C

The problem started with Kiyi. Or more specifically, the fact that Kiyi was seven years old, endlessly energetic, and absolutely adored you.

"Again!"

"Kiyi, that's the fifth time."

"Again!"

You laughed as the little girl launched herself at you from the palace steps.

Somehow you caught her. "You're getting heavier."

Kiyi gasped dramatically. "I'm telling Zuzu."

"Please don't."

Across the courtyard, Zuko watched the entire exchange and felt something strange happen in his chest. You spun Kiyi around, and you both laugh. And suddenly Zuko couldn't stop thinking about what you'd look like holding a child that was actually yours.

His or Sokkas child.

The thought hit him so hard he nearly walked directly into a pillar.

"Fire Lord?"

Zuko blinked. "What?"

The servant looked concerned. "You just walked into a wall."

Later that night, Zuko found himself sitting beside Sokka on the palace balcony. You were already fast asleep.

Neither of them spoke for several minutes enjoying the silence.

"I think I want kids." The words escaped before Zuko could stop them.

Sokka froze. "...Oh."

"Yeah." Zuko looked over. 

Sokka was staring at the stars. "I think about it too."

The confession surprised both of them. Mostly because neither expected the other to admit it.  Sokka rubbed the back of his neck. "It's weird."

"What is?"

He smiled slightly. "I'll see her doing something."

"Like what?"

"Anything." He laughed. "Playing with kids, making someone smile, taking care of people,” his expression softened, "and suddenly I start imagining stuff."

Zuko understood immediately because he'd been doing exactly the same thing.

"...We're both idiots."

"Definitely."

The hints started shortly after their conversation. Neither intended for it to happen.

"Oh look."

Sokka pointed dramatically, you looked in the direction.

"A baby."

You blinked. "Congratulations on having eyes?"

The young couple walking through the market looked confused at Sokkas pointing.

Sokka looked disappointed. "That's all you have to say?"

"What else am I supposed to say?"

"I don't know."

You squinted suspiciously at him "Are you okay?"

"...Maybe."

Zuko was somehow worse. You discovered this when Kiyi dragged you both into the palace gardens one afternoon.

"Look!"

You looked down. A tiny turtleduck waddled through the grass. "Oh."

Your face immediately softened "Oh, you're adorable."

You crouched down to the small turtleduck, and pick it up carefully carrying it to the pond.

From where he stood with his youngest sister, Zuko stared. Kiyi followed his gaze, then looked back at Zuko. "Oh."

Zuko immediately knew he was in danger. "Kiyi."

"Ohhhhh."

"Kiyi."

"You like seeing her with babies."

"I do not."

"You totally do."

"I absolutely do not."

The little girl gasped.

"You want babies."

"Kiyi."

"You want her to have babies."

"Kiyi..."

She started cackling.

The worst part was that eventually Sokka and Zuko started enabling each other. "I think she'd be a good mom."

The words slipped out during another late-night conversation. Sokka immediately nodded.

"Obviously."

Zuko frowned. "Obviously?"

"Have you met her?"

"Yes."

"Exactly."

That wasn't helpful. At all.

Sokka leaned back, "She already takes care of everyone."

"That's different."

"Not really."

"It is."

"Nope."

Zuko hated that he had a point.

A month later, you finally noticed something was wrong. It happened during dinner. Toph, Kataraand Aang were visiting from Republic City. The entire table was crowded and somehow the conversation turned toward families.

"I want six kids." Everyone turned toward Sokka.

"What?" he asked.

Katara looked horrified at her brother's words, one Sokka was more than enough for her, she didn't need 6 mini hims running aorund. "Six?"

"Maybe eight." He announced, clearly joking.

"SOKKA."

"What?"

Then Kiyi pointed at you. "What about you?"

You nearly choked on your tea. "What about me?"

Kiyi looked delighted. "How many babies do you want?"

The entire table suddenly became very interested in their food.

Neither of your partners would look at you, which was suspicious.

You narrowed your eyes. "...Why are they acting weird?"

Toph immediately snorted. "Because they are weird."

The truth came out three weeks later. Mostly because Kiyi was seven and had no filter. You found her sitting in her room at the palace drawing.

"What are you making?"

Kiyi proudly held up the picture. You looked at it, there were three stick figures, you, Zuko, Sokka. It seemed normal until you noticed a couple of smaller stick figures.

"What is this?"

Kiyi beamed,"Your babies."

You blinked, "My what?"

"Your babies."

"...My babies?"

"Yep."

"Oh."

You paused, trying to find words, "Kiyi?"

"Yeah?"

"Why did you draw this?"

The little girl looked confused. "Because they talk about it all the time."

You froze. "...Who talks about it?"

"Zuzu and Sokka."

The world stopped. "Oh."

That evening, you found both men in the palace gardens and the second they saw your face, they knew something was wrong.

"What happened?" Sokka asked.

You folded your arms.  "Kiyi happened."

They both immediately looked alarmed.

"Oh no," Zuko muttered.

"You've been talking about having children?"

Silence. It was so quite you were pretty sure you could hear crickets. Sokka looked at Zuko. Zuko looked at Sokka. And neither spoke, which was answer enough.

Your eyes widened. "Oh my spirits."

"It wasn't supposed to come out like this," Sokka said immediately.

"We weren't trying to pressure you," Zuko added.

"We just—"

Neither seemed sure how to finish.

"We love you."

"We both do." Sokka nodded.

"And when we think about the future..." He smiled sheepishly.

"You're in it." 

Your chest tightened.

"And eventually..." Zuko looked away briefly. "As ridiculous as this sounds."

"It doesn't."

"It does."

"It really does."

