Momo💓

it always reaches a breaking point. something boils over. a snap. she’s fine and gentle until she’s not. she suddenly feels like she’s been asked too much of—and there’s a guilt with that feeling as well. the nagging idea of, ‘he deserves peace. be that for him’.

but despite the guilt, the feeling remains, and she feels a need to test and scrutinize the relationship. to make problems before he can notice she feels like one.

like when he comes home bloodied from patrol and she’s had a day from hell. her boss was a condescending prick, her friend canceled plans last minute, and she’s running on three hours of sleep—but jason’s lip is split and there’s that look in his eyes that means someone died tonight.

so she swallows it. make him tea, starts his shower, lets him hold her while he stares at the ceiling processing whatever fresh trauma gotham served up.

three days of this. three days of being what he needs while her own shit festers.

then he has the audacity to stare at her. notice her. say, “you seem off lately.”

“off?” her voice could cut glass.

“yeah, distant. like you’re not really here.”

she slams her coffee mug down hard enough that the counter echos, “not here? i’ve been nowhere but here, jason. wiping blood off your face, pretending i don’t have my own problems because, god forbid, you have to deal with anything that isn’t your own guilty conscience.”

“baby, that’s not—”

“no, shut up. you want to know what’s off? what’s off is that i’m so tired of shrinking myself into whatever shape you need that i can’t even remember what i actually feel anymore. it’s all just you.”

his jaw ticks. the vein that appears when he’s fighting his temper mares his forehead, “nobody asked you to do that. that’s all you.”

“didn’t they? because every time i even think to bring up my own shit, suddenly there’s some new crisis. some new reason why your problems are bigger and more important than mine.”

“that’s not fair.”

“fair?” she laughs, and it’s ugly. mean, “you wanna talk about fair? fair would be dating someone who doesn’t treat me like an emotional support system with tits.”

and that’s when jason’s patience snaps. because he can take a lot—has taken worse than she could ever dish out—but that particular accusation hits every insecurity he has about being too much, too broken, too damaged, and too dependent for anyone to love.

“you know what? fuck this.” he’s off the couch, grabbing his jacket, eyes glaring into her own, “you want space so goddamn bad? have all the space you want.”

“oh, so now you’re leaving? because…what? i’m right? perfect. very mature, jason.”

“what do you want from me?” he rounds on her, shadowing her, and there’s something dangerous in his voice now, “you snap, pick a fight, tear me apart, then get mad when i don’t stick around for more. it’s fuckin’ exhausting.”

“i want you to notice before i have to snap—and stop running away the second i’m not perfect!”

he tugs at his hair, eyes rolling, legs moving toward the door, “you think this is me running? baby, when i run, you’ll know it.”

the apartment door slams hard enough to rattle the windows.

he’s gone for two days. doesn’t answer texts, doesn’t come home. her disorganized attachment goes into overdrive—half convinced he’s never coming back, half planning what cruel thing she can say if he does.

she gets through it the way she always does—detachment. short responses to everyone, cutting remarks that leave people emotionally bleeding. her coworker with no sense makes a joke about her hair, and she smiles sweetly just to ask how his divorce is going. a guy at the coffee shop tries to buy her drink and chat her up, and she looks him up and down like he’s something rancid she stepped in.

because if jason’s not coming back, she’ll be in hell—and everyone else can go to hell too.

except he does come back. walks in like nothing happened while she’s aggressively reorganizing her (their) bookshelf.

“we need to talk.” he says, tone like he’s trying to diffuse a bomb.

she doesn’t even look at him, “do we? or are you just here to grab more of your shit before you disappear again?”

“i wasn’t disappearing. i was thinking.”

“how very enlightened of you.”

“jesus christ, would you just—” he runs a hand through his hair, “look, i get it, okay? you’re pissed. you can be pissed. but we can’t keep doing this.”

now she turns around, “doing what?”

“this thing where we hurt each other just to see if the other person will stay.”

she wants to argue, but he’s right and they both know it. so instead she deflects, “maybe some of us are just too much for other people to handle.”

“maybe. but i’m still here.”

“for now.”

“no, not for now. period.” he steps closer, “you think you’re the first person to try to push me away? sweetheart, i’ve been rejected by everyone i’ve ever cared about. if i was going to leave because you’re difficult, i would’ve been gone after the first week.”

