#{confrontation}

A Don't starve animatic set to "Confrontation" from Jekyll & Hyde.

⤷ ALMOST SAID : TRUTH BLEEDS , JASON TODD . | PART IV.

summary 𓂃 oliver asks you out. Finally, you say yes. Dick tells Jason over coffee at the Clocktower. Jason shrugs. Says he doesn't care but he’s lying. On the date, Oliver talks about how Gotham's losing its grip. Pulls out his phone. Shows you a grainy photo—the Red Hood, caught mid-deal. You recognize the helmet. You excuse yourself. Take a cab home. Confront Jason in his living room with the screen still glowing in your hand. The cat's out of the bag. The lies have piled too high. And Jason realizes—too late—that he's spent months pushing you away, and now he doesn't know how to ask you to stay.

tags 𓂃 part four of childhood bsf!jason todd x fem!reader. heavy angst , emotional hurt/comfort , childhood best friends to lovers , slow burn , mutual pining , canon lore , Jason’s backstory , morally grey!jason todd , post-red hood: the lost days , Jason’s pov , university au , jealous!jason todd , reader finds out , confrontation , the distance between them grows.

wc 𓂃 4k words

PREVIOUS : read parts one , two , and three .

The Clocktower smelled like coffee and old paper and the faint metallic tang of Barbara's servers humming in the walls. Jason had been standing in front of her main display for twenty minutes, not looking at anything in particular, while she worked through something on her end that required exactly zero input from him.

He was here because Dick had asked him to be. Something about a case. Something about needing his "expertise."

He should have known it was bullshit.

"She's going out with Oliver," Dick said, not looking up from whatever he was pretending to read on Barbara's tablet.

Jason didn't react. Didn't turn around. Just kept his eyes fixed on the screen in front of him—a map of the Bowery, red dots marking recent gang activity, none of which he cared about.

"Okay," he said.

"Okay?"

"Yeah. Okay. She can go out with whoever she wants."

Dick set the tablet down. The sound was deliberate. A performance. "That's not what I meant."

"I know what you meant."

"Then say something."

Jason turned. Leaned against the console. Crossed his arms. His jacket creaked—the leather one, the one you always stole because it "smelled like him." He'd worn it today without thinking. Or maybe he had thought about it. He wasn't quite sure anymore.

"What do you want me to say, Dick? That I'm thrilled? I'm not thrilled. He's pretentious. He uses words like 'heretofore' in casual conversation. He probably owns a boat."

"He is not the point."

"He's exactly the point." Jason pushed off the console. Walked toward the window. The rain had stopped, but the clouds were still low and gray, pressing down on the city like a bruise. "She deserves someone who isn't—" He stopped. Ran a hand through his hair. "Someone who shows up."

"And you don't?"

"I show up covered in blood and leave before she wakes up. That's not showing up. That’s being an asshole."

Dick was quiet for a moment. Then: "You know why she said yes to him, right?"

Jason didn't answer.

"Because you're not giving her a reason to say no."

Jason's jaw tightened. His hand curled around the edge of the window frame. The words hit somewhere he didn't want to feel—somewhere that still remembered being twelve years old and watching Bruce turn away from him after a mission gone wrong. You can do better, Jason. You have to be better.

He'd never been better. Not then. Not now.

‘Better’ isn’t in the books for him.

"I've got patrol," he said.

"It's four in the afternoon."

"Don’t recall crime havin’ a schedule."

He was at the door when Dick's voice stopped him.

"Jason."

He paused. Didn't turn around.

"She's not going out with him because she wants to. She's going out with him because she's tired of waiting."

Jason's hand tightened on the doorframe.

"Maybe you should give her something to wait for."

He walked out without answering.

——

His apartment was empty when he got home.

Not physically empty—the furniture was still there, the books still on the shelves, the copy of Wuthering Heights still on the coffee table with your annotations in the margins. Colorful highlighters and sparkly pens. He used to think it was ridiculous, but now he just misses it. You weren't there. You'd been staying at your own place the last few nights. Your window was fixed. You didn't have an excuse anymore.

He should have been relieved. Space was good. Space meant he could think. Space meant he could figure out how to tell you the truth without destroying everything.

