Can We Kiss? Can We Dance?

he doesn't move just yet. he needs to make a few observations before he enters the fray. with the press of a button, he pages nightwing.

"what's your status, little wing?"

"got eyes on the target right now."

"what are you waiting for?" dick huffs. "go, already!"

"wait," jason pauses. "i think they're...drunk."

based on the way you miss the curb and almost eat shit the second you step out of the cab and subsequently grapple for the nearest tree trunk in front of you to regain your balance, you are, without question, drunk. the sway of your body even as you hold onto the tree trunk for dear life only further corroborates his theory.

"okay, and?"

"dude, they're drunk," jason deadpans, "they're not gonna listen to me."

"you are not aborting the mission."

"this is not a mission, dick."

"no, no, you're right. mistake is more like it—specifically your mistake—so get your ass down there and fix it," he hisses back.

~

taking two whole minutes to climb a flight of stairs comprised of somewhere between 8-10 steps is entirely unnecessary, but your world is spinning and the bass from the club is still reverberating in your ears, so taking your sweet time is entirely warranted right now. therefore, using that same logic, spending another whole minute to fish for your keys is also quite warranted right now.

what started out as a debrief with your friends about the end of your situationship over drinks and appetizers turned into you getting absolutely obliterated. one drink turned into two and then three. by the end of the night, your drink tally ended in a total of five drinks and three shots. though your friends insisted it's a celebration to you being single again, admittedly, you treated it as a night out to cope with cutting dick grayson out of your life. you hate how much you miss him. his wide smile, full-chested laughter, and those pretty blue eyes are burned into your memory. you're not sure if you'll ever truly forget him.

"hello."

you whip your head around, the brief reminiscence of your ex-situationship interrupted by the voice behind you.

"red hood here."

god, you really should've said no to that third shot because no way in hell red hood is standing before you again. your friends were already keeling over dying laughing that of all people, red hood was the one who finally got through to you, and you're still recovering from the absurdity of that yourself.

last night, red hood carried himself the way you'd expect a vigilante to—forthright and intimidating—but much to your surprise, he is far more earnest and less roguish than the headlines make him out to be. tonight, however, on the stoop of your building entrance, he seems uncertain of himself. he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, his greeting accompanied by an awkward wave. it's almost as if he's here against his will, like there's some invisible gun being held to his head.

"i was hoping to speak to you 'bout my close personal friend, dick grayson."

"excuse me?" you sputter, offended at the mention of his name.

jason tenses for a moment, deeply discouraged by your response, yet he forces himself to persist.

"yes, dick grayson is my close personal friend," he treads carefully like you're a ticking time bomb that's seconds away from exploding. "i promise you, he's a great guy. he's funny and sweet and...handsome."

it physically pains jason to utter that final descriptor of dick. he is almost fully convinced that there's a hidden camera somewhere around here that dick, tim, cass, steph, duke, and damian are watching live from the batcave. hell, alfred is probably serving them popcorn right now and joining in on the watch party. why else would dick give him a script and threaten force him to memorize it word-for-word?

your face contorts into disgust as you stare at red hood in disbelief, struggling to process that not only does he personally know dick, but also, that he's trying so hard to pitch him to you. the disgust morphs into disappointment and now, you feel entirely betrayed. sure, you just recently became acquainted with red hood, but that interaction single-handedly restored your faith in humanity. now, he's reinforcing your pre-existing notion that people suck and men just happen to be the leading charge.

"after everything we've been through, you're switching up on me?" you ask incredulously.

jason's heart pounds in his chest. he takes a step back.

"what happened to 'i deserve better'? is it bros before hoes now?"

you don't mean to, but your voice grows louder, and you're full-on yelling at red hood.

"how can you do this to me? i trusted you!"

your words cut him deeper than he'd like to admit. the guilt that follows is immediate and crushing. he mentally deems this worthy of a spot in the list of top ten most remorse-inducing moments of his life. if the others really are watching this interaction live, they must be on the edge of their seats right now, alfred's popcorn forgotten.

jason squeezes his eyes shut. to hell with this fuckass script.

"look, last night, i didn't know all the details. if i knew the jackass you were cryin' over was dickhead, i wouldn't have told you all that. not 'cause we're close, but 'cause he's got a lot on his plate. there's personal stuff going on that he's not ready to share yet, but i swear to you, he really is a good guy."

you nod hesitantly. it's not the most reassuring reaction, but it's enough for jason to keep going.

"he's super smart, he's good with people, and even though we have our differences, he's the best brother i could ever ask for."

"he's your brother?"

fuck.

"...brother from another mother...! ...my brother in spirit...!"

his horrible attempt at lying adds onto the debilitating sense of guilt that jason presently feels towards you.

