#batarella

Jason might have been the first in school to send another kid to the hospital, but the emotional torment you left behind were like footprints from your combat boots.

Already by the first ten minutes in the library, you’ve messed up another shelf just shoving whatever you could into whatever space you could see.

Jason had never seen you wear anything that wasn’t in the depressing end of the color spectrum. You hid a piercing in your lip, too tiny for the school to notice. And the combat boots, heavy enough to break a skull, he believed were what you’d use to break into flesh if you didn’t have anything sharp in you.

A boy started to approach you.

He made sure you wouldn’t hear his feet come up from behind and waited until you’d turn and take notice of him. Smart kid.

“E-excuse me, Y/N?”

He was squirming like a mouse. “Uhm, I’m Jake. From Math c-class.”

Jake’s hands looked like they’d fall off his wrists. You haven’t said a word, and he looked like piss was about to run down his leg. You had a whole cart of yellowing books to place in the wrong shelves. This was not the time to be bothered.

“You, uhm, borrowed my notes.”

You tilted your head to the side, eyes narrowed.

“Can I have them back, please?” Jake squealed.

The only other time Jason had seen a person so afraid to talk to someone else was a henchman telling Joker news he didn’t want to hear. And it was followed by a bullet.

It looked like that was exactly what you were about to do. Your nostrils flared like a dragon’s snout, and Jake frantically backed away.

“I-I’m sorry. I just… You can keep them! Oh fuck!”

Then he backed away too hard, your stone glare locked into him, and slammed into Jason’s chest.

Jason didn’t flinch, but Jake looked like he was on the verge of imploding the minute he caught Jason’s eyes. If he was frightened by you then, he looked absolutely terrified now.

“Jason!?” The boy went white. “D-don’t kill me. I’m so sorry. I’ll go now.”

He could be nice. This school was the most normal thing he had since he was born.

He could put some effort into repairing his reputation.

 “Here.”

You looked like you wanted to hit him with a hardbound when Jason grabbed your schoolbag from the seat and took out a dark red notebook.

Jake’s brain must’ve told all his muscles to freeze in place to survive. He stood motionless, only moving his head to look back at you. But you were no longer looking at Jake. Your eyes were on Jason.

Jake clutched the notebook to his chest, pushed everyone out of his way, and ran out of the library before you could do or say anything about it.

You looked like you were about to set him on fire.

Just to piss you off even more, Jason grabbed a book you just shelved and shoved it into the correct section. He made sure you were watching.

“I will make sure these books end up in your stomach by the end of the day, Todd.”

Ms. Peterson’s shrieking shush rang painfully into your ears. Your black nails dug into the covers of the books, and your jaw looked like it hurt from gritting so much. Jason took the book from you before you’d tear it apart.

“The next time you stick your hand down my shit, I’ll stick my hand right up your—"

“Wherever you stick your hand in, Y/N, how are you sure I won’t end up liking it?” He let his face close enough to yours so you could smell his breath. Anyone else, even Brandon, would have flinched to some degree. You didn’t.

“You fucking disgusting piece of dog shit.”

“Does it absolutely kill you that I’m not shaking at your gracious presence like that poor guy just did?”

“Maybe for your sake,” you spat.

He laughed. “Do whatever the fuck you want.”

“Watch me.”

“That’s torture enough as it is.” Jason grabbed another book you placed in the wrong shelf and waved it over your face.

“Conan Doyle isn’t True Crime,” Jason retorted.

“I fucking know about Sherlock Holmes, smartass.”

“I’m getting really tired of cleaning after your mess.”

“Well, what we’re doing is cleaning up after everyone else, so really what difference does it make?!” Your hiss was hot against his face.

“Do it right. And do it faster.”

“If I promise to shelf these stupid books right, do you promise to get off my ass?”

“If I could waste a birthday wish on that, Y/N, I would.”

“Okay, asshole. Wish granted.”

You snatched the book harsh enough to sting his still bruised wrist and wheeled your cart over to the other side of the shelf. He knew it wasn’t an accident when the wheel almost slammed itself against his toe.

“Agatha Christie isn’t on True Crime, either.”

You looked at him through the gaps of the shelves and flipped him off.  

---

You were far enough away that you couldn’t tell he could overhear, but it would’ve taken halfway across the whole library hall just for him not to catch your hiss of a voice that always found its way to violate his ears.

You only had one friend—the ditziest girl in the whole school and the only one who could deal with your shit, probably because every word you say to that girl would be gusted away by the wind in her ears. Penny, with her sweet voice, whistle-noted her way past the shelves until she was prancing in circles around you. Jason had seen this girl sing at a pep rally a few times. One time, he also saw Penny running down the hallway, screaming as you chased her down the school after you let her to wax your eyebrows, and Penny accidentally tore every pluck of hair off your face. Jason remembered you having to go through a month with no eyebrows on.

“Y/N, why are you arranging books?” Penny asked. It was comical how you were friends when Penny was a human daisy and you were a human cactus.

“Because it’s fun, Penny,” you scowled. “I’m in detention.”

“Is it because you stabbed Maxwell with a pair of scissors?”

“I didn’t stab him!”

“Okay!” The girl looked down at her fingers, curling her wildly red hair. “But you must've done a lot of damage, because you're here with Jason Todd."

“I didn’t do—whatever.”

“I saw the fight he was in.”

“No way, dammit, I really fucking wanted to. What happened?”

Penny’s voice lowered. “I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I saw Jason punch Brandon in the face and almost knock him out. He tried to fight back, but Jason was really… something. He just kept beating him down to the ground and didn’t stop until Jerry stopped them.”

“Cool,” you laughed. “Why do I always miss out on fights?”

Everyone in school was repulsed at the sight of Jason since that day.