A laugh escaped you and the tension finally broke.

"We've talked about it," Sokka admitted.

"Probably more than normal people should."

"Definitely more than normal people should," Zuko corrected.

"And?"

They shared a look.

One of those silent conversations they'd somehow become good at.

Then both looked back at you.

"And someday," Sokka said softly.

"If it's something you wanted too..."

Zuko reached for your hand.

"We'd like to have a family with you."

For a moment, nobody spoke.

And suddenly every weird comment, awkward hine, adn  suspicious baby conversation made sense.

"You idiots."

Sokka immediately panicked. "That's not a no, right?"

The Lego box sat on the living room floor between you both, Morgan’s bank account almost £300 lighter than it had been before you’d walked into the Lego store earlier that afternoon. You’d both wanted a date night without going out, and somehow this is what you ended up doing.

“Pass me the grey connector,” you told him.

“There’s like forty grey connectors.”

“The long one.”

“They’re all long.”

You looked up at him slowly. “You are genuinely useless.”

“And yet,” he grinned, snapping two pieces together perfectly, “my part looks better than yours.”

Unfortunately, he was right.

You’d expected Morgan to be all talk and terrible at Lego, considering he’d made his sister build his World Cup trophy and you’d never actually seen him touch a set before. But no, annoyingly, he was good. Fast hands, barely even looking at the instructions, while you were still double checking every step like your life depended on it.

“Stop smirking,” you muttered.

“I’m not smirking.”

“You literally are.”

“I’ve just got a naturally smug face.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

He let out a quiet laugh, leaning back against the sofa. There was something stupidly domestic about this, the two of you on the floor surrounded by tiny plastic bricks, arguing like this was normal.

You reached for another piece only for his hand to beat you to it.

“Oi,” you complained.

“Too slow.”

“I hate you.”

“You love me.”

Your face warmed instantly. “Nobody said that.”

“Bit suspicious you didn’t deny it though, sweetheart.”

He looked entirely too pleased with himself. You fought a smile so hard it almost hurt. Then he nudged one of the sorted piles with his elbow. Pieces scattered everywhere, including under the sofa. You both stared at it.

“…That was an accident,” he said carefully.

You exhaled through your nose, slowly.

“Don’t be pissed.”

“You just ruined my system.”

“There was a system?”

“The pieces were sorted.”

“Oh.” He glanced at the mess. “Right, yeah. I see that now.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What did you think I was doing?”

“I thought you were just… vibing with the piles?”

That made you drop the instructions into your lap. “Right. That’s enough.”

He blinked. “What?”

“You’re done.”

“With what?”

“With helping.”

“I’ve basically built half of it.”

“And now you’re going to sit there, look pretty, and put music on because you’re making this harder on purpose.”

He laughed. “Look pretty?”

“Oh my God, Morgan, don’t start.”

A proper laugh broke out of him as he leaned back fully into the sofa, hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright.”

“Don’t touch anything.”

“I won’t.”

“Don’t even look at it.”

“That’s a bit harsh.”

You shot him a look.

He grinned. “Fine. I’ll just sit here looking sexy then.”

“Knobhead.”

You could feel him watching you while you worked, throwing in the occasional comment like it was his full-time job. He was sprawled across the sofa now, hoodie sleeves pushed up, entirely too comfortable.

“You missed a step,” he said after a while.

Your head snapped up. He pressed his lips together instantly, clearly trying not to laugh.

“I thought you weren’t helping?”

“I’m not. I’m observing.”

“You’re about two seconds from being banished to your streaming room.”

That made him laugh out loud. “Sorry, sorry.”

You shook your head, focusing back on the build.

“There,” you said finally as you'd finished the bag, leaving you halfway througj it. “Done.”

He leaned forward straight away, eyes lighting up as he looked it over. “That’s actually sick.”

“You say ‘actually’ like you didn’t believe in me.”

“Nah, I knew you’d do it eventually.”

“Oh shut up.”

Before you could react, he leaned in and tilted your head up, pressing a kiss to your lips.

“Worth it,” he murmured.

“The Lego?”

The Batcave hummed with its usual intensity, computer monitors flickering, walls swallowing most sound, the flickering dots of the tracking devices where Damian's siblings were patrolling. The batcave always felt like a place that didn’t belong to the surface world.

But tonight, it felt, almost domestic.

You stood a few steps back from the main training platform, arms folded, leaning against one of the stone pillars. From here, you could see everything: the suits lined up, from Bruces first batman suit to damians second robin suit 

And Damian stood at the center of it all in full Batman gear. Your husband moved with controlled precision as he adjusted the stance of the small figure in front of him.

“Again,” Damian said, voice low and firm through the cowl. “You hesitated on the pivot.”

Alfie, reset his stance. His Robin suit looked slightly too big on him, the red tunic still stiff from being new. But he wore it like it was already part of him.

“I didn’t hesitate,” Alfie muttered.

Damian tilted his head just slightly. “You did.”

Alfie scowled. “I was thinking.”

“That’s hesitation,” Damian replied.

From where you stood, you had to hide a smile at how alike Alfie was to Damian when he was younger. The only difference being that Damian had been trained since he was old enough to walk, and Alfie had only started training the previous year.

Alfie tried again.

This time he moved faster. A practiced spin, a controlled step, a simulated strike against his father. It wasn’t perfect, but it was improving in that way only Damian’s training could’ve gotten.

“Better,” he said. It wasn’t praise exactly, but coming from Damian it might as well have been a standing ovation.

Alfie’s shoulders relaxed a little. You glanced toward the far corner of the cave, where a small bundle of blankets rested on one of the emergency cots pulled in for the night. Juliet was asleep, she’d sat up there to play with her dolls earlier and dozed off a while ago. Her tiny face was half-buried in the fabric, one hand still loosely clutching the edge like she was afraid it might disappear.