Instead, he just felt cold. Like when you walked out of his door you took the warmth with you. But Jason knows his apartment’s never been warm—not without you being the source, at least.

He pulled a beer from the fridge. Sat down on the couch. The cushions still smelled like your shampoo—the stupid floral one he pretended to hate. He'd washed the blanket twice and it was still there, woven into the fabric like you'd marked him without meaning to. He fucking hated it.

The TV was on. Muted. Some news report about the uptick in gang violence. He wasn't watching it. Not really.

Then the screen changed.

A photo. Grainy. Taken from across the street, probably by someone's phone. The Red Hood standing over a table covered in cash and baggies. Tables of cash. Bags of powder. The helmet glinting under the fluorescent lights of a warehouse he recognized.

He stared at it.

His own face—not his face, the helmet, the mask, the thing he put on when he wanted to be someone else—stared back at him.

The crawl at the bottom of the screen read: RED HOOD IDENTIFIED IN MULTIPLE DRUG TRAFFICKING OPERATIONS. GCPD ISSUES WANTED NOTICE.

He watched the photo cycle through a few more times. The voice stirred in his chest. It made him want to find whoever took that photo and make sure they never picked up a camera again.

He thought about the first time. Not the warehouse in Ethiopia—before that. Years before. A stairwell in the Bowery, a dealer whose name he never bothered learning, the one who sold his mother the pills that killed her. Jason had been eleven years old, small for his age, skinny and angry and already dead inside in ways he didn't have words for.

The stairs. He'd pushed him. Watched him fall. Watched his body crumple at the bottom.

That was when it started, he thought. That was when I became this.

He'd never told anyone. Not Bruce. Not you. Not even Dick, during those early days at the manor when he'd pretended he didn't have nightmares.

That's the difference between us, Bruce. I was a killer before I ever put on the cape.

He picked up the remote and turned the TV off.

The silence was louder.

He thought about you. About what you'd say if you saw those photos. About how you'd look at him—not with fear, you never looked at him with fear—but with something worse. Disappointment. Betrayal.

He finished the beer. Got another one.

The rain started again. Soft. Tapping against the window.

He didn't move.

Thought about you. Your date. Oliver. How he was probably making dumbass jokes you were forcing laughs at. How he was probably finding every excuse to touch you.

Jealousy reared its big ugly head at the thought. The feeling, so gross, made his stomach churn.

——

The key turned in the lock at eleven-thirty. Even though he wasn’t expecting anyone.

He knew it was eleven-thirty because he'd been watching the clock on the microwave for the past hour, counting the minutes, telling himself he didn't care what time your date ended or what time you went home.

The door opened. You stepped inside.

The first thing he noticed was how different you looked. Your clothes were different. Your hair was different—you'd done something to it, curled it maybe, or pinned it back. You'd dressed up for him. For Oliver.

For Oliver.

He wanted to gag.

You shut the door behind you. Didn't take off your coat. Just stood there, holding your purse in front of you like a shield, and looked at him.

He was still on the couch. Still in the same clothes. The second beer was half-empty, sweating onto the coffee table, leaving a ring on the wood he'd have to clean later.

"You're home early," he said.

You didn't answer. Just looked at him. Your face was strange—not sad, not angry, not anything he could name. Just... blank. Like you'd turned something off inside yourself. That fucking terrified him.

"Did Oliver do something?" he asked. The words came out sharper than he meant. "Because if he tried something—"

"This isn't about Oliver."

Your voice was flat. Cold. Not the voice you used when you were tired or frustrated or sad. This was something else. Something he hadn't heard before.

"Then what's it about?"

You walked past him into the living room. Set your purse on the same coffee table his beer’s staining. Your hands were shaking—he could see it, the way your fingers trembled as you unzipped your coat.

"I left early," you said.

"Why?"

You didn't answer. Just pulled out your phone. Unlocked it. Turned the screen toward him.

The news article. The photos. The Red Hood standing over tables of cash and bags of powder.

"When were you going to tell me?"

The words hit him like a crowbar to the chest.

He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stared at the screen—at his own reflection in the dark glass, at the way your hand was shaking.