The only repulsion he felt out of you, a seventeen-year-old gorgon spawn, was your resentment over the fact that you weren’t there to watch it.

“Brandon just came back from the hospital. He got a nose job and everything,” Penny squealed. “I’d be careful around Jason, Y/N.”

“Please. Have I ever been afraid of anyone?”

“No. But he probably isn’t either.”

“He doesn’t seem that scary to me.”

Jason stared at the empty gap where he was meant to put the book in his hand.

 “I’ll see you tomorrow,” Penny said. “Good luck with the shelving.”

She skipped her way down the bookshelves, then stopped when her eyes locked onto Jason.

A normal life. From 9 am to 5 pm every weekday, his life could actually normal.

Take care of it.

“Hi,” he said.

Penny swallowed. “Hi.”

“I’m Jason.”

“I know,” Penny nodded frantically. “I’m Penny.”

He looked her up and down, jumping on her toes. “You a friend of Y/N’s?”

She quickly nodded. Her eyes met everything but Jason’s own.

“I’m not gonna hurt you.”

She looked back at Y/N, who watched the exchange with her sharp fingers, making dents on a book’s hard cover.

“Okay, uhm, nice to meet you, Jason.” She shook his hand. “Y/N said you were cool.”

“PENNY!”

She squealed like a puppy and ran out the door.

---

Ten minutes to closing time, just when he’d gotten used to this silence away from each other’s unmarked territory, you came up to him again. And he thought he could get through this day without hearing another god-awful word out of your mouth.

You handed him a book, looking everywhere but at him.

“I don’t know where this goes.”

You looked exhausted. Your hair was a mess. You looked defeated by your library cart and your pride must’ve shriveled away into coal. He, too was exhausted to make fun of you for it anyway, so he grabbed the book and placed it into the right shelf for you.

“What did Brandon say to you before you punched him in the face?”

He almost slammed a book into his forehead.

“I thought we agreed to leave each other alone.”

“Just tell me what happened.”

“So you can gossip to your little friend?”

“No. I’m just naturally curious about all things violent that happen in school.”

“It’s none of your business.”

He took the last five books in his cart and started shelving them while you uselessly trailed behind.

“I told you what happened to me. Now it’s your turn.”

He wouldn’t look at you and focused on the shelves.

“That fucker deserved it.”

“What did he say?”

“Does it matter?” he snorted. “Everybody saw me throw the first punch, but apparently, everyone was blind and deaf when Brandon talked shit to me before that. Watson wouldn’t believe me.”

“I do. I hate that guy. I wish I had sent him to the hospital. All I’ve done is send him to the nurse’s office for a patch of hair I pulled out of his scalp.”

A harsh breath escaped his nostrils.

“Who’d you fight next?” You leaned against the shelf.

“Excuse me?”

“Those bruises.” You pointed at his temple, where a fresh purple mark formed just from the night before.

He shoved the book hard into place.

“How many times do I have to tell you to mind your own damn business?”

“Next time you pick a fight, make sure it’s on my free period.”

Jason never meant to be so keen on details, but his eyes caught so much that he’d end up with information no one was meant to know. You only pulled out your phone for a second, and already he caught the text from your mom. ‘Dad is here, Y/N. He’ll pick you up in a few mins.’

You hadn’t read it yet. At five minutes until close, you shoved your cart to his hip and waved your hand over his face. “You got the rest of those books, don’t you, Todd?”

A human cactus.

You were out the door before he could throw you another throng of curses.

He assumed you looked at your phone just after that, because Jason heard a metal trash can being violently kicked by what sounded like your combat boots. He walked out of the library, seeing garbage all over the mowed grass just outside the school doors. Jason watched you storm out of the campus, walking to the next intersection. It didn’t look like you wanted to wait for anyone to pick you up.

---

“Now.” Ms. Peterson’s shaky hands placed a cart full of books on Jason’s side of the table, with you sitting right across from him. She wheeled over an empty cart to you, then handed you a clipboard.

“I don’t trust you—" she pointed her finger at you. “—to do this yourself. I don’t care if you don’t get along; you two have to do this together. These books were returned this week, and these kids read like they’re tossing them around the fucking house. List down the damages and place them back into the shelves.”

You slowly turned your head to Jason. It felt like bile about to come out of his throat.  

So much for leaving each other alone for the next nine weeks.

Maybe if the old woman tried to be in the same breathing space as you for two hours a day, she’d know better than to force him in your proximity out of pity.

You picked up an old book from the pile. “How are we supposed to look for new damages? These are older than I am.”

“Just look for any crumples on the covers, and flip through them if you see any rips.”

His thumb went through a whole book in seconds, and he gave the book to you. “That one’s clean. Take the clipboard and list it down. Then place it back in the cart.”

 “Fine.” He heard you mumble a curse word, but he wasn’t even sure what it meant.

“The Picture of Dorian Gray. All good.”

You ticked the box on the clipboard beside the title and got the book from his hand, placing it on the cart. While you did that, he picked up another, went through the cover, flipped through the pages, then gave it to you. “Around the World in Eighty Days. All good.”

Another tick. You placed it on the cart.

You could be civil. Or not. Your next move was as predictable as Gotham’s rain showers. But even after checking thirty books, you haven’t commented on the heat, the dust on the pages, or even Ms. Peterson’s blabber. You went through a whole half hour without saying a word.

If only you were this quiet every day, this job might be enjoyable. Flipping through books and getting to read an excerpt before he placed them back on the shelf was nothing he didn’t already do at the manor.

Like this old edition of Shakespeare’s poetry. Looked like it was from the eighties. For a library run by a school, they had a decent collection of classics.

I knew thee not, yet found my thoughts did stay,Where'er thy voice or shadow chanced to fall;Not love at first, but dawning of the day,Whose light grew soft upon my heart's still wall.