“Again,” Damian said.

Alfie groaned this time. “We already did ‘again’ like ten times, dad.”

“Then ten more,” Damian replied without hesitation.

You pushed off the pillar slightly. “He’s eight, Dames”

Both Batman and his future Robin paused.

Damian turned his head just enough that you could see the edge of his expression beneath the cowl. “He will not be on the field if he cannot execute consistently.”

“I know,” you said, softer now, watching Alfie reset his stance again with a deep breath he clearly didn’t think anyone noticed. “But he’s also allowed to be eight while learning it.”

Alfie peeked over at you, grateful in the way only children are when they don’t want to admit it.

Damian looked back at him.

Then, after a beat: “Take a break.”

Alfie blinked. “Really?”

“Yes,” Damian said “five minutes.”

That might as well have been a holiday in Damians books Alfie immediately dropped his stance and ran toward the equipment bench, already talking about something unrelated to training, probably food, or video games, or both.

You watch him go with a smile, then turn to your husband “You’re going to turn him into a miniature version of you.”

“I am making sure he survives long enough to choose otherwise,” Damian said.

“That’s one way to phrase it.”

His gaze flicked briefly toward the cot where Juliet slept. Even through the mask, something in his posture softened a fraction.

“She should be in bed,” he said.

“She fell asleep halfway between deciding whether she was going to ‘help train robin,’ or just play with her dolls” you replied. “I don’t think she got much of a vote in where she fell asleep.”

Then, Damian walked over and adjusted the blanket around Juliet’s shoulders with more gentleness than anyone else ever saw from him. The Batman suit made the motion look almost unreal,  the world’s most dangerous man, the Batman and a trained assassin, fixing his child’s blanket so she wouldn’t get cold in the Batcave.

When he straightened again, Alfie’s voice echoed from across the cave, complaining about how “five minutes is basically nothing.”

Damian didn’t look away from Juliet when he spoke to you “He is improving,” he said.

You glanced at him. “Alfie?”

“Yes.”

A beat passed. “And Juliet?” you asked.

That finally earned something like a quiet exhale from him—almost amusement, almost surrender.

“She is already dangerous,” Damian said. “Just in a different way.”

You smiled, watching your daughter sleep peacefully and joke. “She’s a second child, they usually are a little more feral,” 

Alfie shouted from the bench, “Do I still have to do ten more rounds?!”

Damian turned slightly towards Alfie “Yes,” he said simply.

Alfie groaned and you leaned back against the railing again, watching them start back up.

Just a father and a son in the batcave. Behind you, Juliet made a tiny sleepy sound again, hugging one of her dolls tighter.

The relationship had remained a secret for a few months. Which was honestly impressive.

Not because the three of you were particularly sneaky. But because nobody seemed to question why you spent so much time together, you and Zuko were firebenders which could’ve explained your closeness, and since you’d met him, you’d always been close with Sokka.

Sure, Zuko always seemed to know where you were and Sokka found excuses to be around you constantly. And sure, there had been a few close calls.

But somehow the secret survived, until one unfortunate battle.

The battle had gone wrong almost immediately. What was supposed to be a simple raid on a group of rebels, that you and your friends had taken over from Republic City’s policy for old times sake,  turned into a full ambush.

There were more enemies than expected, more weapons and a lot more chaos. Fire lit up the battlefield and everyone was separated, distracted by their own fight.

You didn't see the attack coming. One moment you were fighting and the next something slammed into you. Pain shot through your side as you crashed hard against the rocky earth. For a second everything went silent.

Across the battlefield, Sokka heard your cry. His stomach dropped as he yelled your name..

Nearby, Zuko's head snapped around, then he saw you on the ground not moving.

Everything else ceased to matter and nothing existed except you.

"Move!"

Fire exploded from his hands and several attackers were sent flying backwards.

Sokka was already running and Zuko wasn't far behind.

Toph noticed immediately. Not because she could see it, but because she could feel it.

Two sets of footsteps that were fast, panicked and desperate.

Not the movements of friends going to help. Something stronger.

Her brows furrowed "Huh."

By the time everyone reached you, Sokka was already kneeling beside you.

His hands shook as he touched your face.

"Hey." No response.

His heart nearly stopped. Your name left his lips broken.

Zuko dropped beside him seconds later.

Nobody has seen the Fire Lord look so afraid before. 

"Katara!" Zuko's shout echoed across the battlefield. "NOW."

Katara froze at the panic in his voice

The ride home was tense. Katara had assured everyone multiple times that you'd survive, that the injury was worse than it looked. But still, neither man left your side.

Zuko had your head on his lap and Sokka sat so close that their knees touched. Every time you shifted, both heads immediately turned toward you.

Every. Single. Time.

Aang noticed first and  his eyes drifted between them.

Then back again. "...Guys?"

Neither responded.

The real problem began after Katara started treating your wounds.

You were conscious now. Tired and sore, but awake.

And that somehow made the situation worse because neither Sokka nor Zuko seemed capable of acting normal anymore.

"Does it hurt?"

You looked at Sokka. "A little."

His face immediately fell and bef you could reassure him Zuko piped up.

"Take another pain tonic." 

You looked toward Zuko. "I'm okay."

"You winced."

"I got stabbed."

"You still winced."

Katara slowly lowered her hands, and across the room Aang blinked and Toph tilted her head.

Toph's grin spread slowly and everyone looked at her.

"What?" Aang asked.

Toph pointed vaguely toward the bed and the pair who stood close to you. Sokka froze and Zuko immediately looked suspicious. Which told the other two everything

"Oh." Was all that left Katara's mouth.

