--”
Your voice rips out of you, loud and furious and useless against the empty stretch of road as the car disappears into the distance.
The silence that follows is loud.
You stare at the road like it might undo itself. Like he might come back.
He doesn’t.
“…Okay,” you say.
You wrap your arms around yourself, glancing up and down the road like something is going to appear and solve this for you.
It doesn’t.
Right.
You exhale sharply. “I am not dying out here. Absolutely not. That’s not how this ends.”
You remember a flash of neon a few kilometers back. Hopefully its food. You turn and take off across the grass.
The diner comes into view faster than you expected. A flickering sign, half-lit, the kind of place that looks like it’s been open too long and seen too much.
Perfect.
You push the door open, the bell above it jingling softly.
Warmth hits you immediately.
And noise.
Low conversations, the hum of a coffee machine, the clatter of dishes--normal. Completely, wonderfully normal.
You almost sag in relief.
You slide into a booth near the window, still catching your breath, muttering under it.
“Unbelievable. Actually unbelievable. Who does that? ‘Get out of the car’. On a freeway. what a psycho”
You lean your head back against the booth, staring at the ceiling for a second.
Then down at your hands.
Then out the window.
Nothing feels real.
“Coffee?”
You blink.
A waitress stands beside the table, pen tucked behind her ear, expression neutral but not unkind.
She gives you a small nod, already reaching for the pot.
Then, as she pours--
“Your man abandon you?”
You choke slightly.
“--No,” you say immediately. “That jerk is not my man.”
The waitress hums like she’s heard that before.
“Mm.”
She sets the mug down in front of you anyway. You sip ignoring the burn of the hot liquid. Staring out the window isn't doing anything,, so you grab the newspaper on the bench next to you.
A retirement home ad. Smiling faces. Clean rooms. Promises of care and comfort.
Your brain lags a second.
Arthur Fleck.
The file.
His mother.
A nursing home.
Your stomach twists.
You stare at the ad.
Then down at your coffee.
Then back at the ad.
Your luck has worked so far.
Maybe it’s worth checking out.
---
Jason makes it six minutes.
Maybe less.
He doesn’t check.
The road stretches out in front of him, empty, the early morning light barely breaking through the clouds. His hands are tight on the wheel, jaw locked, eyes fixed forward like if he just keeps going, everything behind him will stay there.
It doesn’t.
The image comes back all at once: You standing on the side of the road. No car. No backup. Nothing. Jason exhales sharply.
“Fuck.”
He left you. Alone. On a highway.
The car jerks as he yanks the wheel, tires screeching slightly as he swings into a hard turn, accelerating back the way he came.
By the time he gets back to the spot where you fought, you're gone. The shoulder is empty.
No movement. No figure. Nothing.
Jason steps out of the car immediately, scanning the area like he missed something. Like you might still be there if he looks hard enough. For a second, he just stands there.
Suddenly he realizes how the Joker doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is he got mad at you for a situation he created. He wasn’t mad you lied, he’s lied worse. He is mad he let himself care. About the Joker.. And about you.
Jason slides back into the car, you can’t have gone far. He’ll find you.
---
The diner is first. It’s the closest place within walking distance.
Jason steps inside, presence alone enough to clear space around him.
The waitress freezes mid-step.
“Girl,” he says. “Came in this morning.”
She nods quickly. “Yeah--yeah, I remember. Sweet girl. Looked shaken up.”
Sweet?
Jason exhales through his nose. “Which way.”
“She didn’t stay long,” the waitress adds. “Kept looking out the window. Then she left--uh--headed that way.” She points.
Jason’s already gone.
–
It gets worse from there.
A trucker at a gas station squints at him.
“Oh--yeah. Yeah, I saw her,” he says. “Girl with the knife.”
Jason stills. “…Knife?”
“Yeah,” the guy nods. “Didn’t use it or anything, but she had it. Kinda freaked me out.”
Jason exhales slowly.
“Which way.”
–
It keeps going.
A bus driver picked her up at the edge of town. She juggled for free fare.
A cab driver dropped her off near Old Gotham. Said she talked his ear off the entire ride and, at some point, confidently informed him that the Red Hood hates women.
Some kids saw her walking. She told them she’d teach them a skateboard trick if they point her in the direction of the bridge.
By the time he finally finds you, the sun is setting again. The sky is that dull orange-gray Gotham specializes in, the light fading just enough to make everything feel heavier than it should.
Golden Years Nursing Home stands at the end of the street.
And then he sees you.
Standing just outside the entrance. Still. Facing the doors.
Relief hits first.
Sharp. Immediate. Almost enough to knock the air out of him.
You’re alive.
You’re not hurt.
Jason exhales, something in his shoulders finally loosening as he steps out of the car.
You hear him step out and turn to face him. You’re not angry and you’re not surprised. Jason wants to apologize and hug you, but the look on your face gives him pause.
“He’s in there.”
Your voice is barely above a whisper.
Jason stills.
Arthur Fleck.
The file.
The nursing home.
His gaze shifts past you, locking onto the building like it might disappear if he looks away.
Then back to you.
You’re not joking.
“Okay.”
He checks his gun, the familiar motion grounding, automatic.
“Let’s go kill us a clown”
---
The doors slide open with a soft mechanical hum.
The lobby is softly lit. A television murmurs in the corner. A few residents sit scattered in chairs, some watching, some not. A nurse walks past with a clipboard, offering a polite smile like nothing about this place is unusual.
You step forward first.
“Hi,” you say to the receptionist, your voice steady in a way it hasn’t been all day. “We’re here to see Arthur Fleck.”