Thou art no flame that burns with sudden might,But ember warm that wakes the winter's chill;Each glance a sunbeam, drawing out the night,Unseen, yet shaping all against my will.

The pages were old, almost crumbling under his fingers. Maybe he could bring this back home. Bruce didn’t have this at the manor.

“Dude”

With an outstretched hand, you were watching him read the book.

Jason had never seen you smile until then.

Something in his chest stopped. Just for a moment.

“Sorry.” He handed you the book. “All good.”

It would have been less surprising if you screamed at him. But you didn’t. You ticked off the list and placed the book into the cart.

“You okay?” he asked,

You refused to look at him, sat back, and distracted yourself with the window. “I’m fine.”

He brought up a book with a torn cover.

“I know. What an animal,” you said.

He placed the book on the side like it was toxic waste. “Take note of that.”

Your voice hadn’t raised a pitch all day.

“Come on,” you said after you finished with the last book. “Let’s get this over with.”

“I like it when you’re nice to me.”

You gagged. “Shut up.”

“You getting the hang of this?”

“Don’t get used to it. Give it three days and you’ll be repulsed by the sight of paper.”

“I read every day, just so you know.”

“Right. You have the Library of Alexandria in your billionaire mansion.”

“I do, actually.”

“You’re a nerd, Todd.”

“Funny.”

You only had one cart to deal with. So, without even acknowledging that you work as a team, you did. Jason took the books and told you where to put them. For some, he didn’t have to. After an hour, you still hadn’t strained his ears about how much your wrists were aching.

It took you not being mind-numbingly annoying for him to notice you liked to hum random songs when it got too quiet in the room.

“This one goes all the way up there,” he told you. “There’s a ladder”

“You go up.”

“No. I don’t trust you.”

“I’m not gonna kill you with a fucking ladder, Todd.”

He snorted. “Sure. You’ll just leave me with all my limbs completely paralyzed.”

“I’m not gonna—” you grunted your throat out, “—fine, fine, I’ll do it. Dickhead.”

You shoved him off and carefully climbed up the ladder while he held it in place.

“If you shake this ladder, I’ll make your death look like an accident.”

“I won’t!”

It did cross his mind. Would be funny to see you squeal.

When you were high enough to reach the top, the library doors slammed open and the walls rattled with it.

Ms. Peterson couldn’t shush the ego out of Brandon’s thick, bruised skull. With a crowd of football goons at his tail, the asshole strutted his way down the bookshelves with hands too big and skin too thick to ever know how to turn a page. “WHERE’S TODD!?”

You stopped, startled. Jason kept his hold on the ladder. If he turned his head and caught that fucker’s newly built nose even once, he can’t promise not to sentence himself another ten weeks in this prison.

“Look at that, JASON TODD TOUGH KNUCKLES HIMSELF. In a fucking library?! You think smart enough to read, Todd?!”

Darkness. So much darkness in his eyes. It was all Bruce saw when he looked into them.

He felt fire through his palms.

“How’d you even learn to read?!” Brandon’s voice echoed for the whole library to hear. “Weren’t you FROM THE STREETS? WEREN’T YOU A STREETKID, TODD?”

A normal life. This was his only shot at it. He once lived in the streets. At night, he goes back to fight for it.

He hoped this normality wouldn’t have to shame him for how much dirt got under his fingers when he was barely old enough to run, how the wetness of mud puddles seeping out of concrete felt, just to sleep on whatever sidewalk wouldn’t freeze him into gangrene.

This time, it wasn’t low enough that no one would believe Jason was provoked. Brandon’s voice echoed for the whole school grounds to hear. Then, when he leaned in to Jason’s ear, he almost ripped the wood shavings off the ladder from his nails.

“You might have left that life, but that’s exactly where you belong. Monsters like you deserve hell—”

If it were any second longer, he would’ve ripped the guy’s throat off in one shove.

But he didn’t get to. Instead, he heard a crash. From dangerously close to his ear, something fell from the ceiling. With Brandon’s breath suddenly no longer harassing his ear, Jason finally turned.

The football linebacker was on the ground, unconscious. On top of his newly-constructed nose, now bent the other direction from last week, was a gigantic five-pound copy of an Atlas. Dust from the book’s untouched age flew across the room. Jason looked up.

You made your way down the ladder, dusting your shoulder off. You took one look at your victim and shrugged.

“What? I told you, I hate him, too.”

---

No one was sent to the office.

Ms. Peterson herself ruled it out as an accident. Everyone saw that Brandon was too close to Jason, holding the ladder. You claimed Brandon pushed on the ladder, and you accidentally dropped the book from your clearly unstable position up the shelves. They believed it. Brandon was sent for another nose job. Suddenly, Jason was no longer the only one in school who’d sent a kid to the hospital.

And still, you haven’t said a word to him. Held nothing against him. Mentioned nothing about what you’d just heard.

Non-coincidentally, people finally started coming up to him, patting his shoulder, telling him things they thought he needed to hear. Sorry. You good? Don’t listen to him. He heard none of that after the fight.

He heard none of that from you now.

At 5:05 pm, with all the books shelved and done, you haven’t even left the room.

On a Friday, when you’ve left earlier on busier days of the week, it was that day you decided you wanted to be in school longer.

You were at the table, arms crossed so tight, it must have hurt your hands. And you refused to look up from the wood of the table. Penny sat in front of you, but she was shoving everything into her bag while you stayed put in your seat, motionless.

“What are you doing Saturday night?”

“I’m dog-sitting for my mom’s boss.”

“What kind of dog?”

“Not sure. He’s got paws and a tail. Maybe he’s an English Paw-Tail! Why, what are you doing tomorrow night?”