Toph laughed, actually laughed. The loud, wheezing kind.

Katara looked at Sokka, then Zuko, then you.

Aang gasped. "OH!"

You buried your face in your hands because apparently your near-3death experience wasn't enough suffering for one day.

The silence that followed was painful. Nobody spoke or even moved.

"How long?" Katara asked.

Sokka immediately groaned and shrugged. "A while."

"A WHILE?" Her eyes widened at her brothers words.

“A few months."

"A FEW MONTHS?"

Toph nearly fell off her chair laughing.

Later that night, after everyone had left, the three of you sat together in your room.

The secret was out and there was no taking it back now.

Sokka sighed dramatically.  "We had a good run."

You nod in response.

"Honestly?" Zuko said, a small smile tugged at his mouth.

"I'm surprised we lasted that long."

You laughed, then immediately regretted it when your side hurt.

Both men leaned forward instantly.

"Careful."

"Don't move too much."

The first time you asked about the white streak in Jason’s hair, he told you he was just born with it. A birth defect.

The second time, he said it was a fashion choice. That he dyed it.

The third time, now, he looked you dead in the eye and said “Got struck by lightning.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m a creative liar.”

You snorted from your spot on the couch, legs thrown over his lap while he cleaned one of his guns at the coffee table. The apartment smelled faintly like gun oil and takeout. Jason glanced at your feet with visible annoyance.

“You’re wearing mismatched socks.”

“You noticed?”

“I notice everything.”

There was no arrogance in the statement. That was the problem. Jason noticed everything. The lock that often got stuck on your apartment door. The fact you hated bits in orange juice. Which floorboards creaked. Which movies made you cry even when you swore they didn’t.

He noticed when you skipped meals. When you were tired. When your smile looked forced. But whenever the conversation turned toward him, he slipped away from it. 

You reached over before he could stop you, fingers brushing through the white streak near his temple. He froze. Not dramatically. The kind of stillness that came from someone who spent their life prepared to react to every little thing.

“You always do that,” you murmured.

“Do what?”

“Go statue mode when people touch your hair.”

“I do not.”

“You absolutely do.”

Jason muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like shut up. You smiled a little and kept your hand there. Carefully. Giving him time to pull away if he wanted. He didn’t. Your fingers slid through the white streak again, softer this time.

“So what’s the real story?”

“The lightning?”

Jason kept his attention on the gun in his hands.

“That is the real story.”

“Mm-hm.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“Could happen.”

“To you specifically?”

“I’m very unlucky.”

You laughed under your breath. “Jason.”

There it was again, that pause. He set the gun down on the table with a soft clink.

“When I was younger,” he started slowly, “something happened. And after that…” He shrugged one shoulder. “The streak showed up.”

You waited. He wasn’t good at this part, you knew that. Jason could fight six armed men without blinking, but honesty sat inside him like a live grenade.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

Your chest tightened. Not because of the words themselves, but because of how quietly he said them. Jason rarely talked about pain like it mattered. Most of the time he acted like pain was expected.  Your thumb brushed lightly against his temple.

“I know,” he paused, “It hurt.”

“I’m sorry.”

His jaw flexed. “For the streak?”

“For whatever caused it.”

People saw Red Hood and flinched. People saw Jason Todd and expected sharp edges, anger, violence. You looked at him like he was something fragile. It unsettled him every single time.

Jason looked at you then. Really looked at you. Like he was trying to figure out what to do with the fact that you meant it.

“You know,” he said eventually, voice rougher now, “you ask a lotta questions.”

“And you avoid answering all of them.”

“Works pretty well for me.”

“Not really.”

A reluctant smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. You leaned closer, studying the streak again with exaggerated seriousness. “I still think the lightning story had potential.”

“Yeah?”

“Very tragic. Very mysterious.”

“I am mysterious.”

“You alphabetize your bookshelves.”

“That has nothing to do with mystery.”

“You own three different jackets that are exactly the same.”

“They are not exactly the same.”

“You’re emotionally attached to a tire iron.”

“That’s different.”

You grinned when he rolled his eyes. For a moment he just looked at you again. Then his hand came up, warm against your ankle where your legs rested across him.

“You really don’t care?” he asked quietly.

“About the streak?” He nodded once. 

You frowned. “Jason, I think you could show up with glowing red eyes and fangs and I’d still make you help me carry groceries.”

A startled laugh escaped him before he could stop it. And there it was. That sound. Rare enough that it always felt important. 

Your expression softened. “I like it, anyway.”

“The streak?”

“Mm-hm.”

The palace was silent in a way that never felt entirely natural. Not empty, though. It was never empty. Moonlight stretched pale across the hallway floors as you moved quietly through the corridors, one hand trailing absently against the cool stone wall. The silk of your robe feeling cool against your skin, the deep red looking almost black under the night light.

You should’ve been asleep, but sleep had been difficult lately. Not for any dramatic reason, there wasn’t any danger you were aware of, and there was no war. Just thoughts. Too many of them.

The gallery doors were already half-open when she reached them. You stepped inside.

The room smelled faintly of old parchment, polished wood, and candle smoke long extinguished. Portraits lined the walls—Fire Lords,Fire Ladies, a portrait or two of little Zuko , family histories painted along the walls..

And near the far end was the newest portrait. Your portrait. You stopped in front of it quietly. It still felt strange seeing herself there.

Not as a visitor, outsider and not even as a lady of Omashu. But beside Zuko, as his wife. The painting itself was formal, technically perfect. Zuko stood composed in ceremonial robes, shoulders straight, expression calmer than he usually managed in real life.

