Will You Stay?
Jason Todd x gn!Reader
w.c.: 2.3k
summary: After six years of grief, you are confronted with old feelings and new beginnings (inspired by Would You Fall In Love With Me Again from Epic).
det./cw: none. mentions of reader cutting their hair once, but no pronouns or allusions to gender. no use of y/n. ambiguous ending.
A/N: honestly, ever since hearing that song, I kind of felt like it suited Jason. so this happened while procrastinating working on my bachelor thesis lol. excuse any grammatical errors, english is my second language :)
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Would you fall in love with me again, if you knew all I’ve done?
The things I cannot change, would you love me all the same?
I know that you’ve been waiting, waiting for love.
To Gotham, Jason Todd was the remnant of a memory, Bruce Wayne’s second adopted son. Lost to the city’s darkness.
To Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd was his biggest failure and greatest regret.
To you, Jason Todd is everything.
Is, not was, because something inside you refuses to forget him, to let go, despite everyone around you doing it.
How could you? He was your first love, and even six years following his death, you can’t fathom to lose that entirely. You tried denying it for the longest time after he was gone. A teenage infatuation, first boyfriend nostalgia, grieving a boy that died too young, but every excuse you could think up, your heart denied. Every effort of forgetting his face proved fruitless, the image ingrained in your mind and soul.
Nevertheless, you continued to live, because if he couldn’t, you would. You finished high school, started university, and got a mediocre job at a café downtown to pay your bills. It’s stressful making ends meet while keeping up with classes, sleep losing priority, but it is a welcome distraction from having to think too much. You prefer the graveyard shift, because starting at five in the morning lets you attend classes in the afternoon. Or the closing shift from five to eleven when you have morning classes. The patrons are the most interesting to you during those times; people on their way to work, groups of drunk students looking for a dry place to wait for their taxi, Ron who lives two floors above the café – your favorite insomniac.
Your boss was shocked when you told her you wanted to work at night, no one in Gotham voluntarily did that. Not with the crime rates. That meant, however, shifts were calm, giving you the opportunity to cram for exams between customers.
Tonight was no different. Your laptop sits atop the counter, the introduction to a text your professor wants you to read until the next class half-heartedly highlighted, while you make a coffee for another college student indulging in late night studying at the back of the café. Most of the words you read barely register, but you cling to the hope that getting the gist of it was enough to not drown in the discussion. It’s simply too late for academic words to make any sense, but closing your laptop and giving up would shatter the illusion of productivity you could hide behind to quell your guilt. The premise of the topic sounds interesting enough, and if you just skim the paragraphs on the bus in the morning, you’re sure that you will do just fine. Hopefully. But maybe ten pm just became the hour of delusions.
You try concentrating for ten more minutes before giving up and turning around to clean the coffeemaker a few minutes early to busy your hands. It’s been quiet, not just inside the café, but the streets surrounding it too. The usual sirens that occasionally disturb the ambient of everlasting rain nigh ceased entirely about three months ago. Around the same time the news started reporting a new vigilante that had a more brutal approach than the ones you’d been used to.
Red Hood conquered Gotham’s crime scene quickly, clashing with Batman along the way but never harming civilians. His ways were different from the bat’s they say; ruthless and personal. You never pay much attention to that kind of news anymore. It was exciting when you were younger, but at some point, those individuals are part of Gotham as much as every other Gothamite was.
.
Your umbrella is lodged between your neck and shoulder while you fiddle with the key to lock up, cursing a little when it slips. The walk to your building was less than quiet but you preferred sticking to the main road and avoiding alleys as much as you could. General precaution. Especially when the air felt eerie, like somebody was watching you. Which was always the case here.
When you open the door to your apartment, it’s cold and the sound of rain is unusually loud. You were sure that you closed your living room window that morning before you left. You wrap both hands around your umbrella handle now, not that it makes such a great weapon. Peace of mind, you tell yourself. If you die, at least you die armed. A hulking figure greets you in the living room and it takes a lot of willpower not to shriek. The red helmet was turned to you, his arms crossed, the leather jacket pulling over his arms. You expected somebody robbing you, maybe threatening you for money when they realize that you have nothing of much value in your home. What you did not expect was Gotham’s newest vigilante stood by your window on an average Thursday night.
Red Hood’s shoulders lock up, as if he was anticipating your arrival but not quite ready to actually face you.
“Is this the day I die?” A smooth way to address the masked guy looking like living murder. “No, too easy.” You can’t help but laugh a little. At least you’re killed by somebody with humor. “To what do I owe the pleasure then?” “Your window was unlocked.” You frown in bemusement. “And that… is a reason to climb through it.” “That is a hazard.” “Why is my personal safety so important to you?” If this whole situation wasn’t so absurd to you already, it would be now; Red Hood looked like he was anxious, shifting a little and looking around the room rather than at you. For an armed, dangerous man, he seemed almost awkward.
“I wanted to see you at least once.” The words are definitely not chosen carefully, more so blurted out in a rush of overwhelming need for them to get out. Like they have been sitting at the back of his mind for too long. Your brain took a few moments to understand what he said, struggling to tie sense to the admittance. “Do I know you?” “Used to.” When he doesn’t elaborate for what feels like an eternity, you clear your throat. “Well, that helmet makes it kind of impossible to know. But if you’re in one of my classes, please enlighten me how you do all this vigilante stuff and still manage to survive university.”
After another few tense moments of silence, one of his gloved hands raises to grasp his helmet, pressing a button you can’t see and taking it off with a quiet mechanical hiss.