“What, you think I don’t have any plans on a Saturday night?!?

“No, I never said—"

“I’ve got a lot of things I’m gonna do. Like tons!”

“Okay—”

“But if you want me to cancel my plans to come hang out with you while you dogsit, then fine.”

“Uhm.”

“Fine, I’ll do it.”

“But you don’t have to—”

“I said I’ll do it!”

Penny squealed, jumping on her toes.

“But you owe me, babygirl...” you huffed, ruffling Penny’s head. The girl ran out the door.

You still were in no rush to leave. You settled into that seat like you’ve melted into the wood.

You did not want to go home at all.

Jason eavesdropped enough for the day. He took the seat in front of you. He wouldn’t let you look away from his eyes.

“What do you want now?”

Troubled kids like him—they never had much of a home. And if they did, they were better off not having one at all.

He thought Bruce was full of shit about seeing darkness in his eyes. But it was all one could see, looking into the eyes of someone with so much rage.

Probably not as dark as his. But it was there. Darkness recognized darkness.

“You’re not leaving?”

You turned to Ms. Peterson, still at her desk. “Place doesn’t close until six. I have a paper to do.”

“Can’t do it at home?”

“Not in the mood, Todd.”

You stood up, but you weren’t heading for the door. You headed for the shelves.

You were the only two left behind in the halls. The lights were dim. For once, it was calm. He liked the musk the books gave off when not a lot of other smells were there to disturb it.  

Jason grabbed a piece of paper from a notebook, scribbled on it when he was sure you wouldn’t see, and shoved it into his pocket.

Jason walked over to you. You ran a light finger down the spines of books he’d just shelved that day.

“Is it the classic literature paper we have to do for the semester?”

You rolled your eyes, pulling out a random book from one of the shelves and skimming through the pages.

“I can help you find a book to do your paper on.”

“You don’t have to talk to me just because I dropped a book on your archenemy’s face.”

“That’s not… why I wanna talk to you…” he sighed, running a hand down his hair.

You leaned your back against the shelf.

“What do you like to read?” he asked.

You shrugged. “I don’t know any of them.”

At the top, in bold black embellishments on the spine of the hardcover, he pulled out a book you probably wouldn’t mind.

Edgar Allan Poe: Collection of Stories

“Since you like all that dark, spooky stuff.”

When you weren’t looking, he shoved the paper from his pocket in between the pages.

“What makes you think I like that?”

“Just try it.”

You grabbed the book from his hands and flipped through the pages. On the cover was the face of a thin man with a funny mustache and a black bird perched on his shoulder.

“We don’t have to tell Mother Goose over there.”

He thought you’d have more to say, or anything to argue for no reason than to argue.

But you just looked tired.

“Thank you.”

You met his eyes, finally. A strand of your hair flew over your nose. You didn’t bother to pull it back.

And if Jason could stand to be around you often, he would’ve noticed how, when you did your makeup, you liked to draw attention to your eyes. And you did a good job at that. It was all shades of black, pulling gazes like a black hole. You painted shadows around the lightness. Jason caught sight of the piercing on your lip, as well. You liked to wear a bigger one after school. He wondered what else he’d come to notice if he got a closer look.

Then you walked past him. Like the books, when it was unmarred with the scents of every other student’s sweat and harsh cologne, you didn’t smell like a cactus. You smelled like black dahlias.

He couldn’t help himself. “Aren’t you gonna ask me what I’m doing Saturday night?”

You flipped him off before leaving the room.

You’d find the note eventually.

He wrote two numbers. The first, his. And the second, a help hotline. You’d know which was which.

You never brought it up. Neither did Jason. He owed you, but it wasn’t because you dropped a book on Brandon’s face.  

No one in school spoke to him after the fight except you.

You were the only one who didn’t flinch when he was in the room.

You were the only one in school and at home who didn’t look at him like they walked over an active landmine.

You saw yourself as a monster so much that you looked at him like he wasn’t one at all.

---

TAGLIST:

Smiles. Even when they were uncalled for. It was so much more painful to do when it hurt every minute that ticked away, every second that carefully tore out every other smidge of hope you always thought there was. It was on you, then. For thinking there was any at all.

Kory looked stunning down that aisle, of course. Like all the other people in the room were rubbish. You couldn’t even watch her. Or him, standing at the end of that aisle with a smile so bright you wished was caused by anything else but her. But it was.

So you had your eyes closed. Or at least tried to.

Until it happened.

The sister. She looked exactly like Kori, except her flowing mane of hair was jet black and her skin burned red. Eyes were white, everything else she had on was dark. Blackfire.

Then the cheers turned into screams. Flower petals turned into broken glass. The fairy lights and décor turned into fire beams and lasers.

If it weren’t in a room full of superpowered heroes and vigilantes, they all would have died right then and there.

In the end, the wedding got called off. Everything was destroyed. Blackfire was sent to space prison and Dick and Kory had to reschedule the wedding.

Three months later, they still weren’t married.

After four months, Dick broke off their relationship entirely.

Five months passed, Kory went back to Tamaran.

At six months, Dick moved to Gotham from Bludhaven.

You never got to talk to Dick about it, or talk to him at all beyond the small exchanges and light conversations over the dinner table at the manor or the chatter by the fireplace. He never mentioned it. You didn’t want to pry. At times, you’d see how he’d stare at the carpet for a minute too long, how his knee suddenly stopped shaking or fidgeting all of a sudden when he got too deep into his thoughts like how he often did when he was bored, and how his laughs felt just a tad bit softer even when the jokes were hysterical.

Everyone told you to let him be for a while, since not even he could get too close to the subject. They told you what he was up to, how he was feeling that day. You tend to ask a lot. Because if there was anything worse than seeing him with someone else, it was seeing him almost destroy his own life part by part over the loss of his love.