“i’m not difficult, i’m complex—”

“you’re mean as fuck when you’re scared.” his voice is matter-of-fact, “you go for the jugular. you say things specifically designed to make people give up on you. and you know what? sometimes it works.”

her throat feels tight, “even with you?”

“no. not with me.” he cups her face, forces her to look at the broken man that loves her, “i’ve been dead, baby. i’ve been tortured, betrayed, abandoned, replaced. you think a few nasty words are gonna break me?”

the thing about jason is he doesn’t just love her despite the mean streak—he loves her because of it. because he knows what it’s like to be sharp edges and defense mechanisms. because when she bares her teeth, he doesn’t just see a snarl—he sees the hurt underneath.

“you know what your problem is?” she says later, when they’re both calmer, sitting on opposite ends of the couch like fighters in neutral corners.

“enlighten me.”

“you think you deserve to be treated like shit. so when i’m awful to you, part of you thinks it’s justified.”

he’s quiet for a long moment, then shrugs, “maybe.”

“and you know what my problem is?”

“tell me.”

“i think everyone’s going to leave eventually. so i try to control when and how, even if it means burning everything down myself.”

“and how’s that working out for you?”

she gestures between them both, “jury’s still out.”

but here’s the thing about loving jason todd—he doesn’t stay because it’s easy. he stays because she’s worth it. even when she’s testing every boundary, pushing every button, daring him to prove her right about being unlovable.

especially then.

because jason knows something about being too much for people. and he’s decided—fuck those people. he’d rather have all of her—sharp edges, and mean comments, and midnight fights—than some watered-down version that fits into other people’s idea of comfort. she fits his.

“come here.” his voice is low, gentle in his own way.

“why?”

“because i love you when you’re mean. i love you when you’re scared. i love you when you’re picking fights just to see if i’ll stick around.” he holds out his arms, “and ‘cause i’m tired of sitting on opposite sides of the couch like we’re enemies. c’mere baby.”

she doesn’t take his embrace immediately. because this is the part that scares her most—not the fighting, but the making up. the moment when he proves, once again, that she’s not too much, that he can handle all of her.

“what if i’m always like this?” she huffs, burying her face into his side.

“then you’re always like this.” he shrugs, “i knew what i was signing up for.”

“i’m serious, jason. what if i never get better at this? what if i’m always going to be the girlfriend who says terrible things when she’s scared?”

“then i guess i’ll always be the boyfriend who leaves for two days instead of dealing with his feelings.” he pulls her closer, his hand at her waist. “we’re both fucked up, baby. might as well be fucked up together.”

and finally—finally—he feels her relax.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

a/n: this is my first time really giving reader a set personality or personal issue…do we hate it? also trying something a bit different for how i structure thought drabbles—idk if i like it. i may delete this LMAO, tbh i just wrote it mostly for personal comfort. but shoutout the mean!gf’s of the world and our disorganized attachment. we will prevail. love is not always scary or meant to be analyzed like a true crime case. speaking from experience.

Cass had then kindly offered to take you inside and wrap it up for you, which you accepted, unexpecting of the plus-one of Dick trailing behind you like a guilty puppy all the while.

“You know I didn’t mean to grab you that hard right? I—” 

Cass laughs quietly as she wraps the bandage around your wrist, amused by Dick’s now-third explanation/apology for the incident. 

“I know, Dick,” you say, trying to appease him. 

“I’m sorry,” he tells you genuinely, but you can tell there’s more there that he isn’t verbalizing.

You nod, “I know, Dick. It’s okay. It was just an accident.”

Cass pins the wrapping in place securely and with a smile, signs to you that she’s all done. 

You rotate your arm a bit, testing your movement under the wrap. As Cass leaves with the first aid kit, Dick remains sat at your side, leg thumping up and down.

He takes a deep breath, “What if…what if you avoid him until it heals?”

“Dick.”

He takes your uninjured hand in his with urgency in his eyes, 

He looks down at your jointed hands before loosening his already mild grip significantly.

“Are you going to tell him?” he asks, looking like he’s bracing for bad news.

You shake your head sympathetically, “No. I can’t guarantee you that he won’t find out, but I won’t tell him.”

Dick takes a deep breath, looking at the ground with intense focus. “Okay. Okay.” He stands, “I need to go.”

You watch in amused bewilderment as he staggers out the door, looking around frantically. 

