#angstober24

Yet on nights like these, you love for him faltered slightly. These were the nights that you couldn’t temper, the ones here he burned angrily and bit hard. He was currently pacing the kitchen, hands in his hair after a rough patrol. 

“You just don’t understand.” He murmured over and over. “Maybe you just don’t get it. Maybe you just never will. How could you even try to?” 

That hurt you, the way he talked like you weren’t even there. Like you weren’t in tears on the other side of the kitchen island. Like you hadn’t been having this argument for an hour how, sunset drinking its way into the dusk. 

This was the part of Jason that hurt you, the coarse side that snarled and growled at you like he was an injured dog. The side that looked at you with those striking green eyes narrowed into slits, who spat words like he’d never seen you before.

“I do understand Jason.” I you sigh. “You want to protect this city, you want to change Gotham, but don’t you dare tell me what I know or don’t, when I’m asking you to just be home more. Is it really that hard to protect the city and go out for a date?” You sigh, heart beginning to falter under the scrutiny of his gaze. “I know you can’t always be there. Neither can I, but please,” you say, folding your arms across your chest. “Please be there for me.”

“I am.” He groans back out, making a flicker of irritation spark in you. 

“Not you’re not.” You counter. “You leave dates, you leave dinners, you don’t come home some nights. No warning, no text, no notice.” You snap back.  “Being there for me is being at those dinners, going on those dates, coming home, spending time in bed with me.” You snap. "it's not cold sheets, cold food, cold feet on date nights. Step up."

He throws his hands up in the air, teeth clenched. "Can't you see I'm trying to save the city? trying to stop it from eating itself from the inside? You know its corrupted, you know about the violence. Hell, you got shot." he snaps back. His fists are tightly clenched by his side, eyes burning into yours. You stare back at him defiantly, and it makes the frustration in him rise.

He knows he's not good at words, knows that he's rough around the edges. The voice in his head tells him that when he sits up at night, when he finally comes home. His head leans back against the headboard whole you sleep peacefully beside him, rolled completely onto your side. His fingers twist in the sheets, as it speaks at him, tells him that he's not good enough to be with you. That the city isn't safe enough, that he needs to make it safer. He wasn’t the safest out of Batman's gang of protegees. He had a hit list that had started while he was just a young teenager and continued to have names added every other week. He'd been shot at, stabbed, thrown into and off of buildings, and that was something he was fine with. that was his job, his burden.

But when you got shot, that's when life really had caught up with him. It was like he had been living his life in slow motion up until that point, until it all rushed forward like a wave on double speed. He hadn't erven been there, halfway across town with Nightwing on some stakeout when he got the call. Dick had let him go without a word, merely watching him speed away on his bike before calling in backup from the cave to replace him. He didn't care that Bruce would get mad at him for abandoning his post, he could go to hell. What he cared about was you, and the fact that he hadn't been able to protect you, been able to stop it from happening. He heard about it only when the hospital called him, informing him that you were being prepped for surgery immediately.

How bad was it? Was it just one shot? Did it go cleanly through? Where were you hit? What calibre? What make? What model? Where did it take place?

Those were all questions that Red Hood might have been allowed to ask if he had worn the mask and marched through the emergency department, but he couldn’t do that. If he did it would be a giant target on your back, associating you with his vigilante life in the most obvious way possible. Instead, he had to race through the doors breathless as Jason Todd, the worried boyfriend who had to be held back by security trying to get to your ward.

 You had of course recovered, learnt to walk again on the leg that caught a stray bullet from a gang shoot out in Lower Gotham. It had been worryingly close to your artery, but you had pulled through. Jason couldn’t deny the fact that his status as a Wayne kid helped your care and the way the hospital aided your recovery. With a harsh word, Jason could have any of their licenses revoked.

That's why Jason did it. To make sure that the fear that gripped his heart that night never had the chance to wrangle him like that again. He'd fight night after night and come home with a string of broken and bloodied knuckles if it meant that you would be okay. It's all he can think about as he stares you down in the kitchen, watching your jaw twitch.

"Don't you dare use the fact that I got shot, against me." you seethe, hand coming up to point at him. "That wasn’t my fault, and it could have happened to anyone in the town, it's Gotham, Jason." you bite back, and he throws his hands up.

"That's exactly the problem! It's Gotham." he shouts. "You can get shot, or stabbed, or killed. Anyone can. one day you're here, the next you ain't. You really want to go out there, sweetheart? You got shot and you want to tell me not to clean the streets up? The sheets are cold? Well, they'd be a lot colder if you were dead." he spits back, and you are too stunned to say anything. You shake your head, a look of realisation coming over you.

"Oh my god," you breathe out. "you're just like Bruce. You’re no better."

That makes something in his freeze, halting all of his movements and shutting down his train of thought. You see it, see the way his bright green eyes widen and his head tilts slightly, making the white tuft in his hair flop over his eyes as you continue. "You're so obsessed with cleaning up the city. So obsessed with fighting out there that you can't give it up even for a second. You both can't. You criticize the man, tore him apart for his neglect just to do the exact same god damn thing.” Tears begin to prick your eyes in helplessness, lump building in your throat.

"You can’t see yourself out of that stupid helmet." you say, choking up as the tears clog your vision. "When was the last time that you read?" you ask, sniffling. "When was the last time you did a hobby, or rode your bike as a civilian? When's the last time we went on a date or held hands, or went to the park, or the library or anywhere?" you yell at him, hand coming to claw at your heart.

"When was the last time you were Jason?" you whisper softly. "Because right now, I feel like Jason Todd has died for a second time." you choke out. "Except this time, it wasn’t Joker who killed him."

You wipe your eyes with your sleeve while you leave him stunned, pushing past him to go into your bedroom. When the door slams harshly it snaps him out of the stupor he had found himself in, body swivelling on his heel immediately to follow you.

 You didn't respond to his soft knocking at the door, or his calls. You didn’t accept the apologies he murmured into the wood, didn't bother to listen to his promises or ways that he swore he could make it better. It was only when he began knocking desperately, worrying building, that you swung it open violently.

Your face is a mess, sticky with tears and chin wet. Your breath comes out in small hiccups as you try to collect yourself, still mid sob as you shout at him. "Couch." you seethe, your puffy eyes glaring at him with a hurt filled dagger before the door slammed in his face. He sighed, forehead against the wood before pushing off the door frame with a click of his tongue. He plops down onto the living room couch with a groan, legs thrown over the side to try and accommodate for his size. He raises an arm to cover his eyes, other arm grabbing a couch cushion and bringing it to his chest.

"You're just like Bruce, no better." rattled around in his skull, making him chew at his lip. He didn’t like that. He didn’t like being compared to Bruce, even if he respected the man at times. He had come back, intending to be everything for others that Bruce had failed to be for him. Yet according to you, he was walking the same steps the man before him had traced.

Was he really no better than Bruce?

He tries to keep himself composed, his emotional training kicking in. His fingers are tense on the steering wheel, passing over the bridge at a speed a cop would most certainly pull him over for. Even though he tries to take a deep breath, there's a burning in his sternum. It builds until it creeps into his neck, making him click his tongue uncomfortably.

The sensation is a rage he hadn't felt in a while, a fire that hadn’t burnt that intensely since he was just a boy grieving his parents’ death. It had flickered when he had heard Bruce had adopted a boy called Jason after him, sputtering to life upon hearing about his death. Yet he had grown, he had risen above it and had become a shelter for his younger, extended family. He was dependable, uncrackable, and upbeat, that was Nightwing. Yet as he drives back with that painful fire in his chest, he felt nothing more than Dick Grayson, the boy stricken with fear at the idea of losing his family.

When Jason got the call, he had been on patrol.

Helm securely on his face, it kept the drizzly night rain of Gotham out of his eyes. It had been a rather quiet night, stopping a few minor robberies and assaults that were common down by Dixon Docks. He was eager to return home, wanting to swing by the manor quickly to take full advantage of the hot water system before heading back to his apartment in Old Gotham for a well-deserved rest. He had just finished interrogating some of Penguins' men, about to call the cave to let whoever was on tonight know that they finally had the location of the new drug den they had been chasing the past month. However, the communication device he had set on his bike was lit, screen full of notifications.

Calls, one after another filled the small holographic display and he pressed the button to call back, leg swinging over the side of the bike as he did so. He had only started the bike but already he screeched to a stop, making sure he heard the words properly. A curse and gruffly shouted questions were his only response and when he got the information he wanted, he cut the call and the bike roared to life. He leant forward as if that was going to help him get to his destination quicker, blood boiling underneath his skin. His chest ached with the urge to sputter out pants, desperate to start the sign of panic racing through his veins. Yet he was stronger than that, keeping his cool like a tightly wound coil, muscles tensed beneath the suit.

His mind buzzes with worry, anxiety gnawing at his ribcage like a feral rat.

Jason doesn't often allow himself to be emotional on the job, despite his tendency for rage.