No. You weren’t thrilled over what happened. It didn’t give you hope, or let your mind wander over the endless possibilities of what could happen to you, to him, to you both. And even if you had to try so hard, which you didn’t, you couldn’t possibly allow yourself to have some kind of satisfaction over the tragedy, not even when it supposedly served you, what you wanted.

This wasn’t what you wanted. You didn’t want him to lose himself. You didn’t want him to be sunken into an abyss he was trying so hard to come out of.

Eventually, you’ll learn to let go. Properly. On your own pace. Not on anyone else’s.

Almost a year since the incident happened. He was okay now. Made the same jokes he always used to. Brightened up every room he went to. Went out with a few women every now and then. Saying you were used to that last one to the point where it didn’t even bother you anymore was both unnerving and understandable.

Everything was lighter now. Better. Dick was okay.

So why were you so nervous today?

Two pm. He was going to arrive any minute.

Dammit. That canvas. Lying on the floor like you were some kind of slob in a swamp. You went over and placed it against the wall. Plop, it fell right off. Cursing and fixing it up against all the other canvases up in the corner, everything just started to topple down like fucking dominos. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”

You grabbed all the canvases with as much as your arms could carry, frantically looked around your little studio for some kind of rope you could tie these together just so they wouldn’t explode in anyone’s face.

Ding.

“Shiiiii-“

The fucking doorbell, and you didn’t even have any arms to open the door with. You looked to your bedroom, then to your kitchen. Fuck. There was a drawer-shit, it fell to the floor-a drawer right by your bed. You scrambled with your knees shaking harder than the San Andreas fault.

Ding.

“Just a minute!!!”

You stacked them on top of each other, shoved them under your bed, then fixed the mess of a cobweb that was your hair. The mirror must have been kind to you ‘cause you could have sworn you looked like a hobo by now. But there wasn’t any time for that.

Foggy throat cleared, face calm and cool (you hoped), you ran to the door and shook off the nerves.

“Hi, Di-” The door slammed open, only for it to almost pull off the hinges with the chain lock still on. Frantically, you closed it , took off the lock, then swung it again.

“Hi.”

Dick had his hands in his pockets, jacket as blue as his eyes and as bright as the glimmer in its irises. His smile brought both calm and chaos within your veins.

“Sorry. I, uh-“ your thumb pointed to your apartment. “I was cleaning.”

Cleaning?

“That’s okay. Can I come in?”

Poor thing was shivering. “Of course!”

Dick stepped into your apartment and dusted off his clothes. You took his jacket. “Thanks.” Then he ran his long fingers along his black strands.

Putting his coat over the rack, you pulled out the pillows from your lounge chair. “Sit here.”

“It’s fine.” His smile lightened up the room. “Thank you though.”

“Can I get you anything?”

“Just water. Thanks.”

While you went into the kitchen, fumbling with the glass and water pitcher from the fridge, you called out to him. “You can go ahead to my studio!”

“Thanks,” you heard him call you back, then you followed him into the room, handing him the glass.

You already had the paintings lined up for him. Three canvases. Sitting up against the wall in a laid back, almost effortless looking arrangement when in fact, it was a lot of effort. You didn’t want to look like you were trying too hard.

“Christ,” he walked over to the one in the middle. The most recent one you did, one of a birds eye view of the ocean right by the Gotham City docks. “How did you even get this shot?”

“I-uh,” you stood beside him. “It’s a shot from the Batwing. Bruce gave me the footage.”

“And that one?”

Times Square. The building was the only thing on the canvas, but there was so much detail on the windows, on the balconies, and even the neon lights right at the top.

“I took pictures from the street across. They wouldn’t let me stay there with an aisle and all my tools.”

His one knee laying on the ground, Dick took an even closer look at the tower. “Is that a person in the window?”

You looked down. “Yeah…”

“These are incredible.” Dick looked up at you. “I think I’d insult you if I tell you I’m surprised.”

“Well. It was your idea to focus on painting. The blames on you.”

“Nah,” he shook his head, marveling over the canvas. “This is natural talent right here.”

You wished you could bite back the smile as much as you would have liked, but at least his head was turned away.

“How much for these?”

“No. Actually,” you swallowed. “Those are just samples. I wanna make something for you from scratch. Really personalized, you know?”

“Seriously?”

You nodded. “Since you’re permanently moving back to the manor, I thought it would make a good welcome back present.”

His smile was the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen, looking over to you bashfully even when he’s most often the most confident person in the room. You smiled back, but you doubt it was as addicting to watch as his own.

“If it’s not too much trouble-“

“Not at all.”

“I’m really liking this one, though,” He pointed at the third one. One of Bludhaven. From a shot of the city he sent to you himself. Most of the time, you had to work with pictures, and the moment he sent that to you, you just knew you had to paint it. Not for him. For you.

“I’ll make you another one.”

“Y/N-“

“And you don’t have to pay-“

“That, I won't agree to.”

“Dick, it’s a present.”

“This is my way of supporting you. Artists should never do this for free.”

When he placed his hand on your shoulder, you knew there wasn’t any use arguing. He didn’t even know. He’s given you so much support no monetary value could compare to. You didn’t need money.

That, or he didn’t think this present was anything more than a favor or an item to purchase. It shouldn’t be. You knew that. And still you wanted it to be more than that.

Yeah. You were probably making a goof out of yourself if you wouldn’t submit.

This wasn’t a rejection. Telling yourself that should make you feel better.

“Thank you.”

You didn’t look into his eyes when he started walking around the room, at all the other paintings you had laid out. You had a few portraits. One of Bruce, from when he asked you to do one for him a month ago and you still hadn’t finished until now. Who knew his usual scowl was so hard to do? Then there were more landscapes of the city.