And you were draped in Fire Nation robes. I had been one of the first times you’d ever worn them. You’d managed to incorporate hints of green into it from your bracelets. It was compromise the painters, and the grumpy old chamberlain, probably hadn’t even noticed. You stared at it for a long moment.

Then from behind you you hear “…you still look uncomfortable.”

You jump, letting out a few curses, as you turn around. Zuko stepped from the doorway, hair loose, clearly awake far longer than he should’ve been. His expression was softened by exhaustion and the moonlight.

“You’re not asleep,” you say.

“Neither were you.”

“Fair.”

He moved beside you slowly, stopping close enough that the warmth from his body settled at your side. For a while, neither spoke, just looked at the painting.

“You hate this painting,” You murmer eventually.

“I hate all paintings of me.”

“That’s not denial.”

“It makes me look overly dignified.”

“You are overly dignified.”

Zuko glanced at her. “That’s insulting coming from you.”

That earned him the faintest smile from you. Silence settled again after that.

Then your gaze dropped slightly.

“…I still don’t fully recognize myself in it.”

Zuko’s expression shifted and he looked back at the portrait.

At the Fire Nation red around your shoulders. At the way the painter had captured your posture, steady, grounded, but not entirely relaxed.

“…because of the clothes?” he asked quietly.

“Partly. I used to think if I wore these long enough, they’d eventually stop feeling borrowed and start feeling like mine.”

“And they haven’t?” he asked.

You hesitated. “…sometimes they do. And sometimes I look at this and wonder if people see me anymore or just what I represent.”

The words sat between them quietly. Zuko didn’t rush to answer because he understood that feeling too well. Instead, he stepped a little closer beside her.

“You know what I see?” he asked.

You glanced at him carefully. “What?”

Zuko looked at the portrait again. Then at you.

“I see the person who challenged half my council before we were even engaged.”

A small breath of laughter escaped you.

“The person who still hides green fabric inside formal Fire Nation robes because you think nobody notices.”

You blinked slightly. “…you noticed that?”

“I notice everything about you.”

The answer came too easily. It made something warm ache in her chest.

Zuko’s voice lowered slightly after a moment. “You don’t disappear just because people see more than one thing when they look at you.”

His hand brushed lightly against yours.

“You are the most yourself person I’ve ever met.”

That made you laugh softly through the emotion gathering unexpectedly in her throat.

“That’s a terrible compliment.”

“It’s true.”

You looked back at the portrait. At the woman standing beside the Fire Lord, the red robes with traces of green. At the version of yourself, you still weren't entirely used to seeing.

Then you felt Zuko’s hand slip properly into yours.

“…you know,” you murmured after a while, “you'll never not look uncomfortable in portraits”

Zuko sighed quietly. “I knew this conversation would circle back to insulting me.”

You smiled faintly, leaning your head lightly against your shoulder.  

“You married me anyway.”

Then you felt the quiet smile against your hair before he answered:

Jason notices them by accident. It’s late, the tv playing a random show neither of you pay attention to while you’re both half asleep on the couch, tangled together under a blanket while some.

You shift beside him, pushing your sleeve up absentmindedly because you’re too warm wrapped in his hoodie. 

Jason stills. And you feel it immediately, the subtle tension in his body, the way his breathing changes.

You look down and…right, those. For a second, neither of you say anything.

Then your instinct is immediate and humiliatingly familiar, you tug the sleeve back down, laugh it off, pretend he didn’t see. But before you can move, Jason’s hand closes gently around your wrist.

Not in a trapping way, just… there. His thumb brushes once over the inside of your arm, featherlight, like he’s afraid the wrong touch might hurt.

“They okay to touch?” he asks softly.

Not what happened, not why, just that. The knot in your chest tightens painfully.

“Yeah,” you whisper.

Jason nods once, eyes lowered to the faded lines crossing your skin. There’s something unreadable on his face, not disgust or pity though. 

You’ve seen Gotham tear him apart enough times to know almost every scar on his body has a story attached to it. Knife wounds, bullet marks and some other ones you weren’t sure where they came from. Some nights he touches them absentmindedly like he’s remembering  they’re still there.

You swallow hard. “You don’t have to look at them like that.”

His brows pull together slightly. “Like what?”

“Like they’re sad.”

Jason goes quiet, then, after a moment, he slowly pushes his own sleeve up.

There’s pale, rough scar tissue wrapping around his forearm. Old scars, whether from his death, before or after it, you weren’t sure. 

His mouth twists into something humorless. “Baby, you think you’re the only one who’s got scars?”

The words should probably  sting, instead they unravel something inside you. Because he doesn’t say it accusingly. He says it softly like he’s offering you a truth he had to learn the hard.

You stare at his arm. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know.” Jason says as he leans back against the couch, still holding your wrist carefully in his hand.

“You know what the difference is between you and me?” he murmurs.

You shake your head.

“I spent years thinking mine made me harder to love.” His eyes finally meet yours “and I look at you and don’t think that for a second.”

His words make your chest ache. Because that’s the thing about you’ve learned about Jason Todd, he can survive horrors beyond comprehension.

But kindness toward himself was always the impossible part. You reach for him with you free hand before you think about it, fingers brushing against the scar near his wrist.

“They don’t make you hard to love either.” Jason exhales shakily through his nose like the words physically hurt to hear and for a moment he says nothing.

Then he brings your hand to his mouth and presses a kiss against your knuckles.

When he pulls away, his forehead rests against yours. “No more hiding from me, okay?” he whispers.

You laugh weakly. “Only if you stop doing it too.”

Damian had rules for everything.