But rage was different. Rage burned and warmed him up from the inside, was the force that he put behind every punch or kick. It was his kindling, and it served to guide him as well as any star. Of course, Bruce had tempered it somewhat, but he had just guided Jason into turning it into something else, not getting rid of entirely. He used rage to protect the people of the city, the outrage he felt when he saw them get treated badly. He used rage when coming to his family's defence, the sight of hands being laid on people he had come to care for sparking it too. Those were the rages he was used to using, although there was always a third.

The pit.

The rage that bubbled away in the back of his mind, hidden behind a tall wall and shoved into the deepest part of him. That was the rage that crept forth, green and poisonous in his veins and clouding his judgement in a fog of pain and despair and anger. When it would appear, he would often take a moment to himself to pack it back away, contain it once more in the bulletproof casing of his heart. Yet right now, he didn't want to put it back. It made him rev the bike harder, made him feel like he was getting there quicker. The bike kicked up water as he zig zagged through the back streets, his mental map of Gotham rerouting anytime the traffic was longer than five cars deep. He couldn't afford to lost time, to not be fast enough. Not now, not this time, and if he had to use the rage the pit cursed him with, he would.

Tim was at the manor, holed up in his room when he got the call.

It had been a long night the night before, tossing restlessly. Not that he would have told anyone, but the last fight with Bane had left him with a few more bruises than he had let on, cleverly hidden from the keen eyes of Alfred. He wanted to nurse them himself, carry his own weight. In fact, he had been sulking in his room going over the things that had been troubling him, knees pulled to his chest.

Dick was capable and dependable, and the first Robin, the biggest shoes to fill. Jason was tenacious but loved deeply, and he fought for what was right. His methods might be unconventional to the Bat sometimes, but he knew what he wanted to fight for. Steph had flown the nest to become Spoiler, Cass already had such a firm grasp of who she wanted to become now that she was Orphan. Barbara had even been able to turn her life around after being put into her wheelchair, her desire to help leading her to become Oracle when she had to hang up Batgirl. Even Damian, the true son of Bruce Wayne, was so confident, growing at a rate he knew Bruce was quietly proud of.

But then there was Tim, who stayed up on weekends trying to redesign his suit, to carve his own vigilante life, only to look on it and see the traces of his time as Robin printed clearly on it. The role of Robin had outgrown him, but there was the shred of doubt that whispered in his ear that just maybe, he hadn't outgrown it. The ringing of his phone snapped him out of his daze, and he let it go to voicemail. When it came again, he grabbed his phone with the desire to turn it off, but seeing the emergency signal had him picking up right away.

"Hello?" he called, sitting right up in bed. His eyes widened and he shelved his pity party, running out of his room.

He winds through the halls of the manor until he finds the door he's looking for. Tim's knuckles rap against the wood loudly, repeating until a disgruntled Damian comes to the door, swinging it open violently. "This better be good, Drake." he deadpans, scanning the flustered state of the older boy. Tim just turns his phone screen, showing the emergency call signal before gesturing to the direction of the grandfather clock with his head. "We've got to go." he says curtly, the young boy hot on his heels after he recovers from his shock.

Both of them head to the cave and prepare to depart immediately. Tim slips the suit over his skin like an outgrown shedding, domino mask sliding onto his face. He couldn’t recognise his own face when he caught sight of it in the glass reflection, but a mask and suit would never be enough to hide the panic that clung to him tighter than the Red Robin suit.

When Bruce got the call, he was at Wayne Enterprises.

He was making a rare appearance at the office, knowing that Lucius had something that he wanted to talk to him about. His office felt foreign and sterile, empty and unreal. The glass surfaces everywhere let him glimpse the face of Bruce Wayne, a face that he was beginning to see less and less. It felt uncanny seeing himself without the cowl, and sometimes when he was working, he could swear he saw a reflection of the bat ears in the window beside him. The night had dragged on, and he was only an hour into the meeting with Lucius when the phone in his suit pocket rang.

He and Lucius shared a sceptical look as he turned the phone screen. The call location wasn't displaying as the Batcave, the only place that could contact this phone directly outside of his children, Lucius and Alfred's personal mobile. Yet he knew Red Hood was taking the brunt of patrol tonight, and Bruce was intended to join him after the meeting. Dick was carrying out some errands downtown and everyone else had either stayed home or didn't contact him like this often. The girls preferred to call his phone as Bruce Wayne or spoke through Alfred, so who could it be?

Lucius gives a nod, silent as he sits down. Bruce's face hardens as he presses the speaker button, accepting the call.

"Who is this?" he says, lowering his voice to the gravelly timbre of Batman.

"Da...B-Batman?" comes a broken, shaky voice on the other end. Lucius's eyes widen and flick to Bruce's immediately, mouth parting. Bruce's jaw ticks, eyes widening as well when he hears your voice.

"This is the Batman. How did you get this number?" He asks, having to focus on keeping his voice low, even though the tone of Bruce threatens to creep back in.

"He-he just had it. I don't know. He just told me to speak, I-I'm not even holding the phone I can't see anything; I’m tied, my eyes are-" you begin to ramble, struggling to get through your words before you're cut off.

"Hello, Batsy." calls a voice close to the receiver, and Bruce swore that his heart fell through the floor in that moment. His fingers tighten around the phone the same way that his lungs are constricting in his chest.

"Joker."

The man on the other end cackles, if Bruce could even call him that. "Miss me?" he snickers, Bruce's mind filling with the image of a red stretched grin. "You see, this is more of a... courtesy call. You know Bruce Wayne, billionaire extraordinaire?"

Bruce's head snaps up to Lucius, who's rubbing at his face nervously.

He didn't know, did he?

"You see, I didn't make a lot of impact going after the commissioner last time, so I had to think to myself, If I wanted to really shake things up in Gotham, who else is there? Then I thought of it, who better than the playboy of the century?" he laughs, punctuated with a sharp snap of his fingers.

"Get to the point." Bruce all but growls.

"Yeah yeah, you always love to rush me, don't you?" The Joker snarks back with fake hurt, before continuing. "Regardless, I have one of his little orphan projects, thinking I might have a bit more success with this one."

He hears a thwack over the phone and a scream, making his nails dig into his palm. He steadies his breathing.

"What have you done?" he asks, low and dangerous.

Another thwack.

"Exactly what I said. But there was a rumour going around that you know Mr. Money, so I thought I'd give you a call, you know, a little gift. If you do know the richest orphan in Gotham, then I want to give you the honour of telling him I've got one of his. Better yet, I want to give you the honour of delivering their body to his doorstep. Maybe that way, you might be able to bond over losing your fake kids."

Bruce feels sick, closing his eyes to try and stop himself from making a mistake right now.

Your life was on the line. He had to play smart.

"Where are you?"

The joker tuts on the other end. "This was a courtesy call, nothing more. I don't want anyone interrupting my playtime. Tata for now~"

"Joker-" he starts but then he's cut off, line going dead. Lucius doesn't say anything, his own personal phone pulled out as he calls Alfred, studying the frozen figure of Bruce. It's almost like there's dark tendrils to the shadows on his broad body, deepening the lines on his face.

Bruce doesn't remember too much, but Batman did.

Immediately he had left the room, suit en route to him and arriving within the minute. As soon as the comfort of his cowl touched his skin, Bruce was gone, and it was Batman calling everyone at the same time. It was Dick who picked up first, a couple of rings earlier than Jason before Tim joined, the sound of Damian in the background. Oracle and Spoiler joined together, while the others were still pending. He didn’t have the time to temper his voice as he relayed the situation, immediately getting as many people on recon as possible.

There were shouts and yelling and cursing before all of their lines became inactive, replaced with trackers signalling that their suits were live. When he enters the batmobile he grips the wheel tensely. The lump in his throat doesn't seem to disappear, only growing larger with each second. His mind is filled with pictures of Jason. Pictures of Barbara. The smiling photos of you.

He might never admit it, but he had your photos front and centre in his wallet (something you did in fact know and used to your advantage frequently in 'dad loves me more' battles). He remembers the first day he ever saw you, cold and scared apart from the other kids in the orphanage. He had been investigating a potential human trafficking ring operating out of the centre, but when he saw you, the fatherly pang hit him. The way your eyes stared forward dully as he greeted children as Bruce Wayne, cameras flashing around him. He had enough wealth to buy the children anything they asked for, the other kids excitedly asking for new toys or clothes or art supplies. However, when he kneeled down in front of you and asked you want you wanted, you said only a few words, 'a family'.

And god be damned if Bruce didn't have money enough for that too.

So, he took you in, hid batman from you like he had tried to with everyone else as well. Yet he failed again, but unlike his children in the past, you never asked to join. Never asked for a suit or to stay up or to train in the cave. Never showed any interest in joining your siblings or throwing yourself in front of danger for the sake of the city. When he asked you why you had simply shrugged, giving him a soft smile.

"All I've ever wanted was to be part of a family. I don't need to be a superhero to be loved."