The woman brightens.
“Oh! That’s lovely,” she says. “He doesn’t get visitors often.”
Jason’s confused but not deterred. These nurses are villains. This place is a secret Joker Lab. They have vats of jokerization fluid in the basement. He has one hand on his gun and eyes scanning the exits.
A nurse appears a moment later, cheerful, unaware.
“Come on,” she says. “He’ll be happy to see you.”
The hallway stretches longer than it should, each step heavier than the last. His hand brushes his gun once, just to make sure it’s there, just to ground himself in something real. This is it. This is what all of it has been leading to.
The nurse stops at a door and knocks lightly before opening it. “Arthur? You’ve got visitors.”
She steps aside.
Jason moves forward.
It takes a second for his brain to catch up with what he’s seeing.
An old man sits by the window in a wheelchair. Small. Frail. His body seems to fold into itself, hands trembling faintly in his lap. His breathing is uneven, punctuated by a weak cough that rattles through his chest.
He takes another step closer, eyes narrowing like if he looks hard enough, the truth will rearrange itself into something that makes sense.
The man turns his head slowly, like even that costs him something. His eyes are clouded, distant, unfocused.
This is the Joker?
Jason’s chest tightens. He thinks this must be a game. A last ploy. But then the man turns towards him.
He knows that face. He knows what happened. He knows what it sounds like when he laughs. He knows what his screams of joy sound like. He knows what those hands feel like when they are holding a crowbar.
You note his hands shaking. One is braced on his hip holster like he needs to be ready. The other is curled in a fist like he is trying to keep it together.
“You,” he says, sharper than he means to.
The man blinks at him.
Nothing.
No recognition. No reaction. Just confusion.
Jason steps closer, faster now, something desperate starting to claw its way up his throat. He had a whole speech prepared. He is going to start with how the Joker ruined all semblance of normalcy in his life. How he can’t sleep some nights because his ribs burn with phantom pains. How he wakes up screaming because he feels the weight of dirt on his chest. But all of that hinges on the Joker actually looking at him. Which this frail man is not.
“Look at me.”
The words come out harsher this time.
“You killed me. LOOK at me”
The old man blinks confused. “Are you the new doctor?”
Jason took a step back. Confused. Dazed. “You chased after Batman for decades”
Arthur’s eyes sharpen at the mention of Batman. Focus. Lock.
And then he smiles.
Wide. Wrong. Familiar.
“Boy WONDER” he rasps, voice cracking into something gleeful and broken all at once. “How’s Batsy, huh? Still waiting for me to make a move--HAHA--”
The laugh collapses into a violent coughing fit, tearing through his chest. “--COUGH--COUGH--”
And just like that--
It’s gone.
The light in his eyes flickers out, replaced by confusion so complete it’s like the moment never happened. His head turns away, gaze unfocused again.
“…Mama?” he mutters weakly. “Where’s. where’s my mother?”
His hands twitch in his lap. He looks around the room like he’s looking for someone. A nurse. A doctor. A mother.
He doesn’t look at Jason again.
Doesn’t see him.
Doesn’t know him.
Jason stands there, completely still.
This is him.
This is the man.
The one who killed him. The one he built everything around. The one he chased, convinced there was meaning in it, something intentional, something unfinished.
His hand doesn’t move toward the gun.
It just hangs there.
Because what would that even be now?
Killing him wouldn’t fix anything. Wouldn’t mean anything. This isn’t a final confrontation. This isn’t revenge.
This is just a man.
Old. Sick. Forgotten.
Jason exhales, and it sounds like something breaking loose in his chest.
He steps back. Once. Then again. Then he turns and walks out.
You follow without a word.
–
The gas station across the nursing home is quiet.
Quiet in that way places get when the day is ending and no one really wants to be there anymore. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. A neon sign flickers faintly in the window. Across the road, the nursing home sits still, unchanged, like nothing inside it matters to the rest of the world.
You sit on the curb with a slushie in your hand. You made a frankenstein slushie with every flavour and regret it but are too proud to admit it.
Jason sits beside you, leisurely sipping a cherry one from his cup.
Neither of you says anything at first.
There’s nothing left to say.
The air feels flat. Heavy. Like everything that was loud before burned itself out and left this behind.
Apathy.
You take a sip. It tastes like sugar and chemicals.
“…I think I lost my job,” you say finally.
Jason glances at you, just slightly.
“I ghosted them for, like, two days,” you continue. “Which, in my defense, was not my fault. I was being kidnapped. And then… everything else.”
He exhales quietly through his nose.
“I’ll write you a note,” he says.
You blink. “A note?”
“Yeah,” he says. “From the Red Hood.”
That almost makes you smile.
“You think that’ll work?”
“It’ll work,” he says flatly. “Not your fault.”
You hum, taking another sip.
A pause stretches.
“What’s your name?”
Jason doesn’t answer right away.
You glance at him. “Like--your actual name. Not the whole… dramatic branding situation.”
“Jason.”
You stare at him.
Then snort.
“Is that why you came so fast?”
He turns his head slowly. “Shut up.”
You grin into your slushie.
It fades just as quickly.
Jason leans back slightly, eyes drifting toward the horizon.
“I could’ve killed him,” he says after a while.
You don’t look at him.
“I know.”
A beat.
“Didn’t,” he adds.
Another beat.
“Maybe Batman’ll be proud,” he mutters. “Maybe I’ll get a new jet out of it.”
You look at him. “No, Jason. We did kill the joker”
Jason frowns slightly. “What?”