The face it reveals seems unfamiliar at first, the apartment illuminated by nothing but the moon and the small lamp you turned on when you entered. Sharp lines, a few scars, black hair with a white streak as individual features seemed unknown to you, but when you reach his eyes, it’s as if a puzzle puts itself together. Suddenly, you can picture the fifteen-year-old boy you befriended in school, who asked you on a date clumsily one afternoon, whom you had to bury without a body to say goodbye to.
“Jason?” The sound of his name feels unfamiliar; you refused to utter it for years. His name was all you had left, not daring to use it carelessly. Seeing him in front of you, without the helmet, older and scarred both mentally and physically, but so unmistakably Jason, was enough to move your lips before your brain could catch up. Those eyes, clear, blue, and ever so soft when they looked at you was all you need to recognize him. He might change or alter himself, but eyes betray. They truly are the window to the soul, and Jason’s soul calls to yours as yours calls for his. You both felt it.
He doesn’t say anything, just continues to look at you, helmet in hand. His boots tracked mud into your apartment and in another life, you would scold him for it. A life where this was his apartment as well, a life spent together. Now, you ignore it, worship the mud because it was he who dragged it inside. The mud was your sole anchor to reality. Proof that this wasn’t a dream.
“How?” Your voice shakes in tandem with your hands. “Long story.” The rasp in his is clearer without the modulator of his helmet, striking. The only thing that hints at the turmoil of emotions he feels. It deepened over the years. Every change documented itself in your mind, trying to piece together what is familiar and what is new. “Red Hood?” “Longer story.” You nod, unsure what to say now.
“You shouldn’t sleep with your window open,” he fills the silence. You swear you can see his features twist in slight nervousness for a split-second. He’s been keeping track of you. “I get hot.” “A/C.” “Can’t afford one.” Silence again. Still charged, but less uncomfortable. Curious maybe, Jason eager to learn everything about you that he missed as well, even if he won’t allow himself to show it. “You cut your hair,” he notes next. “Spur of the moment.” “It suits you.” If you weren’t so baffled, you would be flattered, but now all you can do is nod and whisper thanks. Silence again.
“You got the growth spurt you wanted,” you hum now, encouraged in voicing your observations as well. He seems almost relieved when you speak, as if the mere cadence of your voice was allowing him to breathe. The corner of his mouth twitches into the slightest hint of a smile, you almost missed it. “But you need a haircut.” “Priorities.” “My lack of A/C beats your hair becoming unmanageable?” “Definitely.” You huff a laugh at that and his shoulders untense.
“Tea?” It’s a hopeful question.
“I have to get going.”
“Please?”
“Black,” he caves, not too reluctantly.
You smile and move to the small kitchen area to turn on the kettle and ready two cups. A million questions fight to force themselves out of your mouth. How was he alive? What happened exactly? What was his deal with Batman? Why come looking for you after all this time? You hold back, deciding to bask in the opportunity of being in his proximity again instead. This was not the moment to challenge fate and drive him away.
You don’t speak until the kettle was done. “Two sugars?” “You remember.” You shrug, “I remember a lot of things.” With your cups in hand, you hand him one and sip on yours. Neither of you knows what to say it seems, busying yourself with the tea. It’s too hot, you ignore it. Rather a burnt tongue than a bruised heart when the inevitable arises. He observes a few more things in your apartment. The pictures hanging around of your family and friends, the books on your shelf, the throw blanket he remembers from your childhood bedroom.
Courage grasps you five observations in. “Will you stay?” Here. With me. In my life. All these go unsaid, he knows what you mean and it was only a matter of time before you asked. Jason didn’t think coming here through, all he knew was he needed to see you. Watching from afar, imagining what you were like now, wasn’t enough. Just once, he told himself. Then he would vanish from your life, back to only being Red Hood. He didn’t even plan on revealing himself, fully prepared to stay Red Hood, lock Jason away, leave you in the belief that he died. He couldn’t, he’s always been weak when it came to you. He wishes nothing more than to say yes and make up for lost years, but your safety is priority. The Jason he was now was rotten, at least he believes he is.
“I’ve killed people,” he says instead. “I know.” “I fought Batman.” “I know.” “You shouldn’t trust me.” “I know.”
“Then why are you looking at me like that?” It’s almost desperate. “Like what?” “Like you would… fall in love with me again if I let you.” You look at him for a moment before replying. “I think I never stopped being in love with.” That makes him pause, brows furrowed. It’s been six years. You should have moved on, find somebody. You were teenagers back then, barely able to grasp the concept of love and yet here you were, still waiting for him. Jason doesn’t get it. Not with what he’s done, with the danger that follows him, the danger he was himself. You see every thought swimming through his mind. “I would fall in love with you over and over again, Jason. I tried moving on, I did. But no matter how long it’s been, it’ll always be you.”
“I’m not the same person I was before,” he replies, setting the cup down and taking his helmet in hand again. “Then let me get to know who you are now.”
You can see the shift in his eyes; the moment his guard breaks the slightest bit. When he considers it before stubbornness takes over.
“It’s too dangerous.” “Then why did you really come here?” You don’t receive an answer for that and after a few moments of tense eye contact, you turn to place the two empty cups in the sink only to hear the window close. He was gone when you turn back around, the only indication of somebody else having stood there the two muddy footprints on your floor. Then you spot an old flip phone balanced on the microwave, a single number in the contacts and an SMS coming through.
I’ll come by tomorrow again.