And then you beamed at him with a smile that could have lit up his world and chased the clouds away from Gotham, so pure and genuinely content. That made Bruce feel like he had finally succeeded as a father, and for once Bruce felt like a father. No Batman, no mask and cape. He didn't train with you; he went out with you to the theatre on weekends. You didn't jump from rooftop to rooftop, you liked to come study with him in his office when he had to take care of Wayne affairs. Batman may have been created to save Gotham city, but he was convinced that you were sent to save Bruce Wayne.

Now, he felt that he had failed you as both Bruce and Batman.

"Hold on sweetheart," he whispers to himself, letting his eyes close for a brief moment during his exhale. "I'll get you home. I promise."

Unsure of what to do, you shifted from foot to foot outside of the library. The night was cold for Spring, the coattails of winter still wrapped around the city. As you fidget you try to think of any reason that they would be calling you. After all, you and Tim had only been dating for eight months or so. In those eight months you had visited the manor maybe twice, much less met his family. Tim had dragged you through the hallways as soon as you hit the foyer, hurrying you to his room so fast that you could only exchange a surprised glance with the members he passed. You could only think of the worst scenarios, minutes stretching for eternity as you trapped yourself inside your mind.

What if they hated you dating Tim? You weren't from an affluent family like they were, growing up in a poor area of Robinson Park. You got into Gotham U on a scholarship, which was how you both had met in the first place. What if they looked down upon that and were going to threaten you to break up with him? If they ever chose to, they certainly would have the power and sway to. Hell, they could chase you out of Gotham entirely and no one would be the wiser. You thought of all these ideas, just to distract yourself from the underlying thought that sat like an unwelcome visitor int he back of your mind.

The little thought that whispered over and over again, 'What if something has happened to Tim?'

The Wayne car rolling to a stop in front of you was enough to snap you out of your worrying, making the ball in your stomach only grow heavier. The visage of Pennyworth, the butler, appears from the driver’s side. He gives you a small, tight, smile and exits the car, opening the back as you descend the stairs.

"After you, dear."

You hesitantly poke your head in as he waves his hand politely to the open door, blood draining from your face. You had expected the car to be empty, but as you studied the shadows it was very clearly not the case. The sturdily built man in front of you had his arm propped up on the window, chin in his palm. His deep blue eyes glinted from the shadows he seemed to melt into, rough timbre floating your way. "Come in."

You anxiously shuffle into the seat, leaving a space between you and the enigmatic Bruce Wayne. There's a tense silence as Alfred gets into the driver’s side and starts the car, headed to the Manor once more. You shuffle in your seat, pulse thudding against your neck.

"It's nice to meet you." you say, clearing your throat awkwardly. The icy eyes of the billionaire flick to you, scanning you up and down.

"And same to you." he says smoothly, staring back out the window with a rich indifference. "I'm sure you know why we called you?"

"Actually, I don't sir." you say gently, fiddling with your fingers. They gave you nothing to work off of, how could they expect you to know what was happening?

"It's about Tim." he says, and your heart flips.

"Is he okay?" falls out before you can even temper your voice properly.

"He's…in a difficult space right now." Bruce hums back at you, worry creasing at the corner of his eyes. "He won't work with any of us, won't come out. We thought that maybe you could help. Actually, Dick recommended we call you."

Dick Grayson. The only brother you had met, albeit only briefly. He had been passing through for a charity event and had come to ask Tim a question, ducking his head inside the bedroom. Tim had gone to get snacks, leaving you to nervously explain who you were. When you mentioned that you were dating Tim, a wide smile had split the older man's face. He'd promptly introduced himself, stepping inside and shaking your hand. Tim had chased him out soon after he arrived back, the elder brother's laughing echoing down the halls long after Tim had shut and locked the door.

"Is it bad?" you whisper out, fists curling on your knees.

"He's alive and physically uninjured, if that's what you're asking. Now, what I'm about to tell you is confidential. You tell anyone, and I mean anyone," Bruce's eyes flash dangerously. "Then there will be severe consequences."

When you nod his shoulders drop slightly, and he uncoils. You had always been intimidated by the man and the sheer power he wielded, but you didn't take him for someone to be so fiercely protective. There was something in his eyes that flickered when he stared you down, a scarred over wound that re-opened at the thought of you harming his family.

"I promise." you say, rising to match Bruce's tone. "I just want to help Tim."

The answer settles the wary father next to you, relaxing back into his seat.

He fills you in, dread filling your stomach more and more. He explains how they've been a target of a terrorist attack, Tim getting caught in the crossfire. The story seems wild and something in the back of your mind gets the impression he isn't telling you everything, but you remind yourself that this is Gotham, and being a rich family paints a rather large target.

"Fear gas?" you whisper, eyebrows furrowed. "I thought Batman put the Scarecrow in Arkham."

Bruce bites his knuckles but nods. "Yeah, that is what I thought too. So, we're suspecting it's either a lackey of his, or the Bat isn't as thorough as he appears." he grunts, teeth relenting their assault so he can cross his arms. "Masked annoyance." he mutters, his nose crinkling.

"How can I help?" you ask, adrenaline rushing through your veins in a mild cocktail of panic.

"Talk to him. get him to come out. We've had a doctor look him over and he'll be fine, he got out of the gassed room in time. His mental is just a bit…fragile, right now. He won't accept comfort from us. Some of us can't even get close. So, we thought you might be able to try." Bruce studies you closely. "We want to deal with this before press come snooping. It'll only affect his social life if this gets out before he's had a chance to recover, so I must reiterate the importance of your silence. This is a family matter; we will deal with it as such."

you nod along, swallowing the lump in your throat. "Yes, sir."

"But do not take it to heart if my son doesn’t recognise you." he says firmly. "He isn't himself right now. This isn't a reflection on your or your relationship."

You want to ask about how much he knew about your relationship, but as you open your mouth you're cut off by the voice of Alfred. "We're here, sir."

The car rolls to a stop, and Alfred opens Bruce's door and then yours. The manor is imposing, but you don't get long to look at it before you're ushered away. You're walked to the door of Tim's bedroom; except this time your arm is being led by the sympathetic smile of Pennyworth. He leaves you in peace, and it's never felt more imposing knocking on your boyfriend's door than now.

"Tim?" you call softly, rapping your knuckles against the richly coloured wood. "Are you in there? Can I come in?"

There's no response, making worry knot up in your chest. "I'm coming in, okay?" you call out, hand hesitantly turning the brass knob and opening the door just enough so you can slip inside.

It's dark, only moonlight illuminating the scene before you. His bedsheets have been ripped from the mattress, pillows scattered around. Drawers were open haphazardly, contents spilled across the tiled floor. Your heart lurched spying the sheer curtains that fluttered in front of the open bay windows, worrying that he might have gone out there despite the drop. It calms slightly when you spy him, huddled under the desk. You approach as if regarding a cornered animal, concern twitching in your fingers. The desk was devoid of any objects, swiped clear by a frenzied arm. The drawers were open and empty, content spilled around him.

"Hey, Tim." you say, crouching to him under the desk. He looks a mess, face pressed tightly into his knees. He's curled into a ball, arms tucked under his torso, resting on the front of his thighs. "it's me." your murmur, reaching out gently. "it's just me."

He jumps as your fingers lightly brush against his arm, face snapping up. His eyes are puffy and red rimmed, cheeks stained with tears. His hair is tousled and messy, falling over the shaking of his blue irises. The sight pangs painfully in your heart, and when he no longer pulls away from your touch, your hand slowly circles his wrist. He leans into your touch, body trembling as you pull him towards you. When you manage to get him in a hug you can feel the rapid beating of his heart, the shaky and quickened breaths that he draws into his lungs.

"Please don't hurt me." he whispers, shattering your heart. You look at him wide eyed, gently tilting his face to meet yours.

"Why on earth would I do that?" you breathe out, confusion on your face. His eyes are watery and far away, lips trembling. "I'd never do that, Tim. you know that."

"Please don't leave." he chokes out. "Please. Please don't leave. I don't want to be alone. I don't want to be alone again, I'll work harder, I’ll be smarter, I'll do better." he reassures frantically, pupils shifting rapidly. "I'll do enough this time. I'll meet your expectations. Just don't go."

Your mouth drops and there's nothing that you can say for a few moments. "Oh, Tim…" you breathe out. "I'm not going anywhere, okay? absolutely nowhere." you murmur gently. "And you don't need to promise that. You do enough, hell, you do so much. You do so much more than meet expectations, Tim. You surpass them in every way."

he shakes his head at your comforting, hair flopping in front of his eyes.

"I saw them." he mumbles, although you aren’t sure if it is to himself or to you. "They were just here, I saw them.'

"Who?" you ask softly, stroking your thumbs over his cheeks.

"My parents." he mumbles back out. "I saw them. they were here. They said... They said things..."

You sigh.