You take another sip. Casual.
“I switched his meds.”
Jason chokes.
Hard.
The slushie goes down wrong, coughing tearing out of him as he turns away, wiping at his mouth.
“What--” he tries, still coughing. “What the fuck?”
You just sip your drink.
Unbothered.
He looks at you again, searching your face.
You don’t crack.
He snorts.
And then it turns into something else.
A laugh.
Broken. Real. Completely unguarded.
In the distance, sirens cut through the quiet.
Ambulance lights flicker faintly as they race past, heading toward the nursing home.
Neither of you turns to look.
You lift your fist.
Jason bumps it.
-------------
a/n: why is writing smut so hard. I had to enlist a friend. still.
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masterlist - chapter 1 - next part
Jason Todd x Vet! Reader
synopsis: when a developer wants to destroy crime alley for profits, wayne enterprises steps up to fix the issue. the problem? the only person crime alley locals trust is the red hood. he did not think that saving people involved so many photo ops, or such an annoying vet
wc: 3.5k
---
Jason should be asleep right now.
That’s the first thought in his head when the platform lowers him into the Batcave. Not the one about why Bruce summoned him “urgently,” not the one about how he hasn’t even had coffee yet. Just sleep. Glorious, unreachable sleep.
Instead, he’s here. Midday. Helmet under his arm. Scowl locked and loaded. His jacket still smells faintly like wet asphalt and burnt leaves, the smells of Gotham in October.
“Alright,” he says, stalking across the platform. “Who’s dying? And if it’s not anyone important, I’m leaving.”
“It’s not that kind of emergency,” Bruce says without looking up from the massive screen glowing against the cave wall.
Jason groans. “Then I’m definitely leaving.”
“Sit,” Bruce orders.
“No.”
“Jason.”
“Hood,” he corrects, dropping into a chair anyway. “Jason’s asleep. I’m Red Hood, and he’s furious.”
Tim’s perched on the next console, sipping something pumpkin-colored like he’s been up for hours. “You’re gonna want to stay for this.”
“Doubtful.”
Bruce taps the keyboard, and a map of Gotham flickers to life, zooming in on Crime Alley. Jason’s shoulders tense on instinct.
Developers have been petitioning city hall for months,” Bruce starts. “They’re trying to push through construction permits, luxury condos, boutique retail, the usual story.”
Jason folds his arms. “Let me guess. City hall told them to shove it because it’s my turf.”
“Almost,” Dick says, dropping from the catwalk above with a gymnast’s ease. “They changed tactics. New angle.”
Tim clicks a button and a headline pops up:
‘Stray Dog Crisis Threatens Gotham’s Most Vulnerable Neighborhood.’
Jason blinks. “I’m sorry. What?”
“Dozens of strays dumped in Crime Alley in the past month,” Tim explains. “At first it looked random, but we traced the vans, they’re hired by the same developer. They’re staging a public health crisis.”
“Then they’ll lobby for euthanasia,” Dick adds. “Say the area’s unsafe, needs redevelopment.”
Jason’s jaw tightens. “So they manufacture a problem and then swoop in to fix it. Classic rich guy bullsh—”
“Language,” Bruce warns.
“—nonsense,” Jason finishes flatly. “Great. So go growl at city hall. Why am I here?”
“Because this isn’t just any developer,” Tim says, flipping to a slide with a corporate logo: Halcyon Urban Development. “It’s a Cobblepot front. Penguin’s been laundering money into shell companies like this for years. And they’re not just eyeing a few buildings, they want the whole block.”
Jason huffs out a humorless laugh. “Figures. Penguins can’t fly, so they build skyscrapers.”
Bruce ignores that. “We’ve already started fighting it. Wayne Enterprises launched a rehabilitation program last month. Partnered with a veterinary specialist. Spay, neuter, vaccination, adoption events. Everything designed to undercut the developer’s plan.”
Jason eyes him. “And?”
Bruce clicks again, and a glossy image pops up on the main screen. A converted storefront with clean paint and cheerful signage. Volunteers smiling beside kennels. And kneeling front and center: a young woman in scrubs, laughing as a puppy licks her cheek. A banner behind her reads STRAY TO STAY: COMMUNITY REHABILITATION & REHOMING.
“We brought in Dr. Y/N,” Bruce says. “New veterinarian. Opened her clinic this summer, passionate about rehabilitation work. The clinic’s solid. The program is, too.”
Jason squints at the screen. “How much money did you burn on that photoshoot?”
Tim tilts his head. “What makes you think it’s expensive?”
“Because it looks like the cover of a Hallmark movie,” Jason says. “And because you’re telling me this is failing.”
“Attendance is low,” Bruce admits. “The locals don’t trust the flyers or the volunteers. They see Wayne logos and assume it’s a trap.”
“Can’t imagine why,” Jason mutters.
Bruce’s expression doesn’t change. “The residents trust one person down there. Someone they see as part of the neighborhood.”
Jason already hates where this is going. “No.”
“Jason—”
“No. Absolutely not. I am not putting a Wayne logo on my jacket and playing corporate mascot.”
Dick’s grinning now, because he knows that tone. The one Jason uses right before he gives in. “It’s good PR. And good for the dogs.”
“Good for the dogs,” Jason repeats. “Bruce, I shoot people. I’m not handing out chew toys.”
Bruce crosses his arms. “We need the Red Hood to get the Alley’s support. They won’t listen to us.”
Jason drags a hand down his face. “So I’m the welcome wagon now.”