“Gotham’s your muse, huh?”

“She’s beautiful when she isn’t so full of shit,” you laughed.

One of more skyscrapers that you laid out to look like Van Gogh’s Starry Night. Another of your works in progress. “I like this one.”

You were right behind Dick as he walked around, taking closer looks at each of them. A few drawings were up on the walls.

“Is that us?”

You went over to his side. “Yeah… It’s a painting I want to do.”

A rough sketch of the whole family. Bruce standing at the top most of the manor’s grand staircase. Dick on the step below. Then Jason leaning against the railing, the only one who wasn’t smiling. Tim sitting with his knees up. Barbara looking beautiful in a bright smile on the same step as Tim. Then Steph sitting on the railway. You standing right beside Steph, arm wrapped around her. Cass with her arms crossed. Duke at the bottom . Then of course, the kid who practically owned the whole manor, little Damian on the ground, at the center with a smug grin and his arms up his chest.

Even if people were to take a second look, they’d think you were a normal, functional family.

“This,” Dick’s jaw was on the ground. “Deserves to be up in the fireplace.”

You snorted. “I haven’t even started on it yet.”

“Oh, I don’t mean the painting. This drawing alone is fantastic.”

You rolled your eyes. “Thank you.”

Biting his lips, he had that same simper of disbelief radiating through even more compliments you couldn’t answer to. You let it get to you. For a while.

It wasn’t exactly going to get any better.

Though your definition of better, shouldn’t be at there all.

“Y/N, I can’t thank you enough.”

You held up your hand. “You’ve been gone from home for too long. I’m just glad your back.”

He walked down to the three paintings you had out for him. “So these paintings are just samples?”

“Yeah. I wanna know which kind you prefer, since you only asked of one of the city. It can be neither of them. Just something that you actually want in your room.”

“Y/N, these are all so amazing as it is.”

“Still.”

Were you doing too much? Were you asking too much? Were you giving too much?

Most fucking probably.

But then he gave you that smile again, the one you dream about for years. One that’s driven you to do so many good things, for others and for yourself.

Your response was with a smile of your own, though it carried with it some remnant of pain from his wedding day.

“So… which one would you like?”

He looked at the paintings again.

“Bludhaven. I guess it would be nice to have some part of it in my room.”

You nodded. “Of course.”

“Trust me. Don’t feel any pressure. I can promise myself this will be the best thing ever.”

Your eyes were stuck to your feet, because if you looked up at his own, you weren’t sure what you might end up saying.

“Thank you. It means a lot. Coming from you.”

His eyebrows were up to his forehead. “Really? I don’t think there’s anyone who doesn’t like your work.”

Yeah. But it’s not the same when it’s coming from you, you asshat.

“I’ll uh-“ You rushed over to your sketchbooks, pulled out your pencil and went over beside Dick. He was smiling at you. “What do you think about the skyline looking like this? Like it was taken from eastern bay.”

You did a quick outline of skyscrapers and a bridge extending to one side, a lone island and clouds on top of it. He nodded. “That looks great.”

“Alright,” you looked up, saw the slight lines at the corners of his eyes and the even more miniscule details on his face that was staring back at you.

“Nice sketchbook.”

“Oh,” you grinned at it, looking over the knitted covers and the expensive looking paper that had hundreds of leaves within its spine. “Thank you. I get one of these every year.”

“You buy them yourself?”

“I don’t. They’re way too expensive.” You placed it on the table. “I get them as a gift.”

“From who?”

“I, uh...” you didn’t want to get into this. “Anyway, would you like to stay over?”

Dick shook his head. “I’d love to, but I have to get going. Some other errands to run. Sorry.”

You nodded. “Of course.”

Hands fidgeting, then stopping when you realized they were fidgeting, Dick stood in front of you and beamed with his million dollar smile. You tried not to look back up at him.

“How are you, Y/N?”

You chuckled. “I’m okay.”

“We’d all love for you to come back to the manor…” He rubbed the back of his neck.

Lips in your teeth, he didn’t look like he was expecting much of a response other than a bashful smile and a shake in your head.

“I mean… I’d love for you to come back to the manor.”

Eyebrows up, you stared back at him. “You would?”

“Of course. It’s been a long since we just hung out. Stop over every once in a while.”

“I, uh-“ you swallowed. “I actually do have to go there next week. Bruce is asking me to send over his pieces.”

“Cool. I’ll see you then.”

You went with him to the door, watched him put on his jacket. “I’ll call”

“Come on, don’t act like I’m some stranger, Y/N.”

It was sad, how casual it was when he pulled you with his arms. His embrace wasn’t so tight, but it was warm. Nose stuck to his shoulder and masking your other raging emotions with a light laugh, you closed your eyes and let the split second last longer than it actually did.

Yeah. You still had it bad. No matter what you seemed to do, it just wouldn’t go away.

He swayed about, patting your back. “Thank you, Y/N.”

“You’re welcome.”

“And,” he pointed his hand at you, then scrunched it up to a fist. “Send me a list of movies you wanna watch. We’ll go through a few of them at the manor. Like we used to.”

“With everyone else?”

“Nah,” he placed his hands in his pockets. “Just us.”

He walked out the door. You closed it behind him and placed the chain lock back.

That encounter lasted ten, fifteen minutes?

It felt both longer and shorter than that. Like a thousand years and a millisecond were the same length.

You were just thankful you didn’t mess up or do anything as embarrassing as you worried it might be.

But it wasn’t as if it was new, or that the nerves and the chills and the blood rushing about was anything you weren’t already used to. Careful around him, sure. You had been since you first met him. But terrified? Nah.

You can be so used to walking around coals and fire and not be afraid of getting burned, yet still have it in you to wear something to protect your skin. Just for the sake of surviving. To get through it smoothly. So it wouldn’t hurt as much.