"okay...?"

"you're gonna have to be patient with him before he comes clean 'bout everything. and he needs to work on prioritizing you. but you won't regret it.

so please, give him another shot."

red hood stops talking, and everything goes quiet. rather than an awkward wingman, the person in front of you is the same passionate and genuine vigilante you met last night. this is the red hood you know. this is the guy who empowered you with his fiery support to cut off your situationship, and now, he's using the same support to implore you to get back with dick. it's a strange paradox, but you can tell he's being sincere.

and honestly? it's all the reason you need to take out your phone and unblock dick grayson on everything, including spotify.

with a small smile, you look back up at him.

"i can't believe that actually worked," he breathes, "i was pulling that outta my ass."

"i think speaking from the heart is a better way to put it," you chuckle.

"man, dickhead owes me big time for this."

"tell dickhead that he's got until tomorrow night to make it up to me. maybe some flowers, a heart-to-heart over a nice dinner, and dessert?"

he nods and you wonder if he's smiling under that bright red helmet, too.

"noted. i'll pass the message onto him."

~

"red hood, come in."

"i'm here."

"status report?"

"done. new objective for you, dickhead, don't fuck it up again."

a/n: thank you so much to everyone who's been interacting with pt 1, it means so much to me <3 i hope you also enjoy pt 2!

you slowly lift your head to peer up at him.

"you really think so?" you wobbly ask.

jason's heart breaks a little. he just met you a few minutes ago, and although he's nobody's therapist—not even for himself—he's a good detective. he can tell you're a sweet, well-meaning person. he's certain of that. unfortunately, that's how you ended up here in the streets of gotham having an emotional breakdown.

"yeah, this guy stinks! if he doesn't care 'bout you, why should you care 'bout him?"

jason's words come out stronger than he intended, but he means it. he's done giving you half-hearted support. this guy fucking sucks. he fully believes you deserve better. it's not fair that someone like you is questioning your worth over a guy who clearly couldn't give a fuck.

a few seconds of silence pass and in those few seconds, reality hits you. the infamous vigilante, red hood, is seriously comforting you right now? this guy is a stranger to you, doesn't need to hear the full story, and yet he agrees your situationship is not worth crying over. the realization ignites a fire inside you and jason notices the shift in your demeanor.

"y'know what?"

you abruptly stand.

"what...?"

he holds his breath.

"i should just end things with him. right here, right now."

"hell yeah, fuck him!"

"fuck him!" you repeat.

jason swells with pride. he's not well-versed in relationships, but he knows how to rally the troops. he watches you whip out your phone and hold it up to your ear. you look alive and well again, no longer a shell of a person. there's a determination in your eyes that confirms you're finally standing up for yourself and you're not looking back.

the call drags on before going to voicemail, but you're not phased. jason scoffs. this loser doesn't even have the decorum to answer your call. looks like he'll be waking up to a well-deserved and strongly worded message in the morning.

"i'm done," you declare into the phone. "i really thought we had something special, but clearly, you don't feel the same. i'm sick of you not prioritizing me. i deserve better."

your gaze briefly flickers to red hood and he nods, agreeing with every word you're saying.

"i don't want to ever see you again, dick."

jason's heart drops to his ass.

did you say dick? as in, dick grayson??

maybe you're just calling him a dick, right? and his name is not dick as in richard "dick" grayson.

he prays that's what it is, or else he's screwed.

~

again, jason todd is nobody's therapist, and yet here he is a few hours later post-patrol in the batcave, awkwardly attempting to console dick grayson. unfortunately, it was not a coincidence and you were not just calling some guy a dick. indeed, dick grayson was on the receiving end of your voicemail.

"i got one last voicemail," dick laments, "and then i got blocked on everything, even spotify!"

dick buries his face in his hands as jason stands there stiffly. god, it all makes sense, now. your situationship is nightwing—of course you'd think he has commitment issues and bad communication skills, he's a goddamn vigilante. still, jason can't blame you for getting the wrong idea.

"i wanna come clean and admit everything, i swear," he continues. "it's just way too early."

as much as jason wants to walk away and tell dick this is none of his concern, he still feels partially responsible for the conflict. and so, he wills himself to endure this uncomfortable situation and temporarily take on the role of a therapist.

"you don't need to say you're nightwing yet," jason begins. "the problem is you made 'em feel like you didn't care. i mean, think about it. you ghosted 'em four times in one week with no explanation. anybody would be mad 'bout that."

"how do you know it was four times in one week? i didn't play you the voicemail."

jason freezes and dick glares at him, arms crossed over his chest. he takes a step forward, eyes narrowed.

"...lucky guess...!"

"jason."

"...anyways, show 'em you care...! y'know like flowers, chocolate, a card, tickets to a show..."