"I don't—"

"Don't." Your voice cracked. Just a little. Just enough. "Don't fucking sit there and lie to me. Not tonight."

He looked up at you. Your eyes were bright, but you weren't crying. You were holding it together by a thread, and he could see it fraying. Strand by strand.

"Oliver showed me these," you said. "During dinner. He was talking about the news. About how dangerous the city's gotten. About how the Red Hood is 'officially wanted' now." You laughed, but there was no humor in it. "And I just sat there. Smiling. Nodding. Pretending I didn't recognize the helmet."

Jason stood up slowly. His legs felt unsteady. His hands were cold.

You should have told her, the voice in his head said. It sounded like Bruce. It always sounded like Bruce. You should have trusted her.

But Bruce had never trusted anyone with the full truth, had he? Not Dick. Not Barbara. Not the son he'd buried and replaced within a year.

"How long, Jason?"

He could lie. He could say it was recent. He could say he'd just started, that it wasn't a big deal, that he was planning to stop.

"Months," he said.

Your face didn't change. "Months."

"I was going to tell you."

"When?"

He didn't have an answer.

You tossed the phone onto the couch. Turned away from him. Your shoulders were tight, your fingers ran through your hair so roughly he thought you might pull it out.

"I waited for you," you said. Your voice was quieter now. Not yelling. Just just. "I waited for months. I slept on your couch. I cleaned your blood off my hands. I stayed when everyone else would have left. And you were out there—" You gestured at the dark TV. At the ghost of the photos. "You were selling drugs."

"I’m—"

"The same drugs that killed Catherine."

His jaw tightened. "Don't."

"Don't what? Don't say it out loud? Don't make you feel bad about the poor choices you made?"

"You don't understand."

"Then make me understand." You turned to face him. Your arms were crossed now, your chin lifted, your eyes blazing. "Explain it to me. Explain why you've been lying to my face for months. Explain why you thought I didn't deserve to know."

Jason ran a hand through his hair. The memory flickered—Bruce's voice, cold and disappointed, standing over him after he'd beaten a suspect too hard. "This isn't who I trained you to be, Jason. You're better than this."

But I'm not, he'd thought. I was never better. You just didn't want to see it.

"I was trying to protect you."

The words came out before he could stop them.

You stared at him.

"From me," he should have said. "From what I am. From what I've done to myself."

"Protect me from what?" Your voice rose. "From the truth? From the fact that you've been running the same poison that killed your mother? How does that protect me, Jason?"

"Because if something happens to you—"

"Nothing's going to happen to me."

"You don't fucking know that, [name].”

"I know more than you think I do." You stepped closer. Close enough that he could smell your perfume—something soft, something floral, something that didn't belong in the same room as this conversation. "I've been in danger before. I've had bricks thrown through my window. I've had men threaten to kill me. And you know what? I survived. Because I'm not weak and I'm not fragile and I'm not something you need to shield from the world."

"I never said you were."

"You didn't have to." Your voice cracked again. "You showed me. Every time you pushed me away. Every time you lied. Every time you chose silence over trust."

He thought about the warehouse. About the crowbar. About the way Bruce had looked at him in the coffin—not the real Bruce, the one in his nightmares, the one who'd replaced him with a better model before his body was even cold.

"Tim Drake," the dream-Bruce always said. "He's what you should have been. What you could have been.”

"I don't know how to do this," Jason said.

"Do what?"

"This." He gestured between the two of you. "Us. Whatever this is. I don't know how to—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I don't know how to be what you need."

"Then stop trying to be what I need and just be here."

"I am here."

"You're not." Your voice broke completely this time. A tear slipped down your cheek. You wiped it away angrily. "You're not here, Jason. You're in warehouses. You're in safehouses. You're in the middle of deals that could get you killed. But you're not here. You haven't been here for months."

He wanted to argue. Wanted to tell you that you were wrong, that he'd been here, that he'd been thinking about you every second of every day.

But you weren't wrong.

He hadn't been here. He'd been running. The same way he'd been running since he clawed his way out of that grave—running from Bruce, from Dick, from the ghost of the boy he used to be.

"The drugs," you said. "Why?"

