lilly

The crowbar swings again, this time hitting his left ribs. He cries out. His throat is raw from crying, begging, it's all the same now. He begs the Joker to stop, he begs Batman to come. No one does.

Pain explodes all over his body. He can feel his legs again, the adrenaline has faded. It reminds him— strangely enough— of when Dick showed him the fireworks from the rooftops. Bursting, loud, and bright. The agony is the same.

The Joker laughs. Oh, he whimpered Dick’s name, the Joker found it funny. The crowbar swings again, Jason braces, the Joker cackles more loudly before actually hitting him. This time it's his clavicle shattering under the bloodied skin. 

He begs one last time, as his vision blackens and the pain claims all of his nerves, he begs. He doesn’t know to who.

“Jason.”

The voice is soft, soothing. Jason opens his eyes, and just about the crowbar is about to smash his larynx — it fades.

“Jason.” Once more.

He blinks slowly, darkness is still there. But it’s not the darkness from the dream, this one is warm and he can see the outline of certain objects if he blinks. It takes him a beat to realise there’s no pain either. His hands are shaking— he’s so fucking pathetic. The same nightmare— always the same damn one—

“Jason.” You repeat. 

He rubs his eyes, hair sticking to the back of his neck. “What time is it?” His voice is low and guttural.

“Four am.” You don’t touch him— you never do after nightmares. You just get up from bed, and quietly pad to the kitchen. He counts the seconds, 1, 2, 3… Slowly, his breathing evens out. Christ, was he panting? 

You return with two cups of chamomile, handing one to him while you get into bed again. “Want to talk about it?”

“Joker.” Fuck, his throat is still raspy. He sips the drink, not caring if it's too hot. Honey, he licks his lips, sweet. 

You set your mug on your bed side table. Whenever this happens it's usually the same, you’ll make two drinks but rarely ever drink. Jason thinks it's because you don’t want him to feel like a freak who needs special treatment. Whatever the reason might be, he appreciates it.

He finishes the chamomile surprisingly quickly, sets down the mug, and snuggles back to bed. His arm immediately stretches for you, his hand easily finding your hip. You know what it means, and so you nestle against him, your nose brushing his chest. 

“If you don’t want to sleep we can watch a movie,” your voice is just above a whisper, “that new romantic one is finally out on Netflix.”

Jason kisses the top of your head. “I just need you here.”

He doesn't wake until two the next afternoon, your face buried in his chest and one of his arms numb beneath you (worth it). Jason never really had a home growing up; Crime Alley had been the closest thing, maybe. The neighborhood looked after its own, and he'd learned every alleyway, every rooftop, every cracked sidewalk. He had tried, in his own way, to make it warmer than it ever was. He'd thought Bruce might become home, too. Jason shuts that thought down before it can go any further.

Instead, he looks down at you.

At the way you've somehow stolen all the blankets and still clutch him like he’s your life line. At the half-finished mug of chamomile still sitting on the nightstand. At yours. At the shared room that's too small and a little messy and somehow feels safer than Wayne Manor ever did.

His chest aches.

Home, Jason realizes, isn't a place. It's you. And God help him, he loves you.

Patrol is uneventful that night; prevented a mugging, walked a sex worker home and now he’s looking at the streets for any more signs of danger or violence. He spots a lonesome crow flying in the distance, a black cat hiding in the shadows of an alley where crackheads are smoking something. It’s probably weed— which is legal in Gotham (there are enough problems as it is). 

Jason should be happy there are no threats. But you learn something about Gotham fast; you cannot trust the calm. He sighs and checks his burner phone for the hundredth time, you know only to call him there if there’s an emergency— but still, he misses you. He can’t wait to be back home.

“Little Wing.”

Jason spins around. Walking ever so calmly towards him, with a wide smile, is Dick.

“Shouldn’t you be in Bludhaven?”

“Oh yeah, it's nice to see you too!” He brings a hand to his chest. “Can’t I just say hello to my baby brother?”

Jason rolls his eyes, though Dick doesn’t see. “Right.”

“So, what about burgers, you and me after patrol.”

“Can’t,” Jason keeps surveilling the street, but there’s a tone of lead weighing his gut down. It makes his breath quicken as it just gets heavier and heavier. Count the seconds, you had said once after a bad nightmare (aren’t they all bad?), and Jason did. 

“Not even for your brother?”

Jason sighs. “I have plans already.” A pause. “I guess you could join. But we’re watching a romcom she wanted— no, it's non-negotiable.”

Dick’s smile falters, and the fucking count the seconds doesn’t work anymore.

“What’s going on?”

“I—”

“Spit it out.” He takes a step closer. 

Dick takes a slow intake of air. His comms must be on, because he shakes his head and taps his ear. “You know the Joker broke out.”

Yeah, his nightmares came back. He’s fucking noticed.

“Well,” a slow pause, “we didn’t know he’d go there— honestly it was impossible for him to know who—”

“Enough with the cryptic answers.”

“Jay.” Dick takes another step forward. His smile is long gone now. “Don’t run.”

Jason goes still.

Dick swallows. “The Joker broke into your apartment.” A beat. “He has her.”

Jason doesn’t stop moving until he reaches the apartment, and it feels like the streets and time have allied themselves against him— stretching just enough so he won't be able to reach.

He all but kicks down the door, heart stopping at the sight of your cozy shared apartment. There’s a cracked mug on the floor, the sofa is slightly shifted and the mirror at the entrance has a long crack running through it.

“Sweetheart?”

Nothing. His voice gets lost in the once familiar apartment.

Immediately he calls out your name; once, twice, then again, louder this time. No one replies.

The blanket you'd bought at the flea market with him is still draped over the couch. One of your books sits open on the coffee table, face-down where you'd probably left it. Your keys are hanging by the door.

Everything looks normal. Everything is wrong.

Tossed on the floor is your phone, screen still lit. His contact is popped open, the call icon just waiting to be clicked. The screen is shattered too.

Jason drops to one knee and grabs it. You had tried to call him. The thought wedges itself somewhere behind his ribs.

There's no blood, Jason notices. But his stomach drops. Why isn't there blood? The Joker isn't clean— the Joker likes blood, how theatric and real it can be. Unless he'd cleaned it. Unless he'd moved you. Unless—

Jason's fist slams into the wall beside him before the thought can finish forming. Pain blooms across his knuckles. He barely feels it.