You slumped onto the lounge chair he didn’t take and closed your eyes. You let the hours pass. You let the clock tick away.

Then you jumped at the buzzing in your pocket. Blinking away the beginnings of a nap, you took your phone.

“Tim?”

“Y/N. You free tonight?”

Two hours had passed since Dick left.

“Yeah. What are you up to?”

“Work. I need company.”

“You sure Bruce is okay with you not going to patrol?”

“He has everyone else. Come on. I’m spending the night at the office.”

“Why me?“

“You can bring your sketchbook. ‘Sides. You haven’t been out of the house for a while.”

“The pictures you send me are good enough source material.”

“You draw a lot better when you’re seeing it with your own eyes.”

Standing from your chair and moving over to get your sketchbook and pencils, you scoffed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know where to meet me.”

He hung up, then you scurried around to get your coat.

-----

“Ms. Y/LN.”

You nodded at the doorman, bag over your shoulder. A number of people were already rushing out of the elevators even when it had only been a minute after office hours, so you had to wait a while before an empty one came down for you.

50th floor. A few minutes of silence in the elevator, then you walked out into a dimmed-out hallway where the other employees had already deserted. The farthest end was a door, unlocked just as Tim said. You stepped inside his office and shrugged yourself off your jacket. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

Tim had his reddening eyes glued to his laptop screen, not even giving you a glance up. Tapping away at the keys, you stretched out and basked in the blowing warmth, at the heater that was running at the side. Holding your hands up at the whiff of air, Tim fell to the back of his seat.

“Christ, my back.”

You snickered. “We do tend to get arthritis even when we’re barely into our twenties.”

“No. We usually don’t.”

“Not if you’re Tim Drake.” You walked over to his desk. “What are you working on?”

“Stuff that Bruce shouldn’t be asking from me in two days. A report on why and how we’ll be able to extend to the west coast, if it’s even possible.”

“Wow. Are you endorsing it?”

“I invented it.”

You brushed back the hair he hadn’t even noticed had fallen into his eyes. One of the reasons why it was almost bulging red. Your exhausted best friend took your hand away and snarled, though it wasn’t without a smirk.

“Then quit complaining. If it’s your idea, it’s your job.”

“I complained about back pains, not the work.”

You leaned back against the table and watched him type.

“Are you really spending the night here?”

“As long as I have to. Then I head back to the manor.”

“And you want me to stay?”

He stopped typing and looked up at you, eyes wide. “Please.”

“Fine.”

You settled yourself on the couch near his desk. “What have you been working on lately?” he asked.

Shrugging, your eyes were on the ceiling. “The portraits for Bruce, mostly. And the portrait of Bruce.”

“I assume that must be dreadful.”

“It’s hard painting his jaw and not give away the fact that he has Batman’s jaw.” You held your hand out. “You just need to cover his eyes and squint. And boom, his identity’s given away. Can’t do that in person but you certainly can to a painting he wants on his foyer that everybody’s gonna see.”

“I never actually thought Bruce wants that.”

“Neither did I.”

“What are his other requests?”

“One of Thomas and Martha. One of the manor.”

“The man wants a painting of the manor in the manor?”

“Yup.”

“When you have the money, I guess.”

“I know. He’s paying me five months’ worth of rent.”

Tim rubbed on the corner of his eye, his hands hovering motionless over his keyboard for a second. You looked over to him.

“You don’t have to, you know. If you just move back with us.”

“I know.”

“You sure you don’t want to? With Dick around now?”

Mouth ever so slightly curving up the side, a long breath escaped your nostrils. “I’m over him.”

“You sure about that?”

When you turned back up to the ceiling, closed your eyes while you had your arms hugging your chest, you heard him tapping on his keyboard after a few seconds of you not answering his question.

“He came over to your house today?”

“Yeah. I’m doing a piece for him.”

“What of?”

“Bludhaven. For his room.”

“Welcome back gift, ey?”

“Yeah. I hope he likes it.”

It almost seemed like he snorted at that. “He’d be stupid not to. I was also gonna ask you to do a piece for me.”

Your eyebrow raised even with your eyes closed. “Really?”

“Yeah. For my office.”

“Tim, I’m doing just fine. I’m not exactly surrounded by butlers and limos but it doesn’t mean I’m struggling.”

“Hey, don’t take it that way,” he said. “We all just love your work.”

“A bit too much, if you ask me.”

“You get better everyday. We’re appreciating it just enough. Like how you deserve to be appreciated.”

You didn’t take that to heart.

This painting all started as a way to let out the trauma, to get out of a life that had taken its toll on you the worst way it possibly could.

This was them feeling bad for you. This was a charity.

It didn’t, however, mean you were going to say no.

You hated it, but you weren’t stupid enough to refuse the cash. You liked having nice things.

“What piece would you like me to do?”

“Your call. You know what I like.”

‘Almost everything then, that’s what you wanted to say back.

A while of lounging around on the couch. A few hours, perhaps. You might have taken a nap, because your head had gone foggy and your eyes were salty when you awoke and the sky had gone completely dark.

“Tim, you should take a break.”

Was that his third cup of coffee sitting on his desk?

Again, with his hair covering his eyes, he had his one hand over his lips, eyes narrowed onto the blue screen that looked painful staring back at him so brightly. He sighed, then rubbed his eyelids with his fingers.

“Come on.” You took his jacket and threw it at him. “Take me up the balcony. Get some air.”

He looked too exhausted to speak. But after you’d gone over to his side and pushed his shoulder, he hissed and closed his laptop. “Fine, jeez.”

Tim looked like a polar bear pulled out of his iceberg when you had him off his desk. He shuffled into his coat, then you both walked out of the room and into the elevators. You held onto your sketchbook and a few pencils.