Bruce had told you that the effect of the gas made people see things, vivid hallucinations conjured up to torture them. You just hadn't been able to comprehend how deep in someone's mind the fear gas was able to pull from. "And there was Jason." he chokes out. "I never meant to replace him, but he wouldn't listen, and then I felt it all over again." he stammers out, spare hand coming to trace along his throat softly. "But Jason turned into Damian, and then he pushed me and I was falling again. I'm not a real son, I'm not a real replacement I'm-"

"Stop." you command, unable to hold your own tears back at his words. You had no idea what he was saying. Jason and Damian hurting him? Tim complained lightly about his brothers at times, but he had equal amount of compliments to give them back (even if they were begrudging). It had to be the toxin messing with his mind, distorting the images he kept conjuring up.

"Tim, your brother's love you." you say. "Bruce loves you, Alfred loves you, I love you. So please," your whisper, hands holding his face. "Please, wake up, Timmie."

His pupils dilate rapidly as he peers up at you, and you can see him struggle to focus. "Please," you plead again softly. "Please come back. Trust me. You're safe."

Water spills over his lash line and his lips curl into a sob, but his body relaxes. He unfurls from the foetal position, absent rocking of his body coming to a slow halt.

"That's it," you breathe out. "Nice and easy, just take a deep breath."

When he relaxes enough for you to crawl under the desk with him, you do, his arms circling your waist as you pull his head forward to rest on your shoulder. He turns and buries his face in your neck, hot tears streaking down your skin as he sobs. "I couldn't dodge it in time…" he weakly says, hands shaking. "If I had dodged I wouldn't be seeing this. I'm supposed to be…I'm supposed to be faster than that…"

Your lips frown at the despair in his voice. From his tone it seems like he was slowly becoming more lucid, but you still had no idea what he was on about. With a few gentle encouragements you get his frantic murmuring to cease completely, fight draining out of him. You can feel the effects wearing off him as time passes, and you hate to imagine what the toxin must have done to him at full strength. You just run a comforting hand through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp and occasionally shushing him. When you tilt your head to kiss the top of his head, your eyes narrow in on the piece of paper that had fluttered from his lap.

It had been obscured when he was curled up, pressed to his chest. now that he had begun to relax it had slipped out, landing face up. It was a photo of you, taken in black and white. He had gotten a new camera for his birthday and wanted to try it out, so he brought it to the library the next time you both met up to study together. You were looking up at the camera, smiling softly as the light from the window filtered in behind you. Your eyes follow the curve of your grin to the way your eyes crinkle joyfully as you gaze in his direction. The corners are rolled and creased from the toying of his fingers, and you softly reach out to pick it up.

His arms tighten around you as you move to retrieve it, making you rub his back comfortingly. "I'm not going anywhere." you say softly, pulling the picture back towards you. "I promise," you whisper, looking at yourself in the photo he had been cradling so reverently before you came. "I'm not going anywhere, ever."

He was supposed to get in and out, wrap it up so he could come home to you like he promised. As he sat there writhing, he wondered what the look on your face would be if he wasn't able to make it to the cruise that you had both planned. You had lobbied both him and the DSO for a holiday, and after many angry letters and snatching the phone out of his hand to yell at his supervisor, you had succeeded in getting him two months off. Without hesitation you had booked the both of you on a cruise, shushing him every time he had tried to protest.

If he was being honest, just sleeping at home would have been enough. He could barely remember the last time that he had sat down or stopped for a moment. The days that he was at the office or on a mission blurred together so often that he was beginning to forget what colour you had both decided to paint the kitchen, making him falter when coworkers made small talk with him in the staff room. Which side of the bed you preferred to sleep on, what bills needed to be paid first, whether the spare bedroom was being turned into an office or a workshop or not. It was when his forgetfulness led him to forget what month it was and being blindsided to your own anniversary that he finally snapped out of it.

You had been sitting on the porch steps dressed in your finery, watery eyes looking up at him as he pulled into the driveway, your knees pulled to your chest. He had jumped from the car like you were shot, the realisation of what he had done thrumming hard in his chest. "I'm so sorry" he had murmured into your hair, holding you tight. "I am so so sorry."

You had just sniffled in response and eventually gave him a weak hug back, and he clung to that like a lifeline. He swore that he would never fuck up like that again, and he intended to keep that promise.

So, he had relented to the cruise vacation, telling himself that he would be able to relax and unwind on the seas and out of service of work. They could call another agent for once, he wanted to focus on nothing but the smile you wore as you got to carry out the couple things he felt he had denied you your entire relationship. Getting to use the swim up bar, taking photos together, dressing in matching clothes for the cheesy cruise quiz nights. If that was what you wanted, that is what he was going to give you. Besides, it gave him a chance to relish in you again.

You, who had cancelled the wedding of your dreams to get married at the courthouse with him when he got called away suddenly and you weren't sure if you would see him again. You had been married within hours with the rings he had picked and you in the finest you could find on such short notice. He had thought you looked stunning, even if the lighting was the harsh LED of the courthouse and not candles like you had wanted.

You, who had put up with months of him being gone, not knowing if he was dead or alive. Who had to stay up late tracking the news for crumbs of his whereabouts, only able to make guesses to where he might have been assigned. Every death, every bioterrorist attack overseas carrying the possibility that Leon's body was among those being pulled from the carnage.

You, who he was calling right now with the jacked cell phone from Chris's pocket, dial tone droning on.

Leon had been stung last, used as nothing more than an example to show off the latest weapon in the bioterror market. Yet he was losing feeling fast, much faster than Chris or even Claire struggling in the other cell. It was like his atoms were screaming at him, writhing in him at a molecular level. Breathing felt like it was through a damp cloth, lungs having to work twice as hard to suck oxygen into his lungs. His eyelids were struggling to stay awake and fight off the black curtains that floated in the corners. he could see the way that the others looked at him, with pity and with concern. As soon as he had caught the eye of Chris, saw the flicker of fear cross the usually confident man's face, he knew that he was reacting worse than all of them.

So here he was, heart in his throat as he prepared to tell you the words he hadn't been expecting to say when he left that morning. When the line doesn't pick up he curses, waiting for the tone. He wasn’t going to waste his chance.

"Hi! If I haven't picked up, I can't come to the phone right now. If you leave a message, I'll get back to you as soon as I can. Please wait for the beep, thank you!"

He smiles to himself at the chipper tone of your voice, sounding heaven sent even through the phone. When he hears the tone he takes a deep breath, as big as he can and puts a fake smile on his face. He hopes that it makes his tone come out just a little sweeter for you, even though he knows that you'll be worried regardless.

"Hey, Sweetheart." he starts, voice raspy. "I'm sorry to be calling you like this. I just wanted to call to hear your voice. I-I missed you. I know you didn’t pick up, so you're probably busy. Now don't call me back immediately, I... won’t be able to pick up for a while. I just...damnit I wanted to just hear you." He grits out, head falling against the bars as he loses strength in his neck. He catches eyes with Chris, the older man's eyes misting over as he looks down at him before he turns his head away, the most privacy he can give him in the situation.

"I just wanted to call to let you know that I love you...and I miss you." he begins again. With his eyes closed the words come easier, the image of you flitting into his mind's eye. You look at him in his spectral vision with a smile, encouraging him to go on. He feels his chest ease, like he's actually talking to you, and the both of you are the only ones in the room. "I know you're going to worry. I know this doesn't sound good-" he grits his teeth against another hot flash of pain. "And... it’s not." he finishes. "I want to tell you…that I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I don't think I'm gonna make it home tonight, baby. I... I might not make it back from this." he tries to chuckle, but the sound is dry, and the effort hurts his chest. "Things got bad here, and it's not looking good. I think- I think it ends here, honey. If I don't make it just...just, please look after yourself."

He takes a shaky breath, and the silence of everyone around him is deafening. The scene is oddly private and uncomfortable for the others in the vicinity, while the usually ever-energetic man known as Leon delivers his verbal will. "I know you won’t want to go, but go on that cruise. You worked hard for it, and you were so excited. I wanted to go swimming with you, fall asleep by the pool and pretend it was the honeymoon I owe you. So, I want you to still go on it. Even if I don't come back...I'll ask the big man above to let me hang around long enough to do it with you, even if you won't be able to see me. I made a promise remember? No more missing big things." he whispers into the phone.

His throat is beginning to hurt, like speaking around a sharp lump every time he formed a word. "And the house is yours, it should go into your name. The car, everything, you'll have it all. I just...I just wish it could have been different, you know?" he says into the receiver, that has begun to waver by his cheek. "But it is what it is, and I guess it finally caught up to me. I'm sorry I was such a shitty husband." he says, a light tremor in his voice. "I wish I had come home to you more, not left the bed cold. I wish I could have made you more dinners and more breakfasts in bed, just to show you how much I loved you. I love you. I love you so much it hurts. I never told it to you enough, or managed to even put into actions just how much you mean to me, but I do. You mean everything, sweetheart." he chokes into the phone, a small smile on his face. "I love you more than anything, so...so don't think anything else, okay? This isn't your fault. It never was. You were the best thing that ever happened to me, you hear me? So you pick yourself up when I'm gone," he gasps out, hand beginning to waver. "You put yourself back in that saddle, and you show the world just how strong you are. Show them the person I fell in love with." he says with a smile, before breaking into a fit of painful coughs.