"Come on," he mutters to the empty apartment. "Come on."

Just small signs of a struggle; a lamp knocked over, the cracked mirror, slight shifts to the position of the furniture that makes it look out of place.

There's a strange swell of pride in his chest despite everything. You fought, of course you did.

Dick had been chasing after him, so he must be arriving at any minute. Jason doesn’t care… he just spirals deeper and deeper as he tears through the apartment.

Bedroom. Bathroom. Closets. Under the bed. Under your desk. In the small space between the door and the wall of the kitchen.

Anywhere a person couldn't possibly be, but maybe by some infinitesimal possibility you are. It's while he's searching that he sees a card. Specifically, a Joker card with a USB taped to it.

For a second, he can't breathe. It comes back in violent flashes; warehouse, the scent of gasoline, the crowbar, the laughter, the pain. Bruce not coming. 

Jason blinks and the apartment snaps back into focus.

Slowly, carefully, he picks up the card and slips the USB into his pocket.

Dick arrives moments later.

"Jay."

Jason ignores him.

"Jason."

He's already pulling open drawers, scanning shelves, looking for anything, a mistake or a note or whatever else. Anything. He just needs a miserable crumb to follow.

"Help me find something." His voice sounds wrong, it's too calm.

Dick goes silent. Because they both know well what the Joker does to people he takes.

The rest of the Bats come by, searching like him. No one tries to talk with him, only Dick. But even he knows that it’s not a good moment. Damian is eerily quiet too, but that’s probably because he’s worried to death, and would rather bite off his hand than admit it. You and Damian are close like that.

Dick insists he comes to the Manor to rest and figure out a plan, Jason knows this is what the rest want too. He refuses. He doesn't say it's because maybe, you’ll come back. He has to be here for you.

Alone in the darkness of the apartment, Jason pulls out his rusty computer. The USB takes too long to load, and then the blue light becomes too bright. He doesn’t squint, he can’t afford to— what if he misses an essential clue?

Static fills the screen. Jason's fingers tighten around the edge of the desk. Count the seconds.

Then the image clears: the Joker beams at the camera. "Well, look at that. You actually came."

Jason reaches for the keyboard, already searching for anything he can use to trace the video.

The Joker laughs. "Oh, don't bother."

Jason freezes. His heartbeat pounds in his ears.

The clown leans closer to the camera. "And before you start getting ideas, let's make the rules very clear."

The camera shifts. Jason’s heart stops— for a dizzying second he genuinely believes it does.

You sit tied to a chair; there is a bruise blossoming on your cheekbone, your upper arms and your clavicle. Your hair is dishevelled and your eyes are wide and wild. Your chest rises and falls. You’re alive.

Jason leans forward so quickly the chair nearly tips over. For a brief, moment, the world rights itself. Then the Joker steps back into frame, and the illusion is shattered in thousands of little shards.

"If I see Batman, she dies." A pause. "If I see Nightwing, she dies." Another pause. "If I see one of those little replacement Robins, Spoiler, Batgirl, whoever—" He shrugs. "She dies."

Jason's jaw aches from how hard he's grinding his teeth.

"This isn't a family reunion." The Joker points directly at the camera. "It's a game." His smile widens, Jason’s stomach lurches. "Just you and me, Bird Boy."

The image flickers.

For a second Jason thinks the video is ending.

Instead, a photograph fills the screen. It's a memorial; there are flowers and mourners dressed in black, the picture of a bright-eyed Robin. No, not any memorial, the video puts on a snapshot of a grave: JASON TODD, BELOVED FRIEND & ALLY. 

Jason goes completely still.

It’s his memorial.

"You remember where they buried you, don't you?" The Joker's laughter crackles through the speakers. The screen goes black, the video has ended.

Jason doesn't move. Just stares at the reflection on the screen, the reflection stares back. Robin. Dead Robin. Red Hood. Jason. Robin. The Joker wants him to start there.

At the grave of a boy Bruce couldn't save. 

Jason is about to embark in his own personal hell to reach you.

He sits in the dark apartment until the sky outside starts to pale, until Gotham’s night bleeds into something almost like morning, and still he doesn’t move.

Alive. His mind keeps gnawing the word like a dog with a bone. You’re alive. For the moment.

He plays the video again. Just once. He needs to make sure he hasn’t missed anything. Then again. And again.

Each time, you’re still there. Still breathing. Still real enough that his chest tightens like it might crack open. He stands up too fast. The room tilts slightly. He catches himself on the edge of the desk, breath shallow, controlled only by force.

Robin. The word tastes like ash, he presses it against his taste buds. He knows where to go.

The cemetery is quieter than most of Gotham. Which makes sense, the city respects the rest of the dead. He can only hear the wind moving through dead grass and the soft scrape of his boots against gravel.

It feels staged. But everything about Joker does. You’re just waiting for the jack to spring out of the box, whenever he’s involved.

Jason walks between the rows of headstones without really seeing them. Names blur together. Dates mean nothing. All of them dead, all of them staying that way. Well, all of them except one.

The tomb looks too clean, is the first thing he notices. The cold slab of stone reflects the light onto him, Jason feels like he’s on the verge of being caught— no, of the jack springing out of the box. That 's the feeling.

The feeling intensifies, spreading though his body, when he sees another card sunk into the soil.

Jason stops. For a second, he can’t breathe properly. There’s too much history here; far too many versions of him that don’t fit inside his skin. Robin. Dead Robin. Red Hood. Jason. Robin. 

He crouches slowly, hands not shaking as he picks up the card. It's unexpectedly heavy, he flips it, there’s an USB.

The wind shifts.

Jason changes a USB for another. The screen changes immediately to pitch black, Jason squints but he can’t see anything.  

There’s a sudden scream, long and finished with a small wail. Jason’s heart is being constricted.

The sound cuts off. For a frightening second, there is nothing. Then— almost  unperceptible— your breathing. It's uneven and shallow, but it means you’re alive.

Jason grips the edge of the desk so hard he thinks he might get splinters.

"Let's try again." The Joker's voice echoes from somewhere beyond the darkness.