Rules for patrol. Rules for training. Rules for school. Rules for how long he could stay at your apartment before Alfred texted him a passive-aggressive reminder about “reasonable curfews for young men attempting courtship.”

But apparently, Damian Wayne did not have a rule for what to do when his girlfriend found his domino mask hidden in his backpack.

Which was exactly why he was currently frozen in the middle of your bedroom like a gargoyle. The black mask dangled from your fingers.

“…cosplay?” you try to joke.

The city lights behind him painted sharp silver edges across his suit, and for once Damian looked genuinely stunned. No sarcastic comeback. No irritated sigh. Just wide green eyes fixed on the mask in your hand. You stared at him. Then at the mask. Then at him again.

“Oh my god,” you whispered. “You’re actually Robin.”

Damian straightened immediately, pride flickering through his shock like muscle memory. “Yes.”

“That’s it? Yes?”

“What else would you like me to say?”

You blinked at him in disbelief. “Maybe start with WHY YOU DIDN’T TELL ME?”

His jaw tightened. “You were safer not knowing.”

“Oh, don’t give me the Batman answer—”

“It is not a Batman answer.”

“It literally sounded like you swallowed a gravelly voice filter before saying it!”

Damian crossed his arms. “Father says it because it is logical.”

“Your father is Batman?!” you shrieked.

The second the words left your mouth, Damian visibly regretted every life decision that had brought him here.

“…You did not know that yet.”

You pointed accusingly at him. “Obviously!”

For a second neither of you spoke. Then, to his absolute horror, you started laughing. Not a cute laugh either. Full, wheezing disbelief.  Damian stared at you like you’d finally lost your mind.

“You’re Robin,” you gasped. “You, my boyfriend, who got annoyed at me for binge-watching conspiracy videos about Batman because they were ‘factually inconsistent.’”

“They were.”

“You corrected my theories!”

“Because you were incorrect.”

“You’re insane.”

“You are dating me!"

“Unfortunately true.”

A tiny smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth before he tried suppressing it. That did something dangerous to your heart.

And suddenly this all made sense. The bruises he lied about. The disappearing acts. The weirdly advanced reflexes. The fact he somehow knew six ways to break zip ties.

You sat slowly on the edge of your bed. “So all those times you canceled plans…”

“I was on patrol.”

“And when you vanished during prom?”

“Penguin’s men attempted to rob the venue.”

You blinked. “That actually happened?”

“Yes.”

“Oh my god.”

Damian stepped closer cautiously, like he expected you to bolt.  “I intended to tell you eventually.”

“Eventually meaning…?”

“When I determined the relationship would be lasting.”

Your expression softened despite yourself. “That’s weirdly sweet.”

“It is merely practical.”

“Mhm.”

“It is.”

You looked down at the mask in your hands. Carefully, you held it out to him. “I’m still mad at you.”

“I assumed as much.”

“But…” You hesitated. “You being Robin doesn’t actually change how I feel about you.”

Something vulnerable flickered across his face so quickly you almost missed it. Damian took the mask slowly. “You should be frightened.”

“I mean, I am a little. Mostly because you apparently fight absolute freakshows.”

“That is valid.”

“But you’re still you.” You shrugged weakly. “Just… more sleep-deprived than I thought.”

“Tt.”

“And honestly? This explains why you randomly disappear.” You buried your face in your hands as you continue, “This is my life now.”

A moment later, you felt him step between your knees. Carefully, Damian tilted your chin up.

“If this changes your opinion of me,” he said quietly, “I would understand.”

The sincerity in his voice hit harder than anything else tonight. Under all his arrogance and sharp edges, Damian had genuinely been afraid. You reached up and touched the side of his face.

“You idiot,” you murmured fondly.

His brows furrowed. “Elaborate.”

“I’m not breaking up with you because you run around fighting freaks professionally.”

He leaned forward until his forehead rested against yours.

“…You cannot tell anyone.”

“Obviously.”

“Not even in hypothetical terms.”

“I know.”

“And absolutely never tell Grayson how you found out. He will become unbearable.”

You grinned. “Too late. I’m absolutely holding this over your head.”

His eyes narrowed. “You are enjoying this entirely too much.”

“You’re a teenage vigilante raised by Batman,” you said. “Do you understand how objectively hilarious that is?”

Damian sighed dramatically before kissing you. It was brief, warm, and just slightly annoyed. When he pulled back, you smiled lazily at him.

“So…” you said. “Does this mean the rest of your family are Gotham's other vigilantes? Because I've always thought Red Hood was quite hot.”

For the first time all night, Damian looked genuinely offended.

You were painfully bored and Morgan had been live for nearly 6 hours already.

At first it had been entertaining, him letting out the odd yell or leaving his streaming room to ragebait Jakey or just interact with the rest of the guys every so often, and wandering around the Bov house because why not. But eventually even that got old.

The entire Bov house had settled into that weird late-night energy where everyone was either half-delirious or aggressively loud.

And you? You were dying of boredom.

You were sprawled across Morgan’s bed, legs tangled in the duvet while you mindlessly scrolled TikTok. Your attention span was hanging on by a thread as you scrolled through dance videos, edits, pranks, and more edits.

Then you stopped on a girl doing her boyfriend’s makeup while he complained the entire time. A grin spread across your face.

“Oh, this is evil.”

You sat up immediately, grabbing your makeup bag from beside the dresser before quietly walking next door to Morgan’s streaming room.

Inside, your boyfriend was mid-rant. “And then, chat —”

He glanced toward the doorway when he noticed you standing there silently.

“…Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’m bored.”

“Okay?” he answered cautiously.

“So I’m gonna do your makeup.”

Morgan stared at the monitor, then back to you.