"Don't stay up, sweetheart. Get to bed early. I miss you, more than you'll ever know." he coughs out into the receiver before his body can't hold him up anymore and he slides down the bars until his cheek is pressing into the concrete, hand falling to his side and phone clattering against the stone. He can hear the tone end, and the automated whoosh sound as the voicemail sends. With bleary eyes he can make out the turned head of Claire, looking down at him with wobbling lips and tear-filled eyes.

"Look after 'em, hey?" he rasps out, pain in his chest stabbing as the black curtains begin to slide across his vision. Claire nods, and he can hear Chris grunt in the background. Leon falls into an unconsciousness shortly after, the smiling image of you the last thing he holds close to him as the blackness swallows him completely. As his body stills, a small smile is frozen on his face, the arrogant half tilted smirk he so loved to give you.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Typing away at your computer, you work till your eyes go square from the computer screen. You wipe a hand over your face as you review the spreadsheet that you're working on, leaning back to take a sip of your coffee. Your music blasts in your headphones, and for a quick break you pull up the checklist you've made for your upcoming holiday.

You're so engrossed in your work that you're unaware as your phone screen glows to life beside you, message popping across your notification bar.

Drop you to work, that's all he was going to do. That's all he was going to do. It was late at night, and he had patrol anyways. You were going in for a trial shift that night at the security company, something that could land you an executive manager role and get you out of that shitty job waiting tables. Something that could get both of you into a better apartment, more independent, the start of your life together. When you first started dating he was more than happy to throw Bruce's money around, the billionaire had more than he needed anyways, he wasn't going to miss it. Yet you had begun refusing after the first month, saying you wanted to be independent, and he fell in love right there.

And is this where it got you?

No. That was still all him. He had picked you up in a simple car since he was staking out some gang causing issues around West End and needed to go on stakeout. No reinforced glass, no secret bat gadget hidden in the glove compartment, just some tinted windows. So, who even saw you getting into his car? Well, what was supposed to be just dropping you at work turned into a car chase while you held onto anything you could, screaming in terror. It wasn't often that Jason would be the one getting chased, and under any other circumstances he would have thrown the car into gear and flipped the tables on them.

But you were in the car.

So, he threw it into reverse and ran as fast as he could. It had all been for vain, a burst tire and shattered windshield sent the car spinning out to a side street, flipping as it hit the curb. The screech of metal was deafening to his ears, the crunch of glass ringing out around him as the world flipped one… two…three…times.

His lungs burnt as he struggled to escape from the seatbelt, head throbbing from the collision on the dash before he looked over to you. His heart stopped in his chest, unable to even respond to the calls of Red Robin over his com link, who he had contacted the moment a gun had been fired at the two of you. "Sweetheart?" his voice cracked slightly, unable to go louder over the ball of fear in his throat. You didn’t respond as he clambered from his seat, arms coming around your back to support you and drag you from the car. he hated the way the image of you, splayed over the glass covered dash, had burnt into the deepest part of his mind. He had dragged you to the shelter of the car, blood boiling in his veins.

Anyone who had come to follow up was laid across the floor in seconds, Jason standing in front of your body like a guard dog. He blocked as much of your features as he could, taking out each gang member that came to inspect the crash with frightening efficiency. By the time Red Robin had arrived on the scene, Jason was already cradling your body in the shadow of the car, desperately trying to stop the bleeding from the bullet wound in your sternum. The bullet wound that he might as well have put there himself.

This was his fault.

"This isn't your fault, Hood." Tim says, laying his other hand on Jason's shoulder, muscled tensed and ready to snap. "None of us could have predicted-"

"Shut up and help," he hissed, fighting to stop himself from crying behind his mask. He hadn't felt this terrified since he was a kid, back in that warehouse. He was stronger than that now. Strong enough that surely, he could help you.

Jason wasn’t oblivious to the pained and pitiful look cast his way. "Hood, they're already gone." he whispers softly, hands coming down to gently cover his still compressed on your chest. Jason shakes his head. "No." he chokes out. "No, no, no, no, no, no, no."

"Yes." Tim says firmly. "I've…I've got the car. I'll bring it round before the GCPD shows. We can handle this. We can take them back to the cave, clean them up like they deserve-"

"I said No." Jason snaps, blood rushing in his ears. He knew you were gone. He could tell from the way your blood went tacky on your chest, the stream trickling into a standstill. The way your face was devoid of colour, making you look shades lighter than he knew you were. Your hands were limp, head tilted. What was the worst was the way your eyes stared up into him, glassy and fogged, as if cracking open his soul.

Why did you kill me?

Why me?

Why didn't you save me?

He knew you wanted to live, god, he knew you loved life. Loved life with him, and he loved it back in return. If only you had been given the chance he once was. "Bring the car." he chokes out, eyes burning with a fierce determination.

"What are you planning?" Tim asks, hesitant as he sees the way Jason's body is coiled, ready to strike.

"We're going to save them." He says softly, hand squeezing your lax one tightly.

God, he just hoped you weren't going to hate him.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

"So, you tracked us down to ask for our services?" Thalia scoffs, circling the two of them. "Didn't think I'd have two birds on our doorstep, didn't your mentor teach you better?" she says disdainfully, eyes raking over Tim and Jason. Jason just holds your body closer, wrapped in a white sheet and cradled in his arms. Tim shifts uncomfortably, making Thalia's eyes gleam when she detects the weakness. "Oh," she purrs, almost delighted, crowding into Tim’s space. "You're off the record."

"This doesn't involve Batman." Jason gruffly says. "This involves me. This is my request."

Thalia's eyes flick back to him, but Jason doesn't flinch. He'd dragged Tim along as an accomplice, going dark on the radar as he returned to the alps, the one place he had sworn to never return to. To do the one thing he had told himself he would never force on anyone.

But he couldn't lose you.

"So, you think you can just show back up and ask to use the pits?" She asks, eyes flicking to your form in his arms. "My, you really are as dumb as you are bold, aren't you?" She hums. Jason remains still, eyes focused on the hooded woman in front of him.

"I'll owe you a favour." he says, without a beat of hesitation.

Red Robin's eyes widen behind him, domino mask unable to hide his surprise. "Hood, are you kidding? you can't just-"

"Shut it." Jason hisses back. "This isn't your decision. This is mine, consequences included."

Tim backs down only slightly. "You know what Batman will say. We can't trust these people; they'll use that favour to burn down Gotham. Think."

Jason tries to, he really does. He tries to see the big picture, but all he can see is fragments of you and your life together that was smashed the second he put you in that passenger seat. "I am." he says softly.

He could walk away now and save Gotham for sure, or he could stay and save his world.

Thalia sidles up to him, lips pulled into a smirk, like a snake rearing its head. "I could do you a deal if that's the case." she says, eyes sparkling like emeralds. "But you have to make good on it. You of all should know how we handle broken promises in the League."

Jason considers it for a second, before steeling himself. There was no other option for him.

"You have a deal."

"I knew bringing you back would be worth it." she smiles, like a cat batting a mouse between its paws. She turns, gesturing for them to follow her with two fingers. "Come." she commands, beginning a clipping pace through the carved stone hideout. Jason follows wordlessly, and Tim soon does a moment after.

"How long have they been dead?" she calls, not even looking back.

"Less than a week." he replies almost immediately. Thalia smiles at that, dark and curious.

"Oh? Snappy, I see. Who exactly is under that blanket to make you run to this corner of the world so quickly?" she grins, stopping at the entrance of a deep set of stairs. She stalks closer, steps echoing and deliberate. With a quick motion she pulls back the sheet from your stiff corpse, eyes raking over your face.

"A lover?" she asks, eyebrows raised at the way Jason holds you closer instinctively.

"None of your business." he replies gruffly, making her roll her eyes.

"We should've taught you how to be subtle." she murmurs, beginning to descend the stairs. He follows into the darkness, shadows beginning to give way to a soft green glow, bouncing off the carved stone walls. Tim takes in the room they step in to at the bottom, a grand, ornate space, yet somehow still appearing crude. Death clings to the atmosphere, cold and uninviting.

"Hood, is this where-" he begins quietly, but Jason cuts him off.

"Yes." he says as he follows Thalia deeper, feet stopping by the edge of the glowing green pool. Panic swirls in his gut, making his senses set themselves on fire. His mind races as he tries to control his own fear, to stop the metallic taste from rising in his throat. Flashes of his own time in the pool pry themselves into the forefront of his memory, making his fists clench in your sheet. He pushes them all down, taking a deep and shaky breath.

This was for you.

"Don't forget, you owe me." Thalia warns, gaze haughty as he kneels by the pool, unwrapping you from your blanket. His heart wrenches seeing your stiff body, eyes still open as if to judge him. When he's untangled the sheet from you, he slowly begins to slip your body into the water, Tim running his hands through his hair in worry behind him.