A soft rustle follows, then the sound of someone shifting in a chair.

"Tell him this is his fault."

Silence.

Jason can hear his own heartbeat. A minute passes, maybe more, maybe less. Time doesn’t mean anything anymore.

A choked whimper, then barely audible words. “I love him." 

Jason closes his eyes. He releases the table.

The Joker laughs. Once, as if he’s the only one who understands a joke. "That's not what I asked."

Silence. Then the crunch of bones, dull and sharp. The recording crackles. You scream— Jason’s mind can’t stop playing it on repeat. The bile is rising dangerously fast towards his mouth. The room spins.

"Tell him."

A longer pause than before. "I love him." The words sound weaker this time.

Jason swallows. His throat feels raw.

The Joker sighs, there are slow and measured footsteps. It feels like Jack abut to spring in the box. Joker plays with timings, so the blows always hurt despite bracing for them.

"Do you know what I think is funny?"

No answer.

"I think he believes he's going to save you."

Jason's hands curl into fists.

"You should've seen him when he was younger." The Joker chuckles softly. "Always running headfirst into things."

Silence again.

Then your voice, small and certain. "He'll find me."

Jason's vision blurs.

A sharp sound cuts through the speakers. The same as before, and his entire body locks.  For a second, Jason is fifteen again; he can feel the cold concrete underneath him, the sound the crowbar makes when its swung in the air and his 

The recording is silent for several seconds.

When the Joker speaks again, his voice is almost cheerful. "Let's revisit an old memory."

The screen flickers, and static fills the monitor.

The image of an abandoned warehouse appears, rotting walls, shattered windows and a rusted metal door. Jason stops breathing. No. No, no, no. 

Coordinates appear beneath the image. Then the screen goes black.

Jason stares at his reflection in the monitor. For a moment, he sees Robin staring back. Bloody and broken, a boy who suffered a long and painful death too young.

Your screams ricochet inside his skull.

The warehouse he’s staring at looks like a rotten tooth. The rising day reveals its dark walls and dirty window panes. The closer Jason gets, the more details he notices; like the chipped paint or the rusting metal door. 

He kicks open the door, guns ready. But there's nothing, except an old TV and remnants of blood sticking to the floor.

His chest heaves. The smell of smoke, blood, the sound of—

“Boy Wonder!”

Jason's entire body goes rigid.

The Joker is grinning from the screen, his face warped slightly by the static. “Welcome to the past!”

Jason doesn't answer. His gun remains trained on the television, maybe putting a bullet through it might somehow make the voice stop.

“And I've got a little game for you.”

Jason's stomach drops, but he forces himself to stay upright and alert. This is about your life.

The Joker continues, almost conversationally. “Your little bird is waiting for you inside.”

His fingers tighten around the grip of his gun until the leather creaks.

“You want her back?” A grin. “Of course you do. That's the trouble with you people. Always getting attached.”

The screen flickers again and with a dry click, your face appears. It's not clear, a security camera, grainy and monochrome. You're sitting in a chair somewhere beyond in the warehouse, your wrists bound behind you. Your head is bowed, hair obscuring most of your face. But he can see the blood soaking your soft pyjamas, and the bruises peaking under your blood-coated skin.

Jason stops breathing. Invisible hands tug him and pull him in all directions. Sharp nails pierce through his heart, his lungs, his liver, his brain. He feels trapped.

“Here's how this works.” The Joker's voice becomes almost cheerful. “You walk.”

Jason's chest heaves under the cold kevlar.

“That's it. No heroics. No guns. No turning around. You walk out of the warehouse and keep walking until you reach the road. Eventually, one of my boys will find you.” His gaze remains fixed on the screen. “And if you make it outside without looking back…” The Joker pauses.“You get to see your little sweetheart again.”

Jason's jaw clenches, the grip around his guns hurts but he prefers it. It reminds him he's living through this nightmare.

“But if you turn around?” A laugh. “Well.” The screen cuts to black.

For several seconds, Jason doesn't move. Then— A sound. It's faint, so faint he almost convinces himself it isn't real. But it's oh so very real. Its your crying.

Jason's head snaps toward the corridor.

“Jason!”

His blood runs cold. He knows that voice. He knows every broken little inflection in it.

Your footsteps aren't audible, but your sobs are getting closer, muffled by walls and distance. You are begging for something he cannot quite make out. It's sounds a little to much like—

“Jason, please—”

His body moves before his mind can catch up. He takes one step. Then another.

A gunshot cracks through the warehouse. Jason flinches so violently his shoulder slams into the wall.

“Jason!” Your scream tears through the corridor.

His stomach turns. Every instinct he has screams at him to turn around. To run toward you. To find you. But his feet remain planted. Because the fucking Joker told him not to. Because you are alive. Because if he turns around? You might not be.

Another sob. “Jason, no!”

His eyes squeeze shut. His hand shakes around the gun.

He can feel the old fear crawling beneath his skin, hot and familiar. The same terror that has lived somewhere behind his ribs since he came back to life. The same helplessness, the same knowledge that someone else has decided whether you live or die.

He wants to turn. God, he wants to turn. He's never wanted something so desperately in his life. But he doesn't. Because your life matters more than his fear, more than his need to see you and more than anything.

So Jason walks.

The warehouse door groans somewhere behind him. Jason keeps walking. One foot, then the other. He can do this.

There's a long pained wail behind him and he stops. He breathes deep. He has to do this.

He doesn't know how long he's been outside. The cold has already seeped through his jacket, settling beneath his skin, but he barely registers it. His fingers are numb around the gun. His lungs burn with every breath, each one coming out in a thin white cloud before disappearing into the morning air.

He reaches the road. But there's... nothing. No goons, or Joker or you. Just an empty stretch of asphalt disappearing between the trees.

Jason stares ahead. For one horrible second, he thinks he has done it again. Not the same way. Much, much, worse. Because this time he walked away.

His stomach contracts violently. He bends forward, one hand braced against his knee, the other still clutching the gun. He retches onto the roadside, but there is almost nothing in his stomach. Just saliva and bile and the bitter taste of fear.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

Then he hears it. “Jason?”

His head snaps up. Nothing. The trees stand perfectly still. His breathing stops. He waits. There. Again.