“You’re the one they trust,” Bruce says, gentler this time. “Without that, the program fails.”
The cave is quiet for a beat. Jason could still walk. He should walk. But the thought of Cobblepot poisoning strays to clear a block, that hits a little too close to home.
“Fine,” he mutters, shoving himself up. “But I’m not wearing a name tag.”
Tim smirks into his latte. “We’ll see.”
Jason flips him off on his way to the stairs.
— ✦ —
The bell above the clinic door jingled when Jason pushed it open, letting in a draft of sharp October air and the smell of rain-soaked leaves. Gotham was all copper light and gray clouds this morning, the kind of fall day that pretended to be calm even as winter lurked at the edges. He hated mornings. He hated daylight. And right now, he hated that he was doing this at all.
The clinic itself was… disarming. It smelled like sunshine and disinfectant, warm and sterile all at once. Pale green walls curved softly around the waiting room, lined with cheerful paw-print decals and framed photos of adopted dogs wearing tiny Halloween bandanas. A ceramic pumpkin sat on the reception counter beside a jar labeled Take one! (for your dog, not you). Someone had strung a garland of paper leaves across the doorway.
And then there was him. Boots dripping rain onto polished tile, leather jacket heavy with hidden weapons, helmet on. Tactical gear, Kevlar plates, pistols holstered at his thighs. Red Hood in a place that smelled like cinnamon treats and puppy shampoo.
When he stepped in, the waiting room froze.
A woman clutched her dachshund tighter. A kid half-hid behind a magazine rack. Even the pug on the scale stopped panting, tiny paws trembling. Jason ignored all of them and strode past the rows of chairs like he was clearing a room, combat boots thudding against the tile, visor sweeping the space for threats that weren’t there.
He stopped at the reception desk. “I’m here to see the vet,” he said. The modulated growl of his voice did not help.
The receptionist blinked at him, wide-eyed. “Dr. Y/N is… um… in surgery at the moment.”
Jason’s head tilted. “What kind of surgery?”
There was a beat. “A… hamster. We’re removing a tumor.”
Of course. Gunfights at night, hamsters at dawn.
“You can wait in her office if you’d like,” the receptionist added quickly, already reaching for the phone like she was considering dialing the GCPD.
Jason grunted something that might have been “fine” and followed her down the hall. The office was small but lived-in. Shelves lined with medical textbooks, a corkboard crowded with autumn adoption flyers, and a leash shaped like a daisy hanging from a hook by the door. A mug of coffee had gone cold on the desk, half-finished notes scrawled beside it. Rain streaked the window glass, and somewhere down the hall, a cat yowled.
He dropped into the chair across from the desk, helmet resting on his knee. The clock ticked. He stared at the falling leaves outside and wondered, not for the first time, if he could sneak in a nap before all this got worse.
The door clicked open twenty-three minutes later.
“Mr. Hood?” a voice said lightly.
Jason looked up, and for the second time that morning, the world felt like it had glitched.
You were nothing like what he expected. Still in scrubs, a surgical cap patterned with tiny cartoon kittens perched on her head, a faint smell of antiseptic clinging to your gloves. Your eyes were sharp with focus but bright, and when they landed on him, they lit up even more, not with fear, not with the wary calculation he was used to, but something dangerously close to excitement.
“Dr. Y/N,” you said warmly, tugging off the cap and shaking your hair loose as you stepped into the office. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
Jason stared at the hand you offered, then shook it. “Red Hood’s fine.”
“Alright then, Red Hood,” you said, slipping into the chair across from him, unbothered by the metal plates and hidden weapons sitting a foot away. “Thank you for coming. I know this isn’t exactly your usual kind of mission.”
“That’s one word for it.”
Undeterred, you flipped open a folder and launched into what sounded suspiciously like a practiced spiel. “I thought I’d start by giving you a quick overview of the program. Wayne Enterprises funds the operating costs: medical equipment, transport vans, outreach campaigns. We’ve got a volunteer network that helps with intake and foster placements. Most days, we do sweeps of the neighborhood to catch strays, or we get calls from residents about abandoned animals. Once they’re here, they’re assessed, treated for anything urgent, vaccinated, cleaned up, and—”
Jason’s helmet tilted slightly. “I don’t need the brochure version. Just tell me why I’m here.”
You blinked, caught mid-sentence, then sighed and folded her hands on the desk. “Because it’s not working,” you admitted. “Some of the locals don’t trust us. They see the equipment and think we’re a puppy mill. Or that we’ll euthanize the animals. Or experiment on them. And once they think that, they don’t open their doors. They don’t call us. They chase the volunteers off.”
Your tone stayed steady, but there was a shadow behind the smile now, frustration, maybe. A hint of exhaustion.
Jason leaned back in his chair. “Huh. Wonder why they don’t trust you.”
His gaze drifted around the room: the glossy WayneTech logo stamped across a portable scanner by the window, a framed veterinary degree from Metropolis U on the wall, and the vet herself, cheerful, polished, and so obviously not from here that you might as well have worn a sign that said outsider.
You caught the edge in his voice but didn’t bite. “That’s where you come in,” you said instead. “They trust you. They see you as part of this neighborhood, someone who protects it, not profits from it. If you vouch for us, if they see you involved, it changes everything.”
Jason shifted, uncomfortable under the weight of her certainty. “So I show up, and they just magically start handing over dogs?”
“Something like that,” you said with a small, knowing smile. “And maybe, while you’re here, you learn the difference between a rabies vaccine and a microchip.”
He snorted. “I’ll think about it.”
“You’re leaving?” you asked, tilting your head.