"Jesus…" Tim breathes, anxiety radiating off him as he watches your body submerge under the green glow of the Lazarus Pit. Jason doesn't move from his kneeling position, Thalia beside him as he scans the water for a sign of life, a sign of movement. A sign of you. After a few tense moments, it happens. A hand breaks through the surface, making Tim jump. Your fingers are clawed in pain, but he chooses to focus on the way your colour returns to the digits. You appear from the pit like you're drowning, eyes rolled into the back of your head as you breach the water. Your mouth is open in a wide gasp, screaming in unmeasurable pain. His heart tears itself in two and his stomach is in knots hearing you make that kind of noise, writhing and clawing at your face.

Thalia watches you scream and double over in the pit, making a mocking pout as madness clouds your eyes. "Aww, how cute. You're just like each other, a match made in hell."

"Shit…" Tim exhales, pacing back and forwards behind him. "Batman isn't going to like this. This isn't right, this isn't right…" he mutters, panic written all over him. Jason drowns both of them out, extending his hand softly towards you, leaning precariously over the waters to gently grip your wrist and guide you his way. He could fix you. he could fix this. He could make it all better.

He guides you until you're in front of him, the familiar burning smell of the Lazarus pit stinging his nose, a smell he struggled to describe yet it haunted him on random nights. His eyes soften under the mask as he sees the panic in your eyes, the shock of coming back paired with the madness fighting to grip your mind. The sound of your cries and screams echoed around the room, a sound so full of pain and fear that he couldn't help but flinch.

He could teach you, the way he was taught. He could help you get your feet back the soft way, a way he wished he could have been offered. He'd do everything in his power to make your second chance as painless as possible. He'd nurse your mind back if that's what it needed, calm the rages late at night if you had them. He'd take you in any form you came to him, growing pains and all. He'd teach you how to live again.

"Nightwing, reporting in." He says tensely, activating his commlink the moment he deems it safe enough. It crackles to life, the rough voice of Batman replying.

"Copy Nightwing, report."

"Birdie's been hit." he pants out, manoeuvring to the third to last shipping container at the back. punching in the code with bloodstained fingers, he frees the lock that hisses open, pulling the doors open.

"Their status?" Batman's voice grunts, but even Dick could tell the hint of panic that sat underneath. He unloops your arms from around his neck, stepping into the hidden field surgery set up. A weak LED strip light flickers on above, casting shadows over the walls as he lays you into the surgery chair. There's very little else, a few rolling drawers of medical equipment, a fridge in the back with more supplies.

"Not good." he replies, sitting on the stool beside the chair and dragging a set of drawers closer to him. "She's-she's bleeding badly. Puncture through the thigh from the explosion, a piece of rebar." he swallows thickly, mind replaying the horrid sound of your screaming filling the air once his ears had stopped ringing. "Another in the shoulder, serrated stab wound."

His hands shake as he presses on the puncture on your upper thigh, making you scream out. He winces seeing the way your face is scrunched up, fat tears rolling down your cheeks. "I'm sorry birdie, I'm so sorry." he murmurs, heart twisting painfully.

"We're sending help to your location. Red Robin is headed there now with the car, get her stable in the meantime. We'll prep the ward immediately."

Dick's head felt light, darkness floating at the edges of his sight. He swallowed, cold sweat beading at his hairline. "We…we were ambushed by Black Mask's men. This was a set up, they were ready. They're still nearby, if they find here-"

"We'll worry about the Mask." Batman cuts him off. "You know your job, keep her stable."

"We?" Dick replies, voice closing up more and more.

"Red Hood and Myself are going to pursue Black Mask. Spoiler and Robin are going to take out the rest of the men from the hideout."

Dick swallows, blinking rapidly. "I-It was just supposed to be a minor drug bust." he manages to get out. "Just get the Mask, send more people here not out there-"

"Everyone has their orders."

The tone of Batman is cold and hard, making the words Dick wants to say die on his tongue momentarily. He hesitates before speaking again. "Why are you sending everyone?" There's a small silence, before Batman's voice crackles back over the line.

"I didn't. They left before I could say anything. Now stabilise them."

Dick's well aware of the warmth on the underside of his palm, seeping into the material of his suit. His non bloodied hand comes up to stroke your face gently, wiping away the tears coming from your puffy eyes. "It hurts Nightwing," you say, voice choked with a sob. "It burns."

His heart wrenches and he nods. "Yeah, yeah its gonna burn birdie." he says. "I'm…I'm gonna make it burn a bit more, okay?" he offers you a weak, apologetic smile, hands shaking as he goes for the first drawer, pulling out a surgical needle and sutures. "We need to close it, I need to stop the bleeding." he chokes out, tears burning at his eyes as your hand grips his wrist, hearing you whine as you try to pull his hand away from the uncomfortable pressure. He folds his hand over yours, making your hand press on the wound instead. "Hold down on this." he instructs softly. "I'm going to go get something from the fridge. Nice and tight, there we go." he murmurs, getting up from beside you to hurry for the fridge.

Pulling it open he rummages around, cursing under his breath as he doesn't find what he needs and pressing his earpiece to contact Tim to bring it. He comes back to your side, face lined and worried. "Okay, bad news, sweetheart." he says, grimacing. "I don't have anything to take the edge off. We've got no painkillers left." your eyes look up at him, glossy and scared.

"It hurts Nightwing." you cry, voice trembling. "It hurts, please don't make it hurt more."

He tries to ignore the heartbreaking gaze you send him, leaning over you to tie a bandage tightly around your stabbed shoulder. You cry out, body bucking upwards. Thankfully the stab seemed to be less urgent, the knife doing less damage than it could have with the serrated edge. He searches around a little more, a flat, wooden utensil set up by the sink.

"Bite this." He says softly, coming to your side once more and slotting it in between your teeth. He hates the way that your eyes look up at him all glassy, brimming with unshed tears. You shake your head, making him bring his hands up to cradle your face. "Hey, hey sweetheart, shhhh. shhh..." he tries to soothe, your chest beginning to tremor with muffled sobs. He plasters a fake smile onto his face, hoping that you can't see his teeth clenched tight.

He sits on the stool next to you, moving your hand over the thigh wound so he can look at it. His hands feel numb seeing how much blood you've lost, and he has to snap himself back into it. He peels off his gloves, shake in his fingers now prominent as he grabs tweezers and the sutures.

Stabilise you. That's all he has to do. Till he can get you back to the infirmary.

Despite the steady breaths he takes to calm himself, they're ripped from his throat the second the needle pierces your skin. The wooden spatula falls from your mouth as your mouth splits impossibly wide, eyes scrunched up as you scream. He has to lean over you, forearms keeping you pressed to the chair while he desperately pleads for you to stay still. He can see how much it burns, the way you hiccup after every breathless sob. He hates it, hating how after each pull of the suture through your skin your face ripples with pain. Each stitch he makes stabs at his heart.

It was supposed to be simple.

He grits his teeth, trying to not let himself cry. This was supposed to be an easy mission, it was your first after all. Sure, Bruce was hesitant to let his daughter run around in a costume fighting bad guys. He had wanted you, his unspoken favourite, to live a peaceful life. However, when you expressed interest in the night life, Dick had vouched for you. He offered to be the one to take you out on your first mission, spent countless hours with Bruce in the cave training you. You were meant to come home with scrapes on your knees and a rip in your suit. Not here in a dingy downtown shipping container having a needle shoved through your skin repeatedly.

This was his fault.

Your screams ring so loud in his head that he forgets what the sound of your laugh is like, the irritated huffs you make when you and Tim discuss entrance exams. "D-Dickie..." you sob weakly, hand pushing lightly against his. "Di-Dickie. St-stop…please. Puh-please stop…" you sob, a wispy sound as your eyes scrunch up again. He doesn’t care that you called him by his real name. After all, it was Dick Grayson that had failed you as an older brother. Not Nightwing.

His vision tunnels as he continues to stitch despite your whimpers and sobs, hands shaking so badly it takes him twice as long as he expects to even get halfway. Right now, you weren't just the next Batgirl. You weren't just another spandex clad orphan standing next to Bruce. Right now you were his little sister, the same one he'd spend movie nights with and let hide in his room to cool off when you were mad at Bruce.

When he finally finishes and ties it off, the tools clatter from his hands. He leans forward on to his knees, breath struggling to make it into his lungs. He felt lightheaded, everything feeling like it was burning. His hand managed to feel for your limp one, thumb sliding over your wrist to feel your slow pulse. His other hand pinched the domino mask from his face, letting it clatter to the floor as he wiped his eyes. he didn't even pay attention to the calling of Red Robin through the com, letting him know that he was pulling up right outside. He let himself take a few shaky sobs, fingers digging the tears from his eyes and splattering onto the discarded mask under him.

He wasn’t Nightwing right now.