“No.” He pointed at you dramatically. “No chance. Absolutely not. Fuck off.”

“You literally let me wax your leg hair once.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

“That was for content.”

You crossed your arms smugly. “This is content.”

Chat spammed 'yes' so much that Morgan physically recoiled from the monitor.

“You lot are actual knobs,” he muttered.

You could already tell he was losing the battle. Less than 2 minutes later, Morgan was sitting in his chair with your black fluffy headband pushing his fringe back.

“This is humiliating,” he grumbled as you rummaged through your makeup bag.

“You look cute.”

“I look severely unemployed.”

You snorted.

“Full forehead reveal, by the way.”

“Don’t say things like that,” he warned. “You’re making it worse.”

“Oh my god wait—” You grabbed your phone quickly. “Stay still.”

“Mhm. Absolutely not.”

The second you lifted the camera, he covered his face dramatically.

“Chat, help me,” he complained. “She’s bullying me.”

“You are a twenty-four-year-old man scared of concealer.”

“Because why have you got a million different bottles? Why are there so many steps to being a woman?”

“There’s literally like four products.”

“There’s creams. Powders. Sprays. Tiny brushes. Big brushes. Egg-shaped sponges. It’s witchcraft.”

“It’s makeup.” You laughed while dabbing concealer under his eyes.

To your annoyance, his skin was, for the most part, clear.

“I hate you.”

“What?”

“Your skin is nicer than mine.”

“Genetics, babe.”

“Shut up.”

Chat absolutely loved how naturally he leaned into your touch despite pretending he hated every second of it. Every time you tilted his chin up with your fingers, he’d keep talking to chat like nothing was happening, but his hand always found your waist absentmindedly.

Then came the eyeliner, which nearly ended your relationship.

“Morgan, stop MOVING.”

“I’m trying!”

“You literally are not.”

“You’re approaching my eyeball with a weapon!”

“It’s eyeliner!”

“It’s basically a knife!”

You were crying laughing already because every single time the tip got remotely close to his eye, he flinched like a Victorian woman witnessing electricity for the first time.

“Oh my GOD,” you laughed, grabbing his jaw gently to steady him. “Relax.”

“I trusted you.”

“You shouldn’t have.”

“CHAT LOOK AT HER,” he shouted dramatically. “She admitted it!”

Morgan looked horrified when you tried to give him wings. “No wings. I’m not becoming a goth e-boy.”

“You’d eat that look up though.”

“…Would I?”

“You absolutely would.”

The betrayal in his eyes when chat agreed with you was genuinely pathetic.

“You’re all fake,” he muttered.

Twenty painful minutes later, you finally stepped back to admire your work.

Morgan blinked at you suspiciously.“…Am I done?”

“Mhm.” You spun his chair toward the monitor.

Morgan stared at himself, then leaned closer.

“…Why do I actually look sexy?”

You burst out laughing immediately.

“Because I’m talented.”

“Nah,” he whispered, still staring at himself. “This is criminal.”

Chat was moving so fast it was unreadable.

“Oh this has gone straight to his ego,” you sighed.

Morgan sat up straighter instantly and changed his posture completely.

One hand landed on his hip and he puckered his lips at the camera.

“…Where are you going?” you asked nervously.

“I need the others to witness this elegance.”

“Elegance?” you repeated, already laughing again.

He ignored you completely, changing his ingest to the backpack and strutting out of the streaming room. You, of course, followed behind him.

Morgan flicked imaginary hair over his shoulder before entering the kitchen where Chazz, Beano, and Tays were all hanging around for their streams.

Tays stared at him in complete disbelief. “What the fuck.”

“Jealousy is such an ugly colour, sista.”

Beano nearly choked laughing. “Why are you serving cunt right now?” he wheezed. “Slay queen.”

Morgan physically broke character for a second trying not to laugh amd you doubled over.

“No because LOOK at him,” Chazza cackled.

Morgan recovered quickly, leaning against the counter dramatically.

“Oh he’s gone,” you laughed. “He’s fully gone.”

“Actually,” Morgan corrected, “I think I’ve finally found myself.”

Tays looked genuinely disturbed. “mate, you're one lip gloss away from starting a beauty channel.”

“Hi sisters,” Morgan said instantly in a perfect influencer voice.

The entire kitchen erupted.

It only got worse, he kept stopping to pose in mirrors, pouting at random angles while chat encouraged him relentlessly.

At one point he leaned against the hallway wall and hit you with a smoulder so dramatic you almost dropped your phone laughing.

“Morgan, stop.”

“I can’t help it anymore.”

“You’re insane.”

“No because look at this eyeliner,” he said, pointing at his eye proudly. “Sharp enough to cut someone.”

“That’s MY talent.”

“Our talent.”

“Absolutely not.”

He gasped dramatically. “Wow. So unsupportive.”

About an hour later, after stream finally ended and the house quieted down, Morgan wandered back into the bedroom looking exhausted.

His eyeliner was slightly smudged now, and the lip gloss had disappeared. He flopped face-first onto the bed beside you with a dramatic groan.

“You’ve ruined my image forever.”

“You loved every second.”

“I absolutely did not.”

You gave him a look.

He paused. “…Chat did say my eyeliner was sharp though.”

“There it is.”

“And Beano said 'served cunt’ which I think is important.”

“You are NEVER letting this go, are you?”

“Nope.”

You laughed softly as he rolled onto his side beside you. For a moment he just looked at you quietly, the teasing finally fading from his face and he smiled.

“Can't believe you turned me into a diva.”

“You’re naturally gifted at being one.”

“Shut up.”

But he was grinning as he said it.

The Paris heat was almost unbearable.