“You said you’d call me when I’m needed,” he said, rising from the chair. “So call me.”
There was a beat of silence, then your smile brightened again, not mocking, not forced, just sure. “Perfect,” she said, standing as well. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Jason froze. “Tomorrow?”
“Mhm. Morning’s best. We’re starting intake evaluations at eight sharp.”
“I didn’t agree to that.”
“You said you’d help.”
“I said I’d think about it.”
“Great,” you said, far too pleased with yourself. “I’m glad you thought about it. See you tomorrow.”
For a long second, neither of them moved. Jason stared at her through the visor, trying to decide if you were joking. you just beamed back at him, like this was all going exactly to plan.
Finally, he muttered something unprintable and turned for the door, boots heavy against the tile.
The receptionist peeked in as it swung shut. “Dr. Y/N? Was that—?”
“Yep,” you said, still smiling. “That was the Red Hood.”
“And he’s… helping?”
You glanced at the door again. “He doesn’t know it yet, but yes.”
— ✦ —
The call comes a few days later. He had not shown up to the intake at the clinic after the meeting. Nor at the adoption event the day after. But he came when he got a call of trouble.
A litter of strays behind a corner bodega, wedged under a dumpster. Half the block swears they’re sick. The other half swears no one’s taking them anywhere. The locals aren't letting the volunteers through.
Jason doesn’t bother with a reply text. He’s already moving.
By the time he turns onto the alley, the rehab van is boxed in by bodies, shopkeepers in aprons, kids on scooters, a knot of residents in a loose semicircle with their arms crossed and their faces set. The October sky presses low and pewter; damp leaves glue themselves to the gutter. The van still wears its Wayne logo like a target.
“Back it up,” a man at the front says, chin jutting. “We don’t want your kind here.”
“It’s a sweep, Sir,” one of the volunteers tries, voice paper-thin. “We got a call about—”
“Don’t ‘Sir’ me,” the man snaps. “Last time I saw a van like yours, half the animals never came back.”
Jason steps in before it breaks. “Hey.”
Heads turn. Relief cracks through a handful of faces.
“Red,” an older woman breathes, shoulders dropping. She reaches out, squeezes his forearm through the jacket. “You heard?”
“I heard.” Jason tips his helmet a fraction at her, Mrs. Ortiz, he saved her bodega from a mugging last week. “We’re here for the pups, not you.”
“‘We,’ huh?” a younger guy near the stoop says, eyeing the logo again. “They with you or they with Wayne?”
Jason’s white eye slits sweep the crowd, then the van, then you, standing by the open doors, scrub top under a coat, gloves in your back pocket, jaw tight. Your smile is gone. Your eyes are all focus and fury.
“They’re with me,” Jason says, voice carrying. “Today, they’re with me.”
Murmurs ripple. Some skeptical, some relieved.
“And we’re just supposed to take your word for it?” someone calls from the back.
Jason’s head tilts. “Yeah. Because if they aren’t who they say they are…” His hand settles, casual and unmistakable, against the holster on his thigh. “…I would shoot them myself.”
Silence hits the alley like a dropped curtain. Even the dogs go quiet.
Then Mr. K huffs out a short laugh. “Sounds like Red.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” the older woman mutters, stepping aside.
It isn’t trust. Not really. But it’s enough. The semicircle loosens. A path yawns open toward the stink of the dumpster.
You move first. “Volunteers with carriers, on me,” you say, voice level. You brush past Jason without touching him. “Careful, Hood,” you add, flat as a blade. “Try not to kill anyone in the next five minutes.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Doc,” he says, and the word isn’t sweet. It lands like a warning.
You don’t dignify it. Knees hit wet concrete. The smell is a slap, sour garbage, oil, the raw acidity of sick. You click on a penlight, run it along the black mouth under the dumpster. There, seven tiny bodies knotted together in a trembling mass. One tries to bark and makes a sound like a broken squeaker.
“Hey there,” you murmur, hand sliding in, slow, steady. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.” You pull the first pup free, cold, flea-bitten, eyes gummy, and pass her back to waiting hands. “Blanket. Warming pad. Now.” Another pup. Another. Your voice makes a metronome out of panic. “Good. Perfect. Keep them close. Watch for labored breathing.”
Jason stands just behind your shoulder, a wall in leather and Kevlar. He doesn’t crouch. He doesn’t reach. He watches the crowd with that steady, unblinking calm that makes men rethink bad decisions. He tips his chin to a lanky kid hovering near the stoop. “Gio. How’s your mom?”
“Chemo’s making her tired,” Gio mutters, kicking at he ground. “I told her to stop smoking.”
“She won’t,” Jason says. “Tell her I’ll swing by with soup.”
Gio nods, like that’s normal.
Mrs. Ortiz edges closer, wringing a dish towel. “They’ll be okay, Red?” she asks without looking at the van.
“They will,” Jason says, and because it’s him, she believes it.
The seventh puppy comes free, small and stubborn and so hungry she mouths your thumb. You let her, then tuck her into a towel and stand. Your scrubs are wet below both knees. Your coat’s grimy. Your smile doesn’t come back.
“Load,” you tell the team. “Gentle. Keep them upright.” To the crowd: “We’ll post updates. You can call the clinic to check in. No one’s disappearing.”
A mutter from the back: “We’ll see.”
Jason doesn’t look away from the alley as the doors slide shut. “They’ll see,” he says.
You don’t answer him. You climb into the van and slap the side once. The driver pulls out in a lurch that rattles the doors.