When your fingers brush against his forehead you know that the white tuft in his hair was a painful reminder of his death, the scar on his lips you so lovingly kissed caused by the very man who had killed him. His hands were littered with small scars from blocking knives and protecting his head from glass instead of childhood memories of climbing trees. His back was a canvas of white slashes that intersected in a map-like pattern, a surface already so touched that the symmetrical red lines you left seemed less stunning in comparison. Legs sporting burn marks, bruises permanent along his ribs; that was the Jason that you knew. So even if some days you pretended that he was some ordinary civilian like yourself, you still loved Jason with all your heart.

On this particular night he had come home from patrol, sitting on the kitchen counter while you patched him up. You had been a pretty awful field doctor the first time you offered, but he braved through your prods and pokes with a wince. He didn't say anything about the way you wrapped the bandages too loosely or that you had forgotten some antiseptic and had given the wrong type of topical painkiller. Jason could see the worry on your face, so he leant forward and kissed your forehead tiredly, thanking you with a soft murmur.

You didn't need to know when he slunk off the bathroom to rewrap the bandages, or when he reapplied ointment in the right area. He picked glass out of his own skin when you missed some, letting the shards clatter down the sink. All that consumed him was the thought of how soft you were when you handled him, when you passed the bandage around his middle, or when you tried to clean the wound with as little antiseptic as possible to try and prevent the stinging. He normally hated having to doctor himself up, meaning that even the smallest of injuries tended to scar under his negligence. Yet with you he had been ashamed of the scars, hyper aware of how your eyes lingered on them. More so, how other people stared at them when you were out together. So, for months he spent nights in the bathroom redoing the handiwork you insisted so passionately on learning, just so that there wouldn't be a scar you could blame yourself for later.

You were absolutely perfect, so there was no reason that he couldn't be for you too.

You had become better though, and that was through the help of Alfred. Now you had patched him up efficiently and tightly, patting his hip affectionately when you pull the bandage tight. "Almost done," you smile up at him, fingers pulling the end of the bandage tight and reaching for a bandage clip. "Just got to secure it and you'll be good to go."

He smiles and drops a tired kiss to your skin as usual, pulling your fingers away when you’re done so he can raise them to his lips. "Thanks, darl." he grins, eyes tired but grin still lively as ever. He slides off the counter to wrap his hands around your waist, kissing your nose. You just huff and give him a side glance, arms circling his neck without hesitation.

"What's got you all worked up?" you ask with a light laugh when he’s overly affectionate with you, making Jason groan and drop his head into your hair.

"Just tired." he mumbles. "Bruce pissed me off again today, started lecturing me on the way home."

"Bruce pisses you off most days." you chide. "How did you ever escape the lecture?" you chuckle, moving with him as he begins to sway.

"I turned the commlink off and came up through Southside Gotham so he couldn't follow me." he grins.

There it was.

"There's always something with you, isn't there?" you shake your head, beginning to spin around with him softly in the candlelight. He laughs, and you imagine it’s the sound of a young boy finally getting to live life normally again.

"Always is, babe. you know me." he chuckles, and his eyes flutter over to the candles you have on the counter. It was always dark when he came home normally, and in his tired state he hadn't questioned it. After all, his family worked best in the dark.

"Power outage at the moment?" he asks.

"Power got cut off." you murmur back with a sigh. "We missed last payment. Only a few days, but you know how quick they jump on those these in Gotham. It's all paid up now, but it'll take a day or two to get back. Cold things from the freezer are in the washing machine with the ice blocks."

He hums, stroking a hand up and down your back. "You're well prepared. Sorry for making you deal with them, I'll handle it next time, I promise."

Jason hated using Bruce's money.

Not only was it something that sat bitter in his mouth ever since he had come back, but he didn’t need it. Dick had also rejected it and moved to Bludhaven, and even though he'd never admit it, Jason respected the way he managed to build a home for himself there. He wanted to do that too, and he could do it damn well by himself. He still took some money, but it was no more than a wage from Bruce. He considered protecting Gotham his job, and he wasn't stupid. He wasn’t going to let his pride get in the way of helping you both live. He hated to see you stress about finances, but you never asked him. You never asked him to reach out to Bruce for more or reach out to Bruce yourself.

The first time rent had gone up it had nearly priced the both of you out of the cozy apartment you lived in, and you had been in tears for days trying to find a second job to cover the expenses. Yet you didn’t come begging for Bruce's assistance, no. You looked at him with those teary eyes and asked him to help make a budget with you so you could figure a way out, and you did. You were the most resilient person he knew, the most resilient person he loved.

He held you closer as he spun you softly around the kitchen.

You were going to need to be resilient.

He inhaled the scent of your shampoo and let his arms bask in the warmth of you. Your skin against his made the thrumming in his side ease and the headache blistering behind his eyes subside. As you relaxed against him, his head raced of all the ways that he could tell you. Tell the most perfect being that had ever walked into your life that he was leaving, and not only that, he was going to have to break your heart on the way out.

He cursed Bruce. He cursed Bruce for making enemies that had cunning greater than his own, for dragging him into the mess he had created. He had yelled and spat and screamed at the older man until his voice resonated off the cave walls, storming from the cave after tonight's fight. Bruce had asked the impossible of him, after they both got their asses handed to them in a surprise attack. They had taunted Bruce, not the Batman, and had enough evidence to bring Bruce's world and carefully hidden persona crumbling down around him. It just so happened that they had enough to bring Jason's down as well.

They knew about you.

Pictures of you had fluttered down towards him, filling him with an indescribable sense of fear. As hard as they fought, they had let the new visitor of Gotham's nightlife slip through their fingers and Bruce had asked him to break up with you not a second later. There was no empathy, there was no kindness or waiting for it to sink in for him.

But there never was.

In that moment Bruce was Batman, but Red Hood had been the scared Jason Todd.

How did he tell you that he wanted to break up when that was the furthest thing from the truth? That he would walk through hell barefoot and dunk himself in the Lazarus pit again if that mean that you were still there to warm his bed at night? How could he tell you that he didn't love you when his heart ached to tell you it every time he got the courage? He could play the tears, play the part of a sad breakup. That part was easy, considering how this was shaping to be one of the hardest things he'd ever had to do. It was the rage that he couldn't muster, for once. Rage was something that he saved for the streets, a place already so crime ridden and scummy that his bitterness and anger were practically masked under the filth. It wasn't a place for your home, the little shelter the both of you had carved out of Gotham with your own two hands.

So, he spun you around the room, eyes watering with tears yet to shed as he thought about how to let you go. He knew you wanted to stay, and that made his heart ache in return. It was like losing a part of him that hadn't even been lost yet, a void already forming in his chest. He sniffled lightly and thankfully you didn’t hear or notice his arms squeezing tighter, as if to imprint the feeling of you against his body. He tried to tell himself it was only a temporary thing, that he could explain it all to you later when the threat was done. That thought often lost against the conjured image of your heartbroken eyes his mind created to torture him, and the persistent thought that you'd probably never want to see him again when he was about to break your heart so violently.

You don't notice something is wrong until the first tear hits your hair, silently giving way to more. You notice the slight shake in his arms and the tension still wound in his body. Normally the stiffness in his muscles flowed out of him like water when he stepped over the threshold of the house, but not tonight.

"What are you thinking about?" you ask softly, pressing into him to try and comfort him, your heart panging in confusion at his strange behaviour.

People told you that you were crazy, and maybe you were. He wasn’t the best partner, hardly able to give you what you gave back. But you didn’t want to give up on him entirely, not when you could hear the soft sniffles coming from the bathroom late at night, the wavering in his eyes when you ask to give him a hug. His eyes flickered with the urge to give in, a bitter longing you knew all too well, but his mouth formed the words ‘don’t you try’ with a venomous tone that had you retracting your arms to your side every time. 

You loved him despite it all, a soft tenderness whenever you looked at him despite how your brain screamed at for you not to. However, you didn’t know if you could continue your life like this. That’s why tonight you were going to break it off, to free yourself from the man who seemed like he’d rather do anything than stay with you. However, when you come home from your restaurant shift, (not that it was much of a shift with the city being evacuated), keys jangling in the stuck lock, your determination falters.

He is shocked to see you as well, eyes widening and pacing coming to a halt when you enter the living room. Like a deer caught in the headlights he stares at you, fingers twitching nervously. You have a sharp intake of breath as your eyes scan across his body, taking in the suit that clung to his skin. His face had a cut and a new black eye forming on his right side, lip split and beginning to scab over. However, what you were more drawn to was the bat like cowl held loosely in his left hand, and the triangle like logo emblazoned on his chest.

It all makes sense to you now, and you step back at the realisation. You miss the wince that flickers over his face when you fall back from him, his eyes narrowing.

"If you tell anyone, you're dead." he hisses. It scared you, breath hitching in your throat. You shake your head, closing the door quietly behind you.

"I'm not going to tell anyone. I'm not going to hurt you." you try to stay calm and approach him, but he begins to pace again.

"Like you could hurt me," he scoffs. "You wouldn't even get a chance."