He could lie. He could give you a noble answer—I did it to protect the kids on the street or I did it to control the supply or I did it because someone has to.

He thought about Bruce's voice again. "You can't stop crime, Jason. That's not how this works."

"You can't stop crime. That's what you never understood. I'm controlling it. You want to rule them by fear, but what do you do with the ones who aren't afraid? I'm doing what you won't. I'm taking them out."

You can't stop crime, Bruce had said.

Watch me, Jason had answered.

But Bruce had been right, hadn't he? He wasn't stopping anything. He was just becoming another part of the problem.

"Because I can." His voice was flat. Borrowed. Not his own. "Because someone has to control this city, and Bruce—Batman won't. Because I'm already damned, so what's a little more blood?"

You stared at him. "That's not a reason."

"It's the only one I have."

"That's not good enough."

"I know."

You turned away from him again. Walked to the other side of the living room. Leaned against the wall. Your arms were still crossed, your shoulders still tight.

"I don't understand you," you said.

"I know."

"You could have told me. You could have trusted me. And you didn't."

"I know."

"Stop saying that."

"Stop saying what?"

"'I know.' It doesn't fix anything."

He didn't have an answer for that.

You were quiet for a long moment. The rain tapped against the window. The air conditioner hummed. Somewhere in the building, a neighbor's TV was playing static.

"Oliver asked me why I kept checking my phone," you said finally. "During dinner. He thought I was waiting for an emergency. I didn't tell him I was waiting for you."

Jason's chest tightened.

"I kept thinking—" You stopped. Swallowed. "I kept thinking you'd text. Or call. Or show up. Something. Anything. To prove that you cared."

"I do care."

"Do you?" You looked at him. Your eyes were red, but the tears had stopped before they even started. "Because I've been here for months, Jason. I've been here through all of it—the blood, the nightmares, the distance. And you've given me nothing. No explanation. No honesty. No—" You shook your head. "No sign that any of this matters to you."

"It matters."

"Then act like it."

He stepped toward you. Stopped. Stepped again. He was close enough to touch you now, close enough to see the exhaustion carved into every line of your face.

"I don't know how," he said.

"Then figure it out."

"That's not fair—"

"I'm not going to do the work for you." Your voice was firm now. Steady. "I've been doing the work for months. I've been the one reaching out, the one staying, the one waiting. And I'm tired, Jason. I'm so tired."

"I know."

"Stop saying that."

"Then tell me what you want me to say."

You stared at him. Your jaw was set. Your hands were balled into fists at your sides.

"I want you to tell me the truth," you said. "All of it. Not the version you think I can handle. The real version."

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

The truth.

He'd been running from the truth for so long he wasn't sure he remembered what it looked like.

"I started because I was angry," he said. The words came out slowly, like he was pulling teeth. "At Bruce. At the Joker.”

“That’s no excuse, Jason,” you scoff.

“I never said it was. You wanted the truth—will you listen?”

“Go on.”

"I wanted control. I wanted to prove that I could do what Batman wouldn't. That I could clean up the streets in a way he never could." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Instead, I became exactly what I used to hate."

"And now?"

“I can’t stop.” He paused. Ran a hand through his hair. "Someone has to do it. Bruce won't. The cops won't. If I walk away, someone worse takes over. Someone who won't draw the line at kids."

You were quiet for a long moment.

"That's the lie you tell yourself," you said finally. "So you can sleep at night."

Jason flinched.

"I'm not judging you," you continued. "I'm not saying I understand. I'm just saying—that's not the truth. That's the story you tell yourself so you don't have to face the real one."

"And what's the real one, huh?” He scoffs back.

You stepped closer. Close enough that your chest almost touched his. He could feel the heat of you, the warmth of your breath on his chin.

"The real one is that you're terrified," you said. "Not of me. Not of what I'll say. You're terrified of being left behind again."

The words hit something deep—something that had been festering since the day he woke up in that Lazarus Pit and realized the world had moved on without him. Bruce had a new Robin. Dick had a new brother. You had... what? A ghost? A memory? A boy who'd died and come back wrong?

"You think if you push hard enough, if you make enough noise, if you become something nobody can ignore—you won't disappear again."