Inside, the world narrows to metal and motion: blankets spread over the floor, heating pads plugged into portable batteries, a field kit open like a surgeon’s tray. Rain ticks against the roof in a steady, petty rhythm. You make a nest in the back and start triage, voice stripped down to essentials.
“Temp. Resp. Mucous membranes.” You glance up at a volunteer. “Yes, like the hamsters, Evan. Just on a dog.” Back to the pups. “Fleas are bad. We’ll treat. Hydration’s worse.” You lift a warming bottle, test it on your wrist, tuck it to a tiny belly. “Good. Keep that there.”
Jason plants himself on the bench by the rear door, one boot wedged against the wall, helmet still on, arms crossed. Watching. Guarding. Glowering. A pup toddles in an uneven line toward him and bumps his boot. He freezes like he’s stepped on a landmine.
“They’re not going to explode, Hood,” you say without looking up, snapping a flea comb through damp fur.
“They might.”
“They won’t.” You switch to a tiny stethoscope, listen, exhale. “Respiration’s leveling. None of them are crashing.”
“Translation?”
“Translation: they’re going to live.” You don’t smile when you say it. “Assuming unnecessary stress doesn’t spike again.”
His helmet angles a fraction. “You mean the crowd.”
“I mean the crowd,” you say, and then, finally, you look at him. “And the man who decided the best way to calm them down was to threaten to shoot my team.”
“It worked,” he says.
“Sure it did, hero,” you mutter without looking up, the word dipped in acid. “Terrify the locals, traumatize my volunteers, and call it a day. Gold star.”
“Got the pups out, didn’t we?” he fires back.
You prime the syringe, check the dose, slide it under loose skin with practiced ease. The pup doesn’t even flinch. “Half my volunteers think you’re going to put a bullet in them if they sneeze wrong.”
“Then they’ll sneeze carefully,” he says, and the modulator makes it sound like a joke and a promise at once.
Your laugh is sharp and humorless. “Charming.”
“Doc.”
“Hero.”
The van hits a pothole. A pup squeaks. The volunteer beside you startles; you don’t. You brace a palm against the crate and keep going.
“You show up to my clinic in full armor,” you say, voice low, “barge into my alley, and announce you’ll kill my people if they’re not who they say they are. I don’t care that it ‘worked.’ You don’t get to point a gun at trust and call it loyalty.”
“You think the Alley trusts flyers?”
“I think the Alley trusts being treated like humans.”
“I treat them like survivors,” he says, almost bored. “They understand that.”
“And what am I?”
He doesn’t answer.
A brave little shepherd mix noses toward his knee again, wobbling, determined. Jason shifts back a centimeter. She follows. He shifts again. She sneezes on his shin and wobbles away, unimpressed.
You don’t smile. You don’t have it to spare.
“You don’t scare me,” you say at last, without looking up from the chart you’re filling in. Your tone is clinical. Dead calm. “And you don’t get to talk to my people that way.”
A beat. The engine hums. Rain whispers down the van’s skin. Somewhere ahead, a siren wails and fades.
“You should be scared, Doc,” he says, finally turning his helmet toward you. “It’d make my job easier.”
“Good thing I’m not here to make your job easy,” you say, clicking the pen closed. “I’m here to save dogs.”
The van shudders to a stop outside the clinic. The back doors swing open on cold air and the smell of wet leaves. You lift the first carrier without waiting for help.
“Let’s move,” you say, to no one and everyone at once.
Volunteers move. Jason stays planted by the doors, helmet angled toward you, silent and unmoving. A wall.
You don’t look at him. You step around the boots blocking the way, refusing to break stride. “Intake starts Thursday,” you say, clipped and cold. “Be here.”
He doesn’t reply. He doesn’t have to. The air between you is already heavy enough to choke on.
You keep walking.
----
next part
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a/n: my first real enemies to lovers!! so excited. i am so glad this became a series cause i can really dive deeper into this, because what i had previously was all about jason and dogs
Gotta admit, now that I’ve read a good bit of the 80s Flash run, I think it’s wild Terry Long (rightfully) has so many ops for getting into a relationship with a 18-year old Donna Troy as a divorced man in his late twenties, but there is almost no op-age for Tina McGee, the 32-year old still married woman who got into a relationship with a 20-year old Wally West and mooched off him until he was dry.
Throw in Liu, who groomed a homeless 16-year old Dick Grayson, followed by coercing him into crime using this as leverage, and I’m really beginning to think we could start a club.
There’s something to be said about the tendency of child sidekicks to fall into relationships with much older people who explicitly use them (Terry with his research/writing, Tina with the money, Liu with the… everything), and the inability for said child sidekicks to recognize that being used like this is wrong. I don’t think I have the intelligence or coherence to put that thought together. But it’s there.
honestly damian had the WORST experience timeline-wise as robin. imagine becoming robin when dick grayson is batman and the original batman is “dead” so all you have is this idealized version of a dad you never really knew and you’re being raised by your cool older sibling who actually respects you and fights for you and then your dad comes back to life and becomes your batman and he doesn’t like you so you slowly have to come to the realization that hey actually OG batman (who is also your dad) kind of sucks and now if you want to keep being robin you have to put up with his bullshit for the rest of your life
hi!!! I just wanted to say that I am so i LOOOVE with your writing omggg! I just read the one with dick and mc's 10years together and it was just so so so sweet I'm seriously so awed.
I was wondering if you would ever write any with dick and the mc in a family dynamic one day and how you would set that up! really eating up every time you write husbanddick and i'm so hungry for more
AHHH thank you so so much!!! I'm so overjoyed to hear this :) ❤️
I will DEFS take this into consideration. It's not a page in the writers room YET but I have thought about it.