“Jason!”

He turns. Nothing.

His heart is beating so hard it hurts. He knows that voice and he knows it isn't possible. He knows—

A twig snaps somewhere behind him.

Jason spins with his gun raised. Nothing. The forest is empty. His arm begins to shake.

“No.” The word leaves him without permission. “No, no, no.” He lowers the gun. The barrel feels impossibly heavy.

He can still hear you. He can still hear the way you screamed his name. His mind supplies the rest for him. The gunshot. Your scream. The silence afterward. Did Joker use a crowbar with you too?

Jason squeezes his eyes shut. For a brief stretch of time— that feels like a damn eternity, he is fifteen again; cold concrete beneath his cheek, blood pooling in his mouth, the smell of rust, the Joker laughing.

Then your voice replaces it.

Jason, please.

His eyes fly open. He looks back toward the warehouse. He doesn't move. Because he made his choice. You have to be alive. He's not stupid, Joker holds the power here. He has to choose with either falling into his instincts or playing into the clown's cruel game. The answer should be evident. But maybe that's what Joker expects, for Jason to barge in guns blazing and prove his sick, twisted, point.

If he goes back now, if he lets himself believe the sound in his head, then the Joker wins again.

So he waits.

The first hour passes. Then another.

His legs begin to ache from standing. His shoulders have gone rigid beneath his jacket. His fingers are stiff with cold, but he refuses to put the gun away.

Every vehicle that appears in the distance makes his pulse jump. Every time the road remains empty, something inside him sinks another inch.

He starts counting. Cars, trees, breaths. Anything to keep his mind occupied. One. Two. Three. Four. Jason! His eyes snap shut. No. Five. Six. Seven. Please! Eight. Nine. Ten. Jason please— He presses his tongue against his teeth until he tastes blood.

The world has become strangely quiet. It resembles the silence of the cemetery.

Jason stares down the road; he thinks about leaving, he thinks about going back. He also thinks about putting a bullet through the Joker's skull and finding out whether that would make the screaming stop.

Then headlights appear through the trees. His entire body goes rigid. His hand moves automatically toward his gun. Jason's heart kicks painfully against his ribs.

A vehicle rolls toward him and stops several metres away. The doors open and a body stumbles out. Your knees have barely hit the ground before the car is speeding away.

For a second, he doesn't recognize you. His mind refuses to. It gives him every other possibility first; a corpse, a trick, a double, a hallucination.

Then you lift your head and your eyes find his.

“Jason.” You croak.

Something inside him gives way. The gun falls from his hand and he's speeding towards you like he's never done for anything in his existence.

The impact nearly knocks you backwards, but his arms close around you instinctively, violently, as though some animal part of him is still convinced someone is going to rip you away.

Your arms lock around his neck. His hands disappear into your hair. You're sobbing. He's shaking so badly his teeth knock together. Neither of you says anything. He presses his face into your neck. Its warm, and his fingers desperately search for your pulse

Real. Real. Real.

His fingers move frantically over your back, your shoulders, your hair, your face. He touches you every last part of your body, He doesn't mind the blood, he just needs you make sure the Joker didn't send you out moments before dying.

His hand slides down your back. “Let's get you to a doctor.”

You nod silently, and then you hesitate. You drop your eyes to the ground and slowly lift the heavy fabric of your pyjamas shirt. Just above your hipbone the Joker has carves his name.

You meet his eyes and burst into sobs again. But Jason doesn't flinch away, instead he kisses your hair and rubs slowly. His touch is gentle, using only his fingertips to try and sooth you. His movements are not perfect, clumsy at times, but he's trying.

That night after the hospital has checked you up and down, you fall asleep against his chest. You were skeptical of people coming closer, except Jason. He's your shield against the world.

The room is dark except for the thin strip of moonlight slipping between the curtains. It hits your lovely face, finally resting. He caresses your cheek.

He reaches for your wrist, his fingers finding your pulse. Up, down, up, down. It's steady and alive. Slowly, he wraps an arm around your waist and accommodates his large body around yours.

He doesn't know what will happen after this, or what will things become. He just knows the Joker is back at Arkham after being caught by Batman, and he cannot hurt you (for now, his mind whispers).

You and Jason, who were, erm… kissing on the couch, break apart. He groans, running his hands through his hair. You smile at your daughter, but it comes across as flustered rather than your usual easy smile.

“Yes, Lizz?”

She blinks slowly. “Were you kissing?” She sticks out her tongue in disgust, scrunching up her nose. “Ew!”

You laugh softly. “What’s up?”

“Oh, right!” Her face lights up. “I’m going to set up my own lemonade stand.”

“Oh?” Jason is listening much more closely now.

She looks down at her bare feet. “But I need to buy loooads of lemons. And sugar.”

“And cups,” you add.

She blinks. “I was planning on using the ones we have. I don’t know if Percy,” her piggy bank, “has enough for everything.”

Jason sighs and gets up. “Let’s go, princess.”

“What?”

“We’re going to the store,” he says, smiling at her, “and tell Percy to keep his money. You have a new business partner.”

She squeals and hugs her dad’s leg, since she’s not tall enough to reach his waist. “Thank you! Thank you!”

Jason scoops her up with a small smile and places her on his shoulders. Lizzie grabs his shirt and starts talking animatedly about her future lemonade emporium.

You manage to sneak a picture of them before you all leave for the shop.

The next morning, you wake up to your kitchen table covered with lemon peels and pulp, along with several full glass jugs.

Lizzie and Jason are both wearing chef hats, their backs turned toward you as they move quickly. While your husband cuts the lemons, Lizzie extracts the juice into a jug.

“Almost ready for the grand opening?” you ask.

They both turn around so fast it’s almost comical. Jason is quick to approach you and give you a peck on the lips (Lizzie says ewww). “Good morning.”

You smile and peck him back. “Good morning.” You look at your daughter. “What can I do to help, boss?”

After half an hour, Lizzie’s lemonade stand is sitting proudly on the pavement in front of your house.