"jason. peter. todd."

You shoved the tray of sliced lemons into the cooler and grabbed your pen and pad, heading for the dining room. Your forced bright smile came naturally as you crossed the floor. You looked like the picture of a server who didn’t have a single complicated thought in her head.

You were halfway through a table’s order when you caught sight of him out of the corner of your eye.

Jason was three tables away, wiping down a surface like he gave a shit about the smudges. But you felt him more than you saw him. The restaurant was wide, open, full of noise and movement, and somehow it collapsed to the size of a broom closet with him inside it.

Your pen hovered over the paper, but you weren’t hearing what the rosy-cheeked woman was saying. You hadn’t stopped thinking about that night. A week now, and his hands were still burned into your memory—gripping your waist, pulling you flush against him. It had started as replaying the heat of it, the press of his body, but it kept mutating. Now you wondered what his mouth would feel like dragging down your throat, what his skin would taste like against your tongue.

“Excuse me?”

The woman at the table cleared her throat.

“Are you going to write that down, or…?”

Heat crawled up your neck. You stammered an apology, asked her to repeat herself, and forced your hand to move across the paper. Behind you, you could feel Jason working. Could almost see the smirk curving his lips without turning around.

—

By the time closing rolled around, you were ready to strangle Will with his own apron.

He’d stolen one of your tables. Dangled the cash in your face like a treat for a dog. Made the same passive-aggressive comments in that singsong voice that made you want to throw a glass at his head. Nicky had separated you after you snapped at Will in front of a table of six, but it didn’t matter. Will just followed you to the back, hovering, waiting to see if you’d finally crack.

You were typing in an order when a hand pressed against your waist. Your fingers froze, and you turned halfway, ready to smack Will. But, instead, you were met with Jason’s pretty green eyes.

He was standing so close you could feel the heat coming off his chest. He’d been getting bolder since that night, his touches lingering longer, finding new places to land. Your lower back. Your shoulder. Your hip. Always when you were distracted, always when you wouldn’t see it coming.

“Is it just me,” he murmured, low enough that only you could hear, “or is Will being an even bigger prick than usual?”

The laugh escaped before you could stop it. The first genuine one you’d managed all shift.

“You’re so—” You shook your head, trying to remember what the hell you were typing. You swatted at him instead. “Get out of here.”

He smirked and did, disappearing through the back with that easy, unhurried stride. You watched him go long enough that anyone paying attention would have noticed. 

“Idiot,” you whispered to yourself, a stupid grin spreading across your face.

—

Closing was a blur. Your body went through the motions while your mind stayed stuck on the press of Jason’s palm against your hip, the low rumble of his voice, the way he always seemed to know exactly when to pull you out of your own head. You were sitting at one of the tables, counting out your cash from the day.

Usually, Nicky would make you sit in the back to count, but he’d left an hour earlier, so you and Will sat quietly, across from each other. You’d felt him glance up at you, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the courage. Truthfully, you didn’t want him to. Not even to apologize. If he were truly sorry, Will would shut the fuck up for fifteen minutes.

Then again, he wouldn’t be Will if you gave you that courtesy. “You and Jason got somethin’ going on?”

You knew you shouldn’t have felt embarrassed by the question, but you felt heat burst behind your cheeks anyway. “No.”

He stopped counting and looked directly at you. “Oh, so you get all touchy-feeling with random guys now?”

“What’s it to you, huh? You’ve been nothing but a dick to me all day,” you snapped, throwing the money onto the table. You’d need to count again, all the numbers gone from your head now.

Will threw his money back down, too, crossing his arms. “You’re like my little sister. A work-sister. I thought I was being brotherly.”

You stared at him, astounded. If he was treating you brotherly, then you were glad that he wasn’t your actual brother. It was also sweet, in a weird way. The life of being an only child must have really gotten to Will. You picked up your pile of cash again and shoved it into your purse, thinking over what to say. Jason was a friend.

A friend who you let touch your hips and whisper in your ear and get you into big ass trouble with a vigilante. Maybe there was a reason to question what you and Jason had.

“We’re just friends,” you relented, but you didn't believe it.

“Yeah, sure,” he said, scooping up his money. “Just like how you don’t have a crush on Red Hood, right?”

“Shut up,” you snickered. “Better I have a crush on him than, like, Black Mask.”

Just as you stood and turned, you felt your heart leap into your throat. Not three feet away stood Roman Sionis, his dark eyes staring right into yours. Elena stood beside him, head down like it always was when he entered. No one was to look him in the eyes—he found it offensive, like he was being challenged. Slowly, Will backed away, trying to get as far from the situation as possible.

You felt naked and shoved under a spotlight with an entire crowd looking at you.