Personal dynamic preferences, I really really really want to write Dick with twins; one boy and one girl, where he spends pretty much all of his time trying to supervise them so they don't die somersaulting off the kitchen counter.
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is this really hyper specific or do specific pet names only work for specific dc characters???
like clark is a “honey” user but he can’t be a “baby” user. jason is a “baby” user but he can’t be a “honey” user. dick is a “sweetheart” user but he can’t be a “darling” user. bruce is a “darling” user but he’s so not a “baby” user.
is this really hyper specific or do specific pet names only work for specific dc characters???
like clark is a “honey” user but he can’t be a “baby” user. jason is a “baby” user but he can’t be a “honey” user. dick is a “sweetheart” user but he can’t be a “darling” user. bruce is a “darling” user but he’s so not a “baby” user.
You’re sitting on the side-edge of the bed, still ruthlessly fumbling with the thin ankle strap of your left stiletto heel when the familiar spider-man themed ringer goes off.
You lean across to grab his phone. And right before you, on the screen is a rather turbulent, flashlight flooded picture of jason wearing a hot pink rendition of the bat suit with ridiculously tiny fairy wings that are being swallowed by his entire frame, you barely make out the wings tips sticking out from behind his shoulders.
Paired with a “jayfairy” contact label.
You seriously know better than to ask at this point.
Standing, and careful not to faceplant with your half-worn heel, you start penguin shuffling towards the ensuite. And low in behold, Richard John Grayson in all his glory.
The warm glow of bathroom light practically swarms towards his model-esque, greek-god-sculpted, sun-kissed body and face. Your god of a husband, who looks like he's just stepped out of Lloyd's Mamma Mia or a Hugo Boss men's cologne commercial hovers by the sink in a loose white button up, tending to the hems at his wrists and the buttons on his blouse.
“It’s Jason,” you say, holding out his phone, smiling and peering into the ensuite.
He halts buttoning, leaving part of his chest exposed in an easy loose V at the open collar, tanned chest catching the light.
“Thanks, sweetheart,” Dick says softly, eyes tracking the screen on your hands as he takes the phone from you and answers it.
"Yeah,” he addresses jason casually skipping the niceties.
“Sure thing, I’ll be there…
Meanwhile, you attempt to multitask. One hand, braced on the ensuite door frame to steady yourself as you resume fighting your ankle strap. Your (literal) achilles heel every date night. You bring your knee up, try to reach at your ankles but struggle the one-hand manoeuvre with this ribbon-thin, flimsy buckle. You shift, try leaning your back against the bathroom's door frame... nope, your shoulder against the door frame? your try lifting your knee higher, but your mini black dress hikes up, pulling tight and you swear you hear fabric groan. You stop immediately because ripping this dress would make you put the devil in devil wears prada. Then consider shuffling back to the bed… Mmm, no. Bending down maybe?—
As you start to lower down, Dick’s palm meets your shoulder halting you. Your eyes flick up and you see Dick suddenly next to you, one hand steadying you for a brief second as he gently waves off your commotions. He mouths an I’ve got it, already tucking the phone between his ear and shoulder.
And he lowers himself to one knee before you.
“Bruce doesn’t need to—” he continues into the call, the cell clipped between his cheek and right shoulder. His face practically plush against your bare leg, breath faint and warm against your shin as he talks.
“Uh huh, yeah… an hour early, I got it. You’re one to talk since you’re always the late one, Jay,” he says playfully taunting at Jason through the line all the while focused on your strap.
Your hand grips the door frame, while the other holds onto his shoulder for balance (yes, the shoulder of the Greek God knelt before you) and between the wooden frame and Dick's deltoids, the doorframe never stood a chance.
His fingers caresses your ankle and he slots the teeny, tiny, metallic piece through the strap holes. And trust your husband to know exactly which hole! The strap of the velvet heel remains snug enough to support your ankle but not choke off your entire leg’s circulation.
For a man with big fingers and a thread-thin strap in said fingers, he's good with those hands. Probably, too good you think. You’re probably jealous you think.
And when the pad of his finger touches the inside of your ankle and the cool metal of his gold wedding ring also slightly brushes your skin, all the nerves in your leg light on fire. You realise then as you tighten your grip on the doorframe that even 10 years of marriage couldn't diffuse the effect he had on you.
As Dick finishes, he doesn’t rise. With a knuckle to the tiled floor and still on one knee, he remains half-immersed in whatever Jason is saying when his attention shifts.
Up.
To you.
From where he’s kneeling, his gaze finds you as if he’s only just seeing you for the first time. You mouth a quiet thank you, and he only watches your lips with such focus like he's counting the syllables of your gratitude.
Looks like you held your charm for 10 pretty well too.
“Mhm…” he breathes into the phone.
“Look, I’ll meet you by the manor and we can sort this out later. I gotta go.”
He ends the call before the last vowel leaves his lips.
“Hi,” you say.
“Why, hi there,” he teases, looking up at you with literal shards of glitter in his cobalt eyes. “Who’s this beauty sneaking into my shower?”
“Please,” you giggle.
“Who’s the Greek statue in Tom Ford on my tiles?”
Dick beams and his dimples appear beneath the warm overhead light.
His hand trails over your calf as he looks up at you. Slowly, he lifts the leg he’d just finished tending to, resting your foot and heel gently against his raised knee. Yeah, disregard the heel from puncturing the Wayne-tailored trousers.