Her table is decorated with a white tablecloth and a bunch of daisies in a vase. There’s a cooler by her feet where she keeps the lemonade bottles. Cute yellow plastic cups with sunflowers painted on them are patiently waiting to be picked up, alongside a glass jar with the word tips written in her wonky handwriting. Above it all is the poster she spent all of yesterday afternoon painting, along with yellow streamers from her last birthday.

Jason is behind her, two portable chairs in one hand and your bag in the other. He’s not moving away even if the world’s ending.

Soon enough, the first customer arrives: the old lady who lives at the end of the street. She gives Lizzie a two-dollar tip before disappearing with her glass of cold lemonade.

The entire street comes to Lizzie’s stand, some of them even stopping by more than once, all singing her praises and fattening her tip jar.

It’s almost lunchtime when an expensive SUV rolls by. It’s black and sleek, making barely a sound in the quiet suburb and yet catching everyone’s attention.

Mrs. Atkins, the local nosy neighbour, clutches her lemonade tightly. She looks at the car with her nose scrunched up.

Jason sighs. “They’re so annoying.”

You laugh and pat his bicep. “You were the one who sent a picture of Lizzie in her chef hat. You know they can’t resist her.”

The car parks, and out they step: Bruce, Damian, and Dick.

Lizzie's entire face lights up. “Grandpa! Uncles!”

She abandons her spot behind the table and runs toward them, her little white dress fluttering behind her. Dick barely has time to open his arms before she's throwing herself at him.

“There's my favorite entrepreneur!” he says, scooping her up.

“Hi!” Lizzie beams. “You came!”

“Of course we came. I heard there was a very exclusive lemonade stand opening today.”

“It's not exclusive,” Lizzie says seriously. “Everyone can come.”

Dick gasps. “Oh, so my invitation wasn't special?”

She giggles and hugs his neck. “You're silly.”

Behind him, Damian approaches with his hands tucked into his pockets, trying very hard to look uninterested.

Lizzie immediately reaches for him. “Uncle Damian!”

He stops. For half a second, you can see the battle happening behind his eyes. Then he sighs and holds out his arms. “Come here.”

Lizzie practically launches herself at him.

Jason watches the exchange with a smug smile.

“You know,” he says, crossing his arms, “for someone who claims not to like children, you sure do have a favorite.”

Damian glares at him over Lizzie's shoulder. “I never said I disliked children.”

“You called her a menace last week.”

“She was attempting to feed Alfred a crayon.”

“It was pink,” Lizzie helpfully adds.

Damian looks down at her. “And whose fault was that?”

“Alfred's.”

You snort, Dick nearly chokes on his laugh and even Bruce's mouth twitches.

Damian looks deeply offended by the betrayal.“She's learning from you,” he tells Jason.

“She's learning from all of us,” you correct.

Bruce finally approaches, shoulders loosened and with a serene expression despite the sweltering heat.

Lizzie spots him immediately. “Grandpa!” She wriggles out of Damian's arms and runs toward him.

Bruce crouches just in time to catch her. “Hello, sweetheart.”

“You came too!”

“I did.” He looks down with a soft smile.

“Do you want lemonade?”

“I was hoping you'd ask.” Lizzie grabs his hand and starts pulling him toward the stand. “It's two dollars.”

Bruce pauses. “Two dollars?”

“Yes.”

“That seems expensive.”

You cover your mouth, already knowing where this is going.

Lizzie nods solemnly. “It's very good. Daddy says so and daddy never lies.”

Bruce looks at the stand. Then at his granddaughter. “I see.” He pulls out his wallet.

Jason immediately shakes his head. “Don't you dare.”

Bruce hands Lizzie a twenty-dollar bill.

Her eyes widen. “Grandpa! That's too much!”

“Keep the change.”

Jason looks personally offended. “She's running a lemonade stand, not a charity.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow. “I like her lemonade.”

“You haven't even tasted it.”

“I trust her.”

Dick puts a hand over his heart. “That was beautiful.”

You laugh as Lizzie takes the bill with both hands.

“Thank you!” She carefully places it inside her tip jar.

Jason points at Bruce. “You realize you're setting a terrible precedent, right?”

Bruce looks at him. “You're the one who bought all her lemons.”

“I'm her business partner.”

“Then you should understand the importance of investing.”

Dick bursts out laughing. “Oh, this is going to get expensive.”

Lizzie looks up at Bruce. “Do you want two lemonades?”

Bruce considers this. “Three.”

“Three?”

“One for me. Another because its hot. And another for the trip back.”

You shake your head, smiling. “I'm beginning to think you're all terrible influences on each other.”

Dick walks over and throws an arm around your shoulders. “That's what family is for.”

“You're not wrong.”

He grins. “Besides, we're very supportive.”

“Of the lemonade stand?”

“Of Lizzie.”

Your expression softens. “Yeah. I know.”

From behind the table, Lizzie clears her throat “Uncle Dick?”

“Yes, boss?”

“Can you help me?”

Dick immediately straightens. “Absolutely.”

She points toward the cooler. “Can you get the bottles?”

“On it.”

“Uncle Damian?” 

Damian raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“Can you hold the cups?” 

He looks at the stack of yellow patterned cups. “I suppose.”

“Thank you!”

“And don't spill them.”

“I won't!”

“Grandpa?”

Bruce looks at her. “Yes?”

“Can you tell people it's the best lemonade in Gotham?”

Bruce glances toward you. You bite your lip to stop yourself from laughing. Jason looks delighted. Damian looks vaguely horrified. Dick is already losing it.

Bruce, meanwhile, doesn't even hesitate. “It is the best lemonade in Gotham.”

Lizzie beams.

Jason points accusingly at Bruce. “You're her favorite now.”

Bruce's expression remains perfectly straight. “I’ve always been.”

Lizzie suddenly grabs your hand. “Mommy!”

“Yes, baby?”

“Can you take the money?”

You glance at the increasingly crowded stand “Sure.”

She nods, satisfied. “Okay. Everyone has jobs now.”

Jason looks at you. “You hear that?”

You smile. “Apparently we've been promoted.”

Dick lifts a bottle of lemonade. “To our fearless manager.”

Damian rolls his eyes while Bruce quietly reaches for another lemonade.

Jason looks fondly at the scene, and wraps an arm around your waist. He presses a kiss on your hair.

"What are you thinking?"