He didn't say anything.

"But I remember, Jason." Your voice softened. "I remember who you were before all of this. I remember the boy who was my best friend."

"That boy is dead."

"No, he's not." You reached up and touched his face. Your palm was warm against his cheek. "He's still in there. You've just buried him so deep you can't hear him anymore."

He thought about the stairwell again. About the dealer’s body at the bottom. About the way he'd felt—empty, satisfied, nothing—and how that nothing had scared him more than any nightmare ever could.

Jason closed his eyes.

He wanted to lean into your touch. Wanted to wrap his arms around you and hold on and never let go. Wanted to tell you that you were right, that he was scared, that he was terrified of losing you, that he'd been pushing you away because he didn't know how to ask you to stay.

"I don't know how to be that person anymore," he said.

"Then let me help you find him."

He opened his eyes.

You were looking at him with those eyes—the ones that saw too much, that had always seen too much. And for once, he didn't look away.

"The drugs," you said. "Are you going to stop?"

He wanted to say yes. Wanted to promise you that he would walk away, that he'd find another way, that he'd be the person you deserved.

You can't stop crime, Bruce's voice echoed. That's what you never understood.

But maybe he didn't need to stop crime. Maybe he just needed to stop being the thing that made it worse. But he’s knee deep into this already. What’s the point of backing out?

"I don't know," he said. It’s a lie. He knows—he knows he won’t stop even if you got on two knees and begged him.

You nodded slowly. Your hand dropped from his face.

"I need some time," you said. "I need to think about whether I can do this."

"Do what?"

"Love you. Knowing what you are. Knowing you might not stop."

The word hung in the air between you.

Love.

You said it like it was a burden. Like it was something you were carrying even though it was too heavy.

"You don't have to," he said.

"I know." You picked up your purse from the counter. Sling it over your shoulder. Walked toward the door.

"Where are you going?"

"My apartment. I need space."

"You could stay here."

"I could." You paused with your hand on the doorknob. Didn't turn around. "But I won't. Not tonight."

"Then when?"

"I'll call you."

Jason nodded. He didn't ask how much time. Didn't ask if you'd come back. Didn't ask if there was anything he could do to make this easier.

"Jason?" you said.

"Yeah?"

"You should have told me."

You opened the door and walked out.

The door clicked shut behind you.

He didn't follow you.

He wanted to. Every instinct in his body was screaming at him to go after you, to catch you before you reached the elevator, to say something—anything—that would make you stay.

But he didn't.

Because you were right. He should have told you. He should have told you months ago, when the guilt first started eating at him, when the money started piling up, when he realized he was becoming exactly what he used to hate.

He should have trusted you.

Instead, he sat down on the couch. Picked up the remote. Turned the TV back on.

The news was still running the photos. The Red Hood. The cash. The drugs.

He watched himself for a long time.

He thought about what you'd said. "That's the lie you tell yourself so you can sleep at night."

Maybe you were right. Maybe he had been lying to himself. Telling himself he was doing this for the greater good. Telling himself he was protecting people. Telling himself he was different from the men he killed.

The thought sat in his chest, heavy and unfamiliar. He didn't know if he was capable of stopping. Didn't know if he deserved to try.

He thought about Bruce again. About the way the old man had looked at him when he'd first come back—not with relief, but with guilt. With fear. With the knowledge that Jason was a living reminder of his greatest failure.

"I'm sorry," Bruce had said.

"Sorry doesn't bring me back," Jason had answered.

© nagumolvr , you do not have permission to translate, steal, repost, or feed my work to ai.

A/N: I am quite liking the pacing of this so far because I personally am not the patient kind of reader who can sit through hundreds of filler events LOL, I AM AMAZEDDD BY THE SUPPORT ON THIS SERIES SO FAR😭 I never thought it would get this much attention but I am really happy, this is awesome.

STATUS :

໒𓏼﹚﹒REQUESTS : ﹒OPEN﹒𓂅

Crime Alley is too quiet.

Jason doesn’t like that.

It’s the kind of quiet that means people are watching. Waiting. Holding their breath.

For him.

Or—

Jason’s grip tightens on his helmet.