His softness makes you chuckle, until his head dips and he presses a gentle kiss to your calf.
And for a second, or minute, you forget why you even have lungs.
The sight of him on one knee, with the warmth of his lips against your skin, nearly makes your knees give out.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says, looking up at you again, chin resting on your bent knee.
“Oh, get up here,” you murmur, reaching for the undone tie hanging loosely over his chest.
He rises slowly, letting you pull him closer by the tie until he’s right in front of you.
And then you remember how to breathe when you kiss him.
His lips meet yours, pressing softly against your Charlotte Tilbury pillow talk–coated lips. He guides you back slowly until your spine connects with the edge of the doorframe, his arm braced against the wall beside you. You hold onto him, breathing in the familiar scent of mint from his shampoo mixed with the pang of wood and fresh, airy trace of his cologne, and him. All intoxicating you all the same. But you have to pull back. In case he missed it the first time.
“Thank you,” you whisper against his lips.
“For?” he says airily.
“The past 10 years?" you smile, wrapping your arms around his neck.
"Oh, and the strap.”
He flashes that gorgeous smile. The thing about you is you never take anything for granted when it comes to Dick Grayson. And maybe that's the 10 year secret.
And the thing about him? Is he'll do anything for you, even if it means being on his knees 'bout it.
“Anytime, sweetheart," he says kissing the side of your temple.
"If you want, I’ll undo it too. You know..." he bites at your earlobe
"The 10 year anniversary special way.”
You laugh, leaning your head back on the frame, a fleeting memory of your wedding night garter washing over you. You kiss him just as deep as you did right after that I do. Then another feather-light peck stamping his jaw.
“Later.”
@ karaaeps
slice-of-life, plotless cutesy shit from my drafts!!!!!! lowkey scrap description practice i did on the train but i pinky promise there's so much more stories with plot and substance to come from me!
my darlings, i haven't been writing too much lately because yes, the university and work baggage is overflowing (get me outta here, bruce, i beg ✈️)
but! oo big but! i do have a series brewing...
so until i get a moment to polish those, you can get my unedited scraps as proof of my living breathing happy (but busy) body. and maybe, some sneaks soon ;)
after a long night on patrol, your boobs are dick grayson's favorite pillows ❤︎ fluff
Dick barely lets you settle onto the bed before collapsing on top of you and burying his face between your breasts.
"Dick."
He answers with a muffled hum, turning his head until his cheek settles comfortably against the curve of one. His arms wind around your waist, one leg thrown over both of yours.
"You're crushing me."
"No." His hair is still damp from the shower, cold against the skin above your neckline. "I'm holding you. There's a difference."
You look down at him. Only his eyes and the top of his head remain visible, the rest of his face thoroughly cushioned against you. Three new bruises darken the arm slung across your waist, and he keeps shifting weight off one shoulder every time he adjusts. None of that, apparently, warrants any real medical attention when cuddling you is an option instead.
"Do you plan on moving?"
"Eventually."
"When?"
"You ask a lot of questions for a pillow."
You give the back of his head a gentle flick, and Dick responds with an exaggerated groan, lifting his head just enough to show you the deeply offended look on his face.
"Ow. I'm injured," he reminds you.
"You barely felt that," you say, trying not to laugh.
He drops his head and presses his face against your chest again with a wounded little huff, and your fingers slip into his hair anyway. Dick falls quiet the moment your nails begin scratching lightly against his scalp, the tension in his shoulders slowly easing.
After a moment, he shifts, dragging his cheek from one breast to the other as though carefully comparing them before wedging his face comfortably between both.
"There," he murmurs. "Best pillows I've ever had."
"You're unbelievable."
"Soft. Warm. Supportive."
You tug lightly at his hair. "You sound like you're reviewing a mattress."
"Five stars."
You tell him you're going to throw him off the bed. That only makes Dick hook his leg more firmly over yours and turn his face deeper into your boobs, ensuring that removing him would now require considerably more effort than you're willing to make.
Gradually, his breathing begins to deepen, each exhale warm against your skin.
"You okay, baby?" you ask softly.
He nods against you.
"And your shoulder?"
"A little sore."
You offer to get him something for it—an ice pack, painkillers—but Dick only gives a small shake of his head and pulls himself closer.
"M'comfortable," he says, eyes slipping closed. "Seriously, these are so much better than the pillows at the manor."
You raise an eyebrow. "Alfred buys absurdly expensive pillows."
Dick turns his head, pressing his ear to your chest. "So? None of them have a heartbeat."
Your fingers slow. For a moment, neither of you speaks.
"I like hearing yours," he says eventually. There's no teasing in his voice now. Only exhaustion and quiet sincerity. "It's nice. After patrol."
You've always suspected this is part of why he reaches for you on nights like these, but hearing him finally admit it softens you more than you expect.
You run your thumb along his cheekbone. "You could have just said so."
"And where's the fun in that?"
He presses a drowsy kiss against your skin, barely more than a brush of his lips, then nestles into you again. Your hand slides to his back, tracing slow circles there. As he drifts off, his hold on you loosens, his palm resting warm against your bare stomach while his cheek grows heavier against your chest.
"Dick?"
Nothing.
A careful nudge to his side earns only a quiet sound as he burrows deeper into the softness beneath him without opening his eyes. With a sigh, you reach around the entire acrobat sprawled across you and pull the blanket over both of you.
He's annoying, clingy, and completely ridiculous. By morning, your back will ache and at least one of your limbs will be numb. Still, your arms close around him, ready to hold him there all night.
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