For a second nothing in the forest moves. He is looking up at you, those beautiful blue eyes sinking into yours. Your chest heaves up and down, and neither of you dares blink. You now understand why they call it eye contact; he’s touching you with his eyes, tracing every nook and crevice of you because his hands are starved of the privilege.

You slowly crouch, careful as one might approach a frightened creature. Your hand shakes as you touch the cold metal of the helmet. His eyes never move away from yours. Neither do yours. Then, with the same unbearable patience, he reaches up and begins to unfasten it.

Oh.

You greedily take him in; his hair is longer, and he looks tired, his cheekbones more prominent, the softness of his teenage years carved away by time and whatever darkness has made a home in him. You search him for the corpse you have spent years imagining and find only Bruce. There are new scars, faint lines you don't recognise, little pieces of evidence of a life you weren't there to witness. Your eyes devour each one. You look for some contradiction, some proof that grief has finally conjured something cruel and impossible before you.

There is none. It is undoubtedly him.

Your knees give way before your mind can catch up. You fall forward. He immediately catches you, his arms closing around your waist, sinking his hands into the flesh of your back. For one terrible heartbeat, he holds you so tightly it almost hurts, as though some primitive part of him has mistaken you for something that can still be taken away. Then he seems to realize his strength and loosens his grip.

You cling harder. He might as well devour you (and by the look in his eye, he wants to) maybe that way, he'll never be pried away from you.

Your hand is a mere inch away from his cheek.

“Bruce…” You whisper.

Your fingertips finally meet his skin. It's warm, like the sunlight that hits your skin in spring. The realization nearly undoes you.

You trail his face slowly, reverently, because you are learning the shape of something holy. But reverence soon grows hungry. You run your finger along the sharpness of his jaw, pressing hard enough to wonder if you might break the skin. Perhaps if he bleeds, it’ll be proof he’s truly alive. Perhaps if there is blood beneath your fingernail, something warm and red and indisputably mortal, you can finally believe the grave has lied to you. Or maybe his brawn will make you bleed, a proof that you're both mortal once again.

Your fingers press into the meat of his cheeks before faintly passing over his lips.

He closes his eyes.

Your hand stops.

For a moment you only stare at him, your thumb hovering over his mouth, afraid that even the slightest movement might wake you from whatever merciless dream this is. Then you touch him again. His eyes open immediately, searching your face with an ache so naked that you nearly look away.

You don't. You cannot.

All the while you chant his name in whispers. Bruce, Bruce, Bruce. You press your lips softly for the b, roll the r’s strongly enough to give the word power and finish with the delicate s sound of the c. You say it until your throat aches. Until the name feels less like a word and more like something you are pulling from the depths of yourself.

Prayer after prayer, you try to bring your lover back to life.

His gloved hands trail your spine, then your shoulders, your arms, your waist, your hips, your back once again. He touches everywhere as though he cannot decide where to hold you, as though years of restraint have left him incapable of choosing between all the places he has imagined countless times. His fingers linger at your waist. Tighten. Loosen. Tighten again. One hand finally settles between your shoulder blades, pressing you against him with a quiet desperation that betrays every ounce of discipline he has spent years cultivating.

He buries his face against your hair. The breath he takes is deep and shaking. You feel it against your temple, it tickles the slope of your neck. He says nothing. He doesn't seem capable of it.

You clutch fistfuls of his cloak, bunching the fabric beneath your fingers. His armour is cold and hard beneath your palms, the edges biting into your skin, and you don't care. You drag your hands over his shoulders, his back, his arms, counting him piece by piece. Checking, is my Bruce complete? You must make sure. What new pieces must I commit to memory?

You pull away only far enough to look at him. Your eyes travel over his face again, then your hands return to his body. His cheek. His jaw. His throat.

The pulse beneath it. Once. Twice. It is steady. Your fingers curl into the collar of the amour, and pry the chest plate away with your hands. The metal bites into your smooth skin before giving away, falling to the soil much like the sword. He stays in only his undershirt, and you waste no time pressing your palm against his chest.

You move it around blindly, still looking into his eyes. There! A heartbeat. You stop breathing at the same time his pulse jumps.

Your eyes squeeze shut as a sob tears through you. You press harder, almost painfully, trying to break through the ribs and reach his heart. You just want to take what you know its yours, and keep it safe where nobody will hurt either of you.

His hand covers yours.

For a moment neither of you moves. His heartbeat continues beneath your palm, now steady.

You spent years placing that same hand against cold stone, now there is warmth beneath it. You begin to cry again.

He opens his mouth as though to speak, but whatever words he has carried for all these years die there. Instead, he turns his head and presses his forehead against yours. His eyes close. Your noses brush. Your hot breaths mingle in the small space between you.

His gaze falls, just once, to your mouth. Your breath catches. His fingers flex against your back.

For one suspended moment, neither of you moves.

Then he shuts his eyes and keeps his forehead against yours. You feel a pang of bitter disappointment, but understand.

You are both on the forest floor now, soil grinding into your knees, dead leaves catching in your clothes, disrupting whatever slow rhythm of life moves beneath the earth. Your white dress is stained. His cloak is damp. Mud darkens the hems of both your clothes, and neither of you notices. You cling to one another desperately, hands roaming over backs and shoulders and hair, checking and checking and checking, as though either of you might vanish if you stop touching.

There is nothing graceful or romantic about it. No... this will make no pretty ballad. No song will be sung of the way you cling to each other, of the dirt ground into your knees and the tears soaking into his clothes. This thing between you, tender and still too raw, breathes heavily with hunger. It is reverent to the point of blasphemy.

How can you worship a false god like this? How can you kneel before a person who was supposed to be dead and beg their flesh to remain beneath your hands? How can you bring your lover back to life?

It is wrong. Unnatural. And yet, it is.

You're both reduced to animals, clinging to each other under the thick canopy of the forest. There is no sun or moon or God to witness this.

For a while, neither of you speaks.

There is too much to say, and none of it seems capable of surviving the journey from your heart to your tongue. Your breathing is still uneven, little shuddering things that catch somewhere behind your ribs before finally escaping through parted lips. Bruce isn't faring much better. His chest rises beneath your palms, slower now, though every so often a breath stutters as if his body still hasn't quite accepted that you're here, that you're solid and warm and pressed against him.