—for the idiot currently standing in the middle of the street, arguing with a broken vending machine.

“…I know you have snacks in there,” the guy says, jabbing a finger at the glass. “Don’t play with me. I can hear them.”

Jason stares.

That’s him.

Danny Fenton.

The so-called “civilian.”

The one who’s been getting shot at for weeks and somehow not dying.

The one Crime Alley refuses to talk about.

The one everyone’s protecting.

The one wearing—

Jason squints.

—is that a NASA hoodie?

Jason has questions.

A lot of questions.

None of them include whatever the hell this is.

“Turn around.”

The words cut clean through the alley.

Danny freezes.

Slowly—slowly—he turns.

His eyes flick up.

Take in the helmet. The stance. The guns.

Recognition flashes.

“Oh,” Danny says.

Beat.

“…crap.”

Jason steps forward, boots heavy against pavement.

“Name.”

Danny blinks.

“Uh… Danny?”

“Last name.”

“…Fenton?”

Jason tilts his head.

Like he’s cataloguing.

Weighing.

Deciding.

“Funny,” he says flatly. “That’s not what people call you around here.”

Danny frowns.

“…What do people call me?”

Jason raises a gun.

Not firing.

Just—there.

A statement.

“Red Hood.”

Danny stares.

Then laughs.

Actually laughs.

“Okay—no. No, that’s—that’s funny. Good joke. Solid delivery. Little threatening, but—”

“I’m not joking.”

Danny stops.

The smile drops.

“…you’re serious.”

Jason doesn’t move.

“Why are you using my name.”

There’s a beat.

A long one.

Danny looks at him.

Then points at himself.

“…your name?”

Jason cocks the gun.

“Don’t play dumb.”

“I’m not playing—what are you talking about??”

“The name. The territory. The pattern.”

Jason steps closer.

“You show up when I do. You take the same fights. You protect the same people.”

Another step.

“You shoot like me.”

Danny looks deeply offended.

“Okay first of all—rude. I shoot better than you, I just don’t brag about it.”

Jason pauses.

That was not the response he expected.

“…you what.”

Danny waves a hand.

“That’s not the point! What do you mean your name?? I’ve never called myself Red Hood in my life!”

Jason goes very still.

“…you expect me to believe that.”

“Yes?? Because it’s true??”

Danny gestures wildly.

“I don’t even have a name thing! I just—exist!”

“That’s not how this works.”

“Well it should be!”

Jason lowers the gun a fraction.

Not enough to be safe.

Enough to be thinking.

“…then why are people treating you like you are.”

Danny opens his mouth.

Closes it.

“…okay, see, that’s been bothering me too.”

Jason stares.

Danny throws his hands up.

“I thought it was, like, a ghost thing! You know—wrong place, wrong time, spooky vibes, maybe I accidentally offended a cult—”

“You’re being targeted by assassins.”

“I noticed!”

“They’re not using anti-meta weapons.”

“I NOTICED THAT TOO!”

Danny points at him accusingly.

“That’s the weird part! Where’s the theme?? Where’s the consistency?? If you’re gonna try to kill me, at least commit to the aesthetic!”

Jason blinks.

Once.

“…the aesthetic.”

“Yes!”

Danny paces now, animated.

“I’m used to ghosts, okay? There’s rules. Drama. Personal vendettas. These guys? Just—bang bang, die. No personality!”

Jason is… re-evaluating.

Everything.

“…you’re telling me,” he says slowly, “you’re not Red Hood.”

“Yes!”

“And you don’t know why people think you are.”

“YES.”

“And you don’t know why you’re being targeted.”

“EXACTLY.”

Jason studies him.

Hard.

The stance.

The breathing.

The eyes.

No flinch.

No fear.

Just frustration.

“…you got shot yesterday,” Jason says.

Danny shrugs.

“Yeah, and? I got better.”

Jason’s grip tightens.

“You what.”

“I mean, not like—” Danny gestures vaguely. “—better better. Just, you know. Walked it off.”

“You walked off a bullet wound.”

“Yeah?”

“…how.”

Danny freezes.

Oh.

Oh no.

“…uh.”

Jason steps forward.

Slow.

Dangerous.