Even sitting still felt exhausting. Even though it was 8pm the sun was still pressing down on the packed stadium. Your skin stuck to the plastic seat beneath you despite the handheld fan you were using, and every few minutes you lifted your water bottle just to press the cold plastic against your cheek.

Nearly thirty degrees in Paris sounded romantic in theory. City of love with your boyfriend. Who wouldn't be happy? But, in reality, it felt like surviving inside an oven. Still, you wouldn’t have missed this match for anything. Especially not when Morgan kept glancing toward the stands every so often.

You spotted him instantly whenever the camera panned across the pitch flushed cheeks, damp hair sticking to his forehead, his jersey clinging to him from the heat. He looked exhausted already, but every time he looked in your direction, he’d grin.

That stupid grin. The one that always made your stomach flip.

“Gine looks like he’s dying,” Faith laughed beside you.

“He is dying,” you nod, shielding your eyes from the sun. “He’s dramatic in anything over twenty degrees and he's ginger. And its football so he's locked in”

As if on cue, Morgan threw his arms out at one of his teammates after a missed pass, shouting something you couldn’t hear from the stands.

You snorted. “See?”

The crowd roared as the match continued, chants echoing around the stadium the odd time. Sweat trickled down your neck despite your efforts to stay cool, but you barely noticed anymore. Watching him play always dragged your focus completely onto him.

Even now. Especially now. Because underneath all the shouting and complaining and winding people up online, you knew how much this mattered to him.

You knew how excited he’d been that morning. He’d tried to hide it while getting ready in the hotel room, acting cocky as usual while tugging on his kit.

“Easy win today.” He’d said as he walked out of the bathroom

“Right,” you’d said from the bed. “That’s why you’ve changed your shirt three times.”

“That’s fashion, sweetheart."

“That’s anxiety, Morgan.”

He’d rolled his eyes before leaning down to kiss you anyway, warm hands framing your face. Then he rested his forehead had rested against yours for a second longer than usual. “Need my good luck charm today.”

You smiled to yourself at the memory. Then immediately sat forward as Morgan took a rough tackle. “Oh my god.”

He hit the ground hard, rolling once before staying down for a second.

Your stomach dropped. The referee blew the whistle while the crowd reacted loudly around you. “Get up,” you whispered under your breath.

Morgan finally pushed himself upright, glaring at the other player before waving off help. Typical. The second he jogged again, he glanced toward the stands. Toward you. 

The match dragged on under the relentless heat despite it getting late, players not slowing Thought as the temperature surprisingly kept climbing. By halftime, everyone looked exhausted, including you and you weren't even playing. You’d tied your hair up messily, your sunglasses slipping down your nose while you fanned yourself uselessly with the fabric fan you’d bought.

You look at your phone as it buzzed.

Morgan: u alive up there?

You smiled instantly at his text.

You: barely

You: paris is trying to kill me

Morgan: imagine how i feel running around in this

You: stop shouting at people then maybe you’ll survive

Morgan: cant promise that x

You: fine by me you look good doing it x

The second half was cooler because it was finally dark out. The was gone but the humidity still clung to everything, thick and heavy. Every player on the pitch looked drained, sweat darkening the backs of their shirts. But Morgan kept going. Loud and competitive.

By the end of the match, the heat had turned everyone delirious. Only this time, Morgan’s team hadn’t won. The energy around the stadium felt strange now, loud from the crowd celebrating, but heavy where his side walked off the pitch. You spotted him instantly among the players, shoulders tense, jaw locked tight as he pulled at the collar of his sweat-soaked jersey. Oh, he was fuming.

One of his teammates said something beside him and Morgan just shook his head sharply, muttering back before rubbing a hand over his face. Even from where you stood, you could tell he was replaying every mistake in his head already.

“Uh oh,” Faith murmured beside you, as she kept fanning Olive. “Ginge is in a mood.”

“Massive mood,” you sighed.

The heat definitely wasn’t helping. Even now, long after sunset, the air still clung thickly to your skin. Morgan finally looked up. The second he spotted your area, his expression shifted. Still annoyed, but softer. 

A little later you’d met back up with him.

“You alright?” you asked carefully when he reached you.

“No,” he answered immediately.

You bit back a smile. “Thought so.”

“We were awful.” His accent sounded thicker when he was irritated, words short and clipped. “Actually awful.”

“You weren’t awful.”

“We lost.”

“You can lose and still not be awful.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, clearly unconvinced. Up close, he looked exhausted. His cheeks were bright red from the heat, hair damp against his forehead, and there was sweat still dripping from his neck. Without thinking, you reached up and brushed some of his hair back.

“You’re overheating,” you murmured.

“I’m raging.”

“That too.”

For a second he just stood there staring at you before finally stepping closer, hands landing on your waist automatically. The tension in his shoulders eased the tiniest bit.

“You watched that whole disaster?” he asked.

“Course I did.”

“Sorry you had to witness that.”

You laughed quietly. “Morgan, I’ve seen you try to build IKEA furniture. This wasn’t the worst performance I’ve witnessed.”

That earned you a proper reaction, a tired, offended scoff. “Low blow.”

“You survived though.”

“Barely. Think Paris has actually cooked me alive.”

“You were running for ninety minutes straight.”

“Had to. Nobody else was listening.”

You smiled, thumb brushing sweat from his cheek. He finally cracked then, a small grin pulling at the corner of his mouth despite himself. There he was, your Morgan. Still irritated. Still competitive enough to sulk about it for the next several hours. But calmer now that he had you in front of him instead of a football pitch and thirty degrees of Parisian heat.

“C’mon,” you said softly. “Let’s go back to the hotel. You can complain in air conditioning instead.”

“That sounds unreal actually.”