Within the next few minutes, he creates and enacts his plan A. He walks into the living room, sitting down next to a very disinterested Tim, eyes forward and serious.

“I’ll give you two grand right now if you tell him it was you.”

Tim barks out, “Absolutely not.” He looks at his brother, still laughing. “No fucking way.”

Dick breaks the serious facade immediately, looking at him. “Five.”

A deadpan from Tim. 

“You don’t have five thousand dollars.”

Dick throws his head back, back thudding against the couch. “Dude, please! He’ll kill me!”

Tim scoffs, “He’d kill me!”

Dick huffs, “No, it’s different for me! Do you have any idea how many times he told me not to do that?” 

“Well then it sounds like you fucked up,” Tim sneers.

“Oh my God.”

He takes off again, combing through different rooms in the house with hope of finding a quick but effective hiding place for, say, the next twenty years?

He bursts through the study, unwittingly interrupting Bruce and Alfred having a discussion over tea.

The latter sits up with a tense brow, “Master Dick?”

The former turns around in his seat, “What’s the matter?”

Dick struggles for a second before confessing, “I accidentally sprained someone's wrist.” 

Bruce scans his face slowly, nodding. “Alright…you’ll have to take responsibility for their patrol duties—”

Dick cuts him off with a sharp breath, “Said person doesn’t have any patrol duties to be affected...”

Bruce processes for a moment before shaking his head.

“I can’t help you.”

Dick’s panic takes over again, prompting him to continue his scurry through the room, towards the other door.

Alfred interrupts his process with a very logical argument, “You don’t think running away will make this worse, Master Dick?”

“I—I don’t know!” Dick whines, stopping in his tracks. “I don’t know what to do!”

Bruce purses his lips, gesturing, “Dick, when you make a mistake…you have to submit to the consequences, you know that.”

Dick gapes, “This is not a normal consequence!”

Meanwhile, you’ve busied yourself with fiddling with the knick knacks and mementos lining the shelves of Jason’s childhood bedroom. 

You’re admiring a picture of him and Alfred from when he was young as the door creaks open behind you. 

“Sweetheart?” Your boyfriend calls out, head barely poked in through the crack.

“Hey, Jay,” you smile, setting the picture frame back on the shelf.

He enters fully, covered in motor oil and grease, and smiles his sweet, easy smile when he sees you. 

Moving onto the next trinket on the shelf, you pick up a stuffed animal placed intentionally at the front. Your gaze finds the mirror, watching his reflection as he pulls the stained shirt off his back. 

You smile to yourself, noticing the way his back muscles flex as he adjusts. “How’s the bike?”

“Better than it was this morning,” he sighs. “Where’ve you been?”

He turns around to look at you, taking easy steps towards you. 

You return the toy elephant to its place, moving to face him. “Uh, we were outside, playing…at least three separate games at once.”

The second you’re in proximity, your hands join like it’s second nature. 

He nods, all too familiar with the family’s unique methods of gamefair.

“Did th—” He looks down at your intertwined hands, brow furrowing as soon as he spots the bandage wrapped around your wrist. “What happened?”

You glance down, shrugging. “Overexerted myself playing tag.”

He looks at you skeptically, but says nothing about it.

He turns your hand over gently, asking, “Is it sprained?”

You nod, relaxed. “Yeah. Cass said it’s mild.”

“Does it still hurt?”

“No,” you say, sweeping his hair back with your other hand. “Barely hurt then.”

He nods, but he doesn’t look satisfied with the conversation.

Regardless, he turns away again, shuffling through a drawer for a clean shirt. 

“You, uh, you wanna stay for dinner tonight?” he asks, pulling his arms through, his head following. 

“Yeah,” you say gaily. “Alfred said he’s making his ‘special spaghetti’, apparently it’s a household favorite?”

He wavers, halfway to between decisions. “Yeah…”

He huffs quietly, turning back to face you fully. “Can I see it?”

You nod, happy to ease his mind. 

You start to unwrap the bandaging, him doing half the work for you. The work is done silently until your wrist is exposed, revealing your bruised skin.

You both see it at the same time—the hand-shaped bruise wrapped around your wrist.

You’re both quiet for a second—him putting pieces together and you waiting for the shoe to drop.

He takes off suddenly, clearly having come to a likely very accurate conclusion about what had happened.