“Explain.”

Danny smiles.

Badly.

“Well! You see! Funny story—”

A shot rings out.

Both of them move.

Jason turns, firing twice—precise, controlled.

Danny—

vanishes.

Not ducks.

Not dodges.

Gone.

Jason whips back around.

Nothing.

Then—

“Behind you.”

Jason spins—

Danny’s there.

Completely fine.

No blood.

No wound.

No anything.

Jason stares.

“…you didn’t move.”

“I did.”

“You disappeared.”

Danny winces.

“…define disappeared.”

Jason raises the gun again.

Slower this time.

More careful.

More certain.

“You’re not human.”

Danny exhales.

“…okay, wow, rude.”

“Answer the question.”

Danny hesitates.

Looks at the gun.

Looks at Jason.

Then—

“…I mean,” he says carefully, “define human.”

Jason goes very, very still.

Somewhere in the distance, another gunshot echoes.

Neither of them reacts.

Because suddenly—

Confrontation part 2

Everything I did was for you

[Original Prompt] [Prev]

“Lets go back to that cafe you like once you’re better. I know you like that sweet monstrosity. I swear… i really don’t know how you never get sugar high from them”

Let’s say you’re being harassed at work and you're not ready to go to HR or file a complaint. Maybe you’re not sure it “counts" or you’ve heard HR can make things worse (they really can). Or it could be you don’t want a whole investigation stormclouding over your life. You just want it to stop!

Well, you’re not alone. And here’s what to start thinking about before you wander into the wild woods of workplace warbles.

1. Remember: You don’t owe them anything A lot of harassers already know they’re crossing lines. You don’t need to give them a wake-up call. You’re not their coach, therapist, or HR rep. Changing or reprimanding them is not your job.

2. Don’t downplay it just because it’s common Lots of people deal with low-level harassment. Creepy comments, weird touches, “jokes” that cross a line. Just because something isn’t criminal doesn’t mean it’s not harmful. If it’s making your job harder or making you feel unsafe, that’s real.

3. Never do it because someone told you to If a manager or HR person says, “Just go talk to them,” hit the brakes. That’s called informal resolution, and it’s only okay when it’s 100% your choice.

4. You don’t owe them politeness Some people worry about being “mean” when confronting someone. But if someone is making you uncomfortable, it’s not your job to manage their feelings. You can be direct. You can be blunt. You can be cold. You don’t have to soften your boundary.

5. If you’re going to speak up, plan it This doesn’t have to be a big performance. But if you do decide to say something, think it through in advance. Choose a private but safe moment. Keep it short. Say what you need to say and then stop. You don’t owe them a debate.

6. The goal is clarity, not a perfect script You don’t need to give a TED Talk. You just need to be clear. “Don’t touch me at work.” “That joke wasn’t funny.” “This isn’t appropriate.” You can say it in a way that works for you, but the point is: make sure they can’t pretend they didn’t know.

7. Don’t expect an apology Some people will apologize. Some won’t. Some will get defensive or act confused or tell you that you’re overreacting. None of that means you were wrong to speak up. People don’t have to agree with your boundary for you to have one

8. Expect weird reactions Sometimes people apologize. But they tend to deny it, make it your fault, or get icy. That’s not on you. That’s who they are when they’re caught.

9. If it makes you feel unsafe, skip it Talking to a harasser can be risky, especially if they have power over you, or if you think they’ll retaliate. You simply don’t need to light a match to prove there’s a fire.

10. Document it anyway Even if you’re not making a formal report, keep notes. Dates, times, what happened, what was said. If you tell them to stop, write that down too. If things escalate, that documentation can help you later, and you’ll be glad you kept it.

11. You don’t need to forgive Confronting someone doesn’t mean you have to make peace with them. You can ask someone to stop without getting closure. You’re allowed to walk away still feeling angry, shaken, or done. This is about your boundary and not their redemption.

The prime directive: do what keeps you safe That’s it. You aren't required to be brave or “fair.” or, hell, even consistent . You just have to survive this in a way that lets you keep your power intact. Whatever choice helps you do that, that’s the right one!

TL:DR / You want to dig a little deeper, clickarino right here.