The sneer he sends your way is coated in venom, digging into your heart with needle-like teeth. "What are you going to do now?" he gestures around. "Now that you know? Do you have questions? demands?" he laughs out, but the sound is dry and angry.

"Are you-" you begin, but he waves the helmet towards you aggressively.

"Am I what? the Arkham Knight? a monster? a killer?" he spits out, eyes burning with rage. "Use your eyes, sweetheart." he sneers, tone mocking. "Of course, I am."

"Are you okay?" you finish softly, trying to reach out your hands for him. He stops for only a moment, tensing with confusion. Then he's back to being the Jay you know, harsh and abrasive. he shakes his head, muttering to himself.

"Like you care, like you care!" he grumbles, throwing the helmet to crash against the wall. "You don't care. You just want something from me. You all want something from me." he hisses, breathing beginning to quicken. You shake your head, trying to keep your body language calm so he knows that you mean no harm. Your fingers burn with the urge to grab him softly before he hurts himself, but you know it would probably end up with you crashing over a table. "I don't want anything from you. I want you to be okay, can we just talk?"

He sighs but doesn’t say anything else, jaw clenched as he turns his head away. You'd been around him long enough that you took it as an invitation to get closer.

You managed to lead the both of you over to the couch, sitting with a space in between you both. "Jay, please tell me what’s going on." you ask softly. Your head feels like it's spinning with the information that your partner (you weren't sure if you two ever really became official) was the Arkham Knight that you had only heard rumours of floating around on the sparsely populated streets. As far as you knew he was going after Batman, but it was all rumours.

"Are you...are you injured cause you're fighting the Batman?" you ask softly, wanting to get answers to those rumours without triggering him further. His fists clench in his lap and for a moment you think you won't get past the stone wall you can see him building, but after he exhales, he nods once. You worry the skin of your lip between your teeth. You never really had a problem with Batman. He was doing more for your city than the corrupt police on the street, and despite him being a vigilante and not bound by the rules of the law, you couldn't deny that his presence made you feel safer in your own home.

"Why?" you press softly, hand hovering out. He flinches the close that you bring your hand, but eventually he lets you place your hand over his. Your skin thrums with the contact, something you had been deprived of for so long. His calloused hand warms under your light touch, and he tilts his hand softly till his palm tilts up. He allows your fingers to creep down lower, until you lightly intertwine your fingers with his.

"Because..." he chokes out, and you can see the way his throat bobs. Your heart races a little with panic, never seeing this side of Jay before. You never saw him get upset, only angry. The blinking of his eyes to fight away the tears was new, and the way he hung his head in such defeat. It made you feel like you were watching a pitiful boy wearing the skin of a much older man, and your thumb stroked his hand softly. "Because this was all his fault. Everything. He gave me this..." he whispered out, the rage seeping back into his voice and other hand gripping his knee tightly. His gloved finger points to the 'J' carved into his cheek, and his breathing quickens when he looks you in the eye.

"The Batman did that?" you ask softly, but he shakes his head violently.

"No." he snaps. "But he let someone else do that. He lets someone else cut me and-" he cuts himself off, breathing irregular as he stops to take a big heave. His lips tremble and he tries to keep himself together. He hated this. The anger that he fuelled into tormenting Bruce was draining into despair.

He hated the way you looked at him, with those big eyes that begged him to spill all of his deepest fears to you.

He hated the way his name sounded on your lips, even though you didn't realise that it was only a nickname, not his real name.

He hated the way how his body seemed to buzz under your touch, blood rushing under his skin.

He hated it because he felt that if he let himself surrender to it, if he let you in, that he would never be able to go back again.

"Please Jay," you beg, eyes pleading. "Please just tell me what's going on."

"It's not Jay." he croaks out, hanging his head. "It's Jason." he raises his eyes to meet yours, pitifully looking through his hair. "Jason Todd."

Your hands fly to your mouth, unable to stop the short gasp. You feel a chill run through your body, freezing you to the spot on the couch. "You mean the Jason that-"

"Went missing?" he scoffed. "Yeah. That's what they he wants you to believe. It doesn’t change the fact that he left me there." The man you now know as Jason raises his voice, standing to his feet with hands clenched by his side. "Batman abandoned me!" he shouts, voice deepening.

You jump, seeing the way that his eyes darken. "Jay-"

"Jason!" he shouts, whirling to you. "Don't play the perfect life now. I know it's anything but." he hisses at you. "You were planning on leaving me too."

You falter, and that's all it takes for him to bring his hands to his hair and grip at his face. "I knew it." he spits out. "I knew it, I knew it, I knew it."

You jump to your feet too, indignation rising in your tone. "That's because I don't even know what we are!" you protest back. "We live together but we don't speak, we sleep in the same bed, but we don't touch. I'm tired of not knowing if you even like me back!" you yell, beginning to feel the anger in yourself rise up.

"You're just going to abandon me too!" he yells, face growing red and eyes growing panicked. "You're going to leave me, just like my father!" his voice cracks at that, and he almost doubles over as he staggers backwards. You shake your head, confused.

"You don't make any sense, Jay." you groan, tears prickling at your own eyes. Jason lets out a half scream of frustration.

"Bruce! Bruce left me with him in there and never came looking." He cries. You can see the war in his mind as he struggles to get his breath back, pupil’s swallowing his eyes until the pricks of blue disappear. You know it's bad when you hurry to him ang grab his wrist, getting no response from him. he didn't try to push you off, or flinch as your hands circled his trying to hold him still.

"Bruce? you said Batman left you there. Bruce looked for you! I remember the press statements!" you plead, heart beating frantically and unsure what to do to help. You were so used to him being cold and abrasive, so distant and aloof that to see him break down like this was eerie and panic inducing.

"They're the same! it doesn't matter!" he shouts, breathing getting irregular. With a strong push you manhandle him back down onto the couch, tilting his face up so you can ease his quickened breaths. "All that matters," he swallows thickly trying to get his bearings back. "Is that he left me. and you will too. Now that you know. Now that you know all of me."

You feel the heart thudding in your neck, pulse beating against your skin. You sink to your knees, tears finally falling over your lashes. You head drops until your arms are on his knees, forehead pressing into your skin. You sob softly, defeat weighing in on you. You weren't sure if you could pull him out of this hole that he had dug himself into. If the web of lies he had been spinning had been strung too tightly around your heart and had cut off the circulation. You felt tired and overwhelmed with what he had told you, mind feeling fatigued.

He was no better around you as you reached up to grip his hand, squeezing it. You can't get your voice to say what he wants to hear, can't find the words that will take the paranoia away. You don't know how to get close to him when he keeps lashing out and pushing you away.

 He can barely keep air in his lungs, and his mind is unsure where to focus, but he tries to focus on anything but you at the moment.

Rage?

He was good at that. It made him feel alive, like he had a purpose.

Sadness?

He had already spent enough of his life in sadness, wasting away in that cell when he was locked in Arkham.

Pain?

Jason Todd had endured enough pain to last him several lifetimes over already.

His lips tremble as words pass past them, half conscious as he says them. If he had a better control on his emotions, he would have kept them down like usual, traded them for some scathing remark that would make hurt ripple across your expression.

"I used to be Robin."

You just look up at him blurrily, and he can see in your eyes that you’re scared of him and his sudden vulnerability. His heart aches, but he knows it’s a pain he deserves. He did that to you, made a good impression on you at a bar once and then signed you up for hell, refusing to let you go.

He guessed he and Joker were alike in some ways after all. Yet he continues.

"He left me. My father never even came looking."

With each word it's like a catharsis on his soul, chasing away the shadows that were wrapped around him. He had been out tonight, hunting Bruce. He needed to go out again soon, once he had licked his wounds clean and known that the damned Bat hadn't found his hideouts. he had selfishly kept you around despite the evacuation, and only now was he starting to regret it.

As he gazed down at you, he could see more of him in you than her would like, the fragile hope in your eyes already webbed with cracks.

Had he really done this?

Contrarily, you stared up with a soft kind of pity. This was the Jason that you never got to see, the one that got out of bed in the middle of the night to go for a walk and come back with red rimmed eyes. The one who made the quiet sniffles behind the locked bathroom door, the one that hid his scars from you not out of anger, but out of shame and embarrassment. His eyes flicker between your face and the hand that you begin raising, until it strokes along his cheek. He has the urge to pull away, to flinch, but he lets your fingers ghost just barely across the skin. He understands your silent ask for permission and accepts in by gently turning his face into your hand.

A small smile flits across your face then, filling in the cracks that had formed in both of your hearts. "I won't leave if you won't" you whisper, and his breath begins to even out. Maybe you were an idiot. Maybe you were deluded. Maybe you were just dumb in love.

"I don't care about everything that you think is going to scare me off," you say softly. "If you...if you promise to try with me, I'll try with you too. I won't abandon you, Jason," you say, using his full name. It feels foreign on your tongue, but you like the way it makes the corners of his lips twitch upwards. "If you won't leave me behind either."