So you keep touching him.

Your fingers wander over his shoulders, his arms, his face. You trace the scars you don't recognize, memorising the places time has changed him. Some are pale and smooth beneath your fingertips; others are raised, rough little ridges that catch against the pads of your fingers. You linger over each one. Your thumb passes beneath his eye, over the hollow of his cheek, along the sharp line of his jaw. He palaces his hand over yours, inviting you to press harder. You shift to his cheek, and do so. Bruce closes his eyes for a split second, but then decides he'd rather stare into yours for as long as he's able to.

“You're warm,” you whisper.

He blinks slowly, and his heart jumps under your other hand.

“I remember you being warm.”

A broken laugh escapes you, immediately swallowed by another sob. Your mouth twists as you try to smile, but it cannot hold. Your chin trembles instead, and Bruce's thumb moves instinctively beneath your eye to catch a tear before it reaches your jaw.

“I thought I'd forgotten.”

“I didn't.” He says softly, voice a little rough.

Your throat tightens. “You remembered after all this time?”

“Everything.”

His thumb brushes over your knuckles, slow and absentminded. He turns your hand over, examining it as though it too has changed beyond recognition, before tracing the faint little scar across your palm.

“You when you were eight. When you were angry. When you laughed.” His mouth twitches. “When you stole my sword.”

“You deserved it.”

“I probably did.”

You laugh again, but it hurts in your chest this time. The sound catches, becoming something strangled, and you lower your head because you cannot bear the tenderness in his face.

Two years.

Two years of birthdays and winters and empty chairs. Two years of speaking to cold stone, while somewhere beneath the same sky, he was breathing. Two years of moving around in a body that did not feel yours anymore.

Your hand presses harder against his chest. His heart beats beneath your palm. The beat is steady, and the pulse spells out yours.

“You're supposed to be dead.” You whisper.

“I know.”

“You're supposed to be in the ground.”

“I know.”

Your fingers curl into his clothes. The fabric bunches beneath your fist, and you hold it so tightly your knuckles begin to ache. “You're supposed to be a ghost.”

His forehead slowly rests against yours.

“Perhaps I am.”

“No.” You shake your head, tears slipping down your cheeks. One catches at the corner of your mouth, salty against your lips. You don't wipe it away. “Ghosts don't have hearts.”

His hand covers yours against his chest.

For a moment, you simply listen to it beat.

The forest seems to have gone strangely distant. The wind moves through the branches above you, but neither of you looks up. There is only that heartbeat beneath your hand, the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips, the faint smell of damp earth and leather and something unmistakably him.

Then you whisper— “Tell me.”

His eyes search yours.

“Everything.”

He nods. “Alfred gave me a ring before I left.”

Your eyes fall to the chain still resting against his chest. You reach for it, careful as though it might disappear if you touch it too quickly. The metal is cold against your fingertips.

“I didn't know what it meant. He only told me it had belonged to my father.”

You listen without moving. Your thumb rubs over the edge of the ring.

“I took it with me. Kept it hidden beneath my clothes. Then, in another kingdom, an old man saw it.”

Bruce's fingers tighten around yours. “He recognized it.”

“Recognized it?”

“He said it belonged to the old royal family. Before the usurpers.”

Your brow furrows. The word hangs strangely between you.

“I thought he was mistaken. But I started looking. Asking questions. Finding records that had been buried, finding merchants who had plenty to say."

His gaze drops. “My parents were the king and queen.”

The words settle heavily between you. Your fingers stop moving against the ring.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

“I don't want the crown,” he says quietly. “I don't want revenge. I only need to know what happened to them.”

“And you spent all these years searching?”

“No.” He looks at you. “I wanted to become someone who could come home.”

Your heart clenches. Your fingers slip from the ring and find his instead, curling around them almost desperately. “The stupid," your voice cracks, "stupid dowry.”

He nods. “I promised you I'd return with one.”

“Did you?"

He nods slowly. “I did.” His voice falters, his gaze drops to where your hands are joined. “I came back.”

You already know what comes next, your stomach twists before he even says it. “And saw me with Thomas.”

His jaw tightens, the muscle jumps beneath the skin. “I saw the ring on your finger.”

Your hand instinctively curls against his. “I thought I'd lost you.”

“You hadn't.”

“I didn't know that.” You stare at him through the tears. “I would have chosen you.”

His eyes close. His breath leaves him slowly through his nose, trembling despite his attempt to steady it. “I know.”

“No, Bruce. You don't.”

You cup his cheek. Your palm fits against his face as though the years between you have not existed at all. “I would have chosen you and I still choose you.”

He leans into your palm, just slightly.

His eyelids flutter closed, and for one fleeting second he looks unbearably young again. Not the Dark Knight. Not the man covered in scars and a strange past. Just your Bruce.

“I know now.”

You hesitate. Your thumb moves once across his cheek. “How did you find the letters?”

Bruce looks away. The change is immediate. His shoulders stiffen beneath your hands. His jaw works once before he answers. “I wasn't looking for them.” His thumb moves absently over your knuckles. “I came back to see you. I knew I couldn't have you, but I thought…” He swallows. “I thought being close to you might be enough.”

Your chest aches. You can picture him there now. Alone. Wandering through the places that had once belonged to both of you, carrying all those years inside him.

“I remembered our old hiding place. The one behind the mattress.”

“The one you copied?"

A faint smile touches his mouth. “That one.” His smile disappears." “I found the chest.”

Your breath catches. The warmth leaves your fingers. “You read them?”

“Some. There wasn't much time."

You almost laugh through your tears. Your hand falls from his face and you rub beneath your nose with the back of your wrist, trying and failing to collect yourself. “And?”

His eyes return to yours. “And I couldn't stop.”

Your face crumples, but he squeezes your hand. “I thought briefly you'd forgotten me. So much time had passed... and I... don't know."

Anger bubbles in your stomach, but you immediately feel stupid. “I could never.”

“I know that.”

Your fingers remain intertwined, his thumb passing slowly over the back of your hand again and again.

Then you whisper, “Take me with you.”

Bruce's entire expression changes; his lips part, his shoulders draw back as though the words have physically struck him. “You can't.”