“Fucking idiot—”

You try for his hand but he’s out of reach before you can grab it.

“I’ll be right back,” he grumbles behind him.

“Jason—” you sigh, “At least help me wrap it back up first.”

He hesitates, halfway to the door, ultimately returning to you in defeat. He takes your forearm gently, scanning it over again before beginning to wrap it.

You watch his face closely, noting the clear vexation. “It was just an accident,” you tell him. 

He scoffs, “It better have been.”

You drop your shoulders and lull your head to the side. “Jason. I’m not made of glass, you can’t expect other people to act like it.”

“I don’t. I expect him to mind his own strength, and if he can’t do that, he needs to keep his fucking hands to himself.”

You sigh, “Just don’t do anything harsh. Please. I think he’s worried you’re gonna punch him.”

“He should be,” he says shortly. He finishes off the wrapping, pinning it in place firmly. 

You grab onto his forearm before he can pull away, “You’re not going to. Right?”

He doesn’t answer so you try to make his gaze meet yours, “Right?”

His eyes roll, “Yeah, fine.”

You smile, holding his face. “I love you.”

He huffs as though he’s inconvenienced, but confesses the obvious truth nonetheless. “I love you.”

He looks you in the eye, face serious. “You promise me it doesn’t hurt?”

“I promise,” you nod, brushing your fingers against his palm.

“Dick!”

The angry voice bellows through the tall halls of the manor, heavy footsteps thudding.

He stomps into the living room, Tim, Cass, and Stephanie watching the entryway with wide eyes. 

“Where is he?”

Unwitting shoulders shrug and heads shake. Truthfully, at that. Dick, smartly, did not tell anyone where he was hiding. 

Jason scans the trios faces, looking for any sign of apprehension.

He clocks the grin shamelessly plastered across his sister's face quickly. “Stephanie?”

“I don’t know,” she says honestly. “But let me know when you find him, I wanna see—”

But Jason’s moving onto the next room before she can get the last words out.

He enters the dining room, looking right to left before finding his target, halfway to stuffing himself behind the fine china cabinet in the corner.

There’s a brief, tense moment in between where the pair realize what they’re seeing and when Dick sets off in a sprint towards the kitchen, Jason quick on his tail. 

“Really? Really?” Jason shouts. 

“It was an accident! It was a fucking—” 

He narrowly dodges a swipe from Jason, then ducking before a ladle could make contact with his head.

“Are you stupid? Are you the dumbest motherf—”

Dick rounds the kitchen island as fast as possible, Jason testing him on the other side.

Dick takes a breath, “Dude, it’s fine now, it’s not that big of a—”

Jason recoils, “‘It’s not a big deal’? Come here. Let me sprain your wrist, asshole!”

He circles the counter quicker than the elder boy can think to move away and lunges at him. 

Dick throws his hands up in front of him, “Wait, wait, wait! Truce! Truce! Truce?”

Jason drops his shoulders, leveling his older brother with a look. “You can’t call a truce if you’re the only one who did anything wrong.”

“I…” It doesn’t take him long to piece together that his defense makes no sense, so he resorts to his last option. 

“Please?” Dick asks, nothing short of imploring. 

Jason relents—slightly—upon hearing his brother's tone, but still finds it in him to shove him, though not nearly as hard as he’d been planning to. 

“I told you a hundred fucking times not to grab her so hard—” 

Dick nods heavily, waving a hand. “I know, I know—”

“Clearly you fucking don’t!” Jason shouts. He huffs, running a hand over his face. “You sprained her wrist. You’ve been doing this vigilante shit for fifteen years, how do you still not fucking know how to control your own strength?”

Dick grimaces, “I do! I do, I just screwed up, I’m sorry!”

“Don’t—” Jason narrowly holds back a scowl, “Did you apologize to her?”

 “Yeah, of course I did!”

For a split second, Jason looks ready to keep arguing before purposefully dropping the anger from his body. 

The resulting relief almost drowns Dick.

It only lasts a moment though, before Jason looks at him again, sneering, “Idiot,” before pushing him once more. 

“Jason.”

Your voice has Jason dropping all turbulence in an instant. He and Dick both whip their heads towards the door, equally unexpecting of the interruption. 

You tilt your head at your boyfriend with a knowing but disappointed stare.

He looks back at you like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, lips parted.

“I didn’t hit him.”