“I can.” you argue, squeezing his had back.

“You're promised to Thomas.”

You widen your eyes. “I don't love him!"

“I know.” He replies softly.

“I don't care about the crown.” Your voice is quieter. "I just want to be with you."

“I know.” He pauses. "I want to be with you too." Another pause, this time is longer. As if he's slowly trying to put his feelings into neat sentences. "It's all I ever wanted and all I ever dreamed of while I was away. At first, while fighting, I only slept and fought. Slept so I could see your face and hear your voice, because I hated the idea of having to wait so much time for you."

“Then why?”

His jaw tightens. His gaze flickers away from you, toward the dark trees beyond your shoulder, and for a moment you can almost see the calculations moving behind his eyes. “Because if you leave with me, they'll call it an abduction. Thomas will tear this kingdom apart looking for you. People will die.”

You fall silent. The words settle somewhere between you. You know he's right. You hate him for being right.

Bruce lifts your hand to his mouth, pressing his lips against your knuckles. The gesture is so gentle it almost hurts more than anything else.

“I want to take you.” The confession is almost inaudible. His mouth lingers against your skin for a moment before he lowers your hand.

“I want to desperately.” His eyes close. “But we have to be together right. I won't risk our future."

“The investigation.” You finish. "You need to know what happened.

He nods. “I need to know what happened to my parents. Not for the throne or for revenge.” His gaze returns to yours. “For the truth. I need to know who I am. If I don't do this, it'll torment me. And I can withstand that, but I cannot stand not being the man you deserve."

You nod slowly, though every part of you wants to refuse. Your lower lip trembles. “And after?”

His fingers tighten around yours. “After, if you'll still have me…”

He doesn't finish. You lean closer. “I will. Always."

For a moment, neither of you moves. The words sit between you, a vow neither of you is brave enough to name.

Then Bruce reaches beneath his cloak and pulls something from his belt: a small square of white cloth. “If you need me,” he says, placing it in your palm, “put this in your window.”

You stare down at it. The cloth is impossibly ordinary, a little scrap of white against your dirtied fingers. But your hand closes around it as though he has just placed his entire life there. “That's all?”

“That's all.” He says simply.

“And you'll come?”

“Always.” You close your fingers around the cloth.

Then, reluctantly, you begin to rise. It hurts in your joints at first, after being in the ground for so much time. Bruce is quick to get up, reaching your arm when you stumble, his hand closing around your elbow with practiced instinct. You laugh, ever the knight- even with everything that has happened. For a moment, everything flows the way it used to.

You look at him. He looks at you.

It feels like there ought to be something left to say. Some grand final sentence worthy of two years of grief, something that could make leaving him feel less like tearing open an old wound that is barely beginning to close.

But there isn't. You step backwards. His hand slips from your arm. The loss of his touch is immediate. You loathe it.

You hate the forest for continuing to breathe around you. Hate the branches swaying overhead, the distant rustle of leaves, the cold air entering your lungs as though tonight is no different from any other night. The world should have stopped when you found him. Instead, it just carries on.

You close your fingers around the little square of white cloth. “When will I see you again?”

“As soon as you want.”

“That isn't an answer.” you huff.

The corner of his mouth lifts. “You always hated those.”

“I still hate them now.”

“I know.”

Your lips tremble. You take another step backwards. Then another.

Bruce remains where he is, watching you with that same unbearable expression, perhaps he is trying to carve the sight of you into whatever part of himself has survived all these years.

You turn before you can change your mind. The trees swallow him almost immediately, and you make yourself keep walking. You do not look back. You cannot. Because if you look into Bruce's eyes, you'll turn around and never leave his side again. Consequences be damned.

When you finally turn, there is nothing there but darkness between the trunks. For one terrible moment, you wonder if you have imagined him again. Then your fingers close around the white cloth. And you know you haven't.

The ride back to the palace is a blur: your mare knows the road well enough that you barely need to guide her. Your hands remain curled around the reins, though you find yourself loosening and tightening your fingers without realizing it, still searching for the warmth of his.

Your clothes are damp with earth, mud has dried in dark smears along your hem, leaves cling stubbornly to the folds of your dress, and there is still dirt beneath your fingernails from where you twisted with him.

You don't bother cleaning yourself. Let them think you fell from your horse. Let them think anything for all you care.

The palace rises through the darkness. Its windows glow amber against the night, each one a little square of warmth. From a distance it looks almost peaceful. You feel none of it.

You dismount in the courtyard and hand your mare to the stable boy without speaking. He looks at your ruined dress, opens his mouth as though to ask where you've been, then wisely closes it again.

You slip through the servants' entrance. Inside, everything is warm.

The sudden heat prickles painfully across your chilled skin. Gooseflesh rises along your arms as your body tries to reconcile itself with the change. Your fingers ache as sensation returns to them.

You walk quickly; past the kitchens, past the empty dining hall, up the narrow staircase. The castle is asleep, and you should feel relieved. But instead, every little sound seems magnified, making your pulse jump.

You reach the landing. And stop. There is another sound behind you: one soft footstep.

You turn, but the corridor is empty. Your heart gives a small, uneasy kick. You stare into the darkness for several seconds, listening. Nothing. Perhaps it was your imagination or the ancient wood creaking.

You turn back and continue toward your chambers.

Behind you, somewhere beyond the reach of the candlelight, another floorboard gives a quiet creak.

You don't hear it. Or, if you do, you mistake it for the castle breathing.

welp so that happened. sorry for taking so long to update, I was highly struggling with how to write the reunion. im still not super happy with it but I don't think ill ever 100% be. anyways, we finally get more into the plot hehe. also, there was a lot of info this chapter so if there are any questions lmk!

also, yes, I know the chapter title isn't actually very relevant to what happens in the actual chapter but oh well we ball. I ended up going a different direction than what I originally planned so that's why (it was going to be more angrier and blah blah blah)

taglist: @asteria35308, @astr4liss, @queengirl2345, @warm-gamer1121, @stepbymeu, @all-around-weird0, @blue-iris09, @alltheladiesluvel, @sebstancevanss. (comment to be added to the taglist!) I dont think im missing anyone? but just in case lmk and ill fix it :)