The balcony at the 70th floor. You haven’t been there for a while. You actually haven’t been in Wayne Tower the past few months at all. So when you stepped out, walked down the hall until you reached the balcony, the heights, the winds, the lights, and the stuttering noises went straight through you, gave you that static-like image that usually resonated within your senses when you sketched out Gotham City.

You sat on the marble railing, swung your legs up on the ledge and placed your sketchbook against your knees.

“You sure you wanna do that?”

You rolled your eyes. “Stop acting like I didn’t use to jump across rooftops.”

Tim was stifling a laugh, not sure if he should. So you pulled out an empty page and started with LexCorp a few blocks away from you. Tim went to sit next to you, then pressed his back against yours while pulling his feet up the same position. He was warm, leverage enough so your back wouldn’t end up hurting after a few minutes. He let you have your silence.

A wide balcony. Half of the page should be of it alone. Though it was just the silhouette, you traced out how the railings looked like if you were standing a few feet back.

Your head tilted to the left the way it does when you went on with your work.

You felt Tim’s back rise, then slowly soften.

“You alright back there?”

“Yeah. I am.”

“You don’t feel like it.”

“I am.” You felt his shoulder slightly brush against yours. You just shook it off then let the edge of the pencil flow lightly over what should be the sky.

A few more minutes, then a helicopter flew over your heads. When it went away, Tim’s head suddenly fell back to your shoulder.

Warmth. Like what he’s always given you. You stayed as still as you could and let the smile that was eventual and gradual creep up your lips.

“You’ll fall off if you fall asleep on me.”

“I think all that coffee’s not going to make me fall asleep for the next few days.”

Laughing, you just let him lean against you. then his head shifted so he was looking over your shoulder.

“That’s looking good.”

“You think?” You held up the notebook. “That’s us.”

Two kids sitting on the railings, with the view of the city right at their feet. Backs up against each other, shaded with the darkest black. The girl was leaning against the boy’s shoulder, quite the opposite of what was actually going on.

You felt Tim smile his mouth off. “Can I have that?”

“Hold on. Lemme finish this.”

The bat signal. Shining right at the horizon. Then you went over more of the details. The tiny lights on the windows. The helicopter that just passed by. The ocean far off.

Tim was watching you.

Not your hand. Or the drawing.

You.

A few more minutes, then you carefully ripped the page off the book. “Here.”

“Thanks.”

He folded it up, then carefully put it into his pocket. Then he placed his head against your shoulder again.

You did the same.

“I missed you.”

You laughed. “It’s not like we don’t see each other often.”

“I know. I miss seeing you everyday.”

Your head up at the sky, heart in your throat.

“Me too…”

Then you found yourself closing your eyes.

Legs dangling off the ledge on opposite sides, you both spent the next hour in silence, leaning against each other.

You and Tim on the rooftops. Just the two of you. Laughing. Sharing a drink. Doing homework even.

They were always the best times.

“Shit,” he looked at the time on his phone. “Come on. If I can finish half of it in three hours, we might actually get to go back to the manor to get some sleep.”

“Tim-“

“Just a night,” he slipped off onto the ground, then everything felt so much colder around you. “Please. Everyone’s out anyway.”

You shut your eyes.

But even when you expected yourself to decline, you ended up nodding and sliding your torso to turn back towards the building, . “Fine. But only because you’re taking me- Fuck…”

You moved too fast. You fucking moved too fast. Shit.

“Y/N, don’t move-“

Tim rushed to your legs, held his hands over the back of yours that was touching the metal where flesh and skin was supposed to be.

You tried to flinch away how you always do when someone does so much as lay a finger on you or your fucking limb when it was uncalled for, but Tim’s hands were soft and gentle. And you were also 70 stories above ground so jumping away wouldn’t be the best idea.

“Tim, I’m fine-“

“Let me help.”

“I’m fine… shit…”

Stinging nerves, all the way up your thigh when you tried to move it yourself. That’s when Tim ignored you and went ahead to hold it himself.

It was too late into the night for you to argue. So you pulled your hands away and let him slide your leg over the railing, dangling it onto the edge towards him.

“May I?”

Now facing him, both legs hanging just inches away from the ground, you placed your weight on your hands and nodded.

Tim knelt in front of you, then pulled your loose jeans up to your knee.

You felt disgusted at yourself, and you hated how he wasn’t, hands over the silver steel that replaced your skin, at the rods and wires that replaced your bones, where tiny stubs of metal stuck out in place of actual toes. You held your breath, then Tim looked up at you, hands soothing just below your knee.

He didn’t look like he pitied you. There was that.

That, or he just mastered the art of hiding his pity and instead, look at you like he was just trying to take care of you.

Which he was. You weren’t about to rob him of that credit.

Tim unlatched the bionic limb, then pulled it off of what was left of your leg. A stub of skin, where it had healed about three inches down from your knee, was burning red.

“Must have caused a bit of stress.”

You shrugged. “I’ll be fine. It happens a lot.”

Tim’s fingers over the marks of pink, you felt how gentle he was, the callous that had formed over the years, at the warmth that came with his palms rubbing over your skin. Your eyes were all on him.

Then he looked up at you, without stopping his hands.

Another set of blue eyes, quite different from the last pair you saw earlier that day. Though it must have been because of the dark, his reflected the light from the city skyline just a bit better.

Tim looked at you the same way he always did for years. It didn’t make your skin fluster, or your stomach churn.

You felt at home.  

You smiled at him, then he smiled back before he looked back down at your leg.

Tim was the only one you’d ever let do this.

After a longer while of massaging your knee, he placed the bionic leg back into place and latched it up.

“Try moving it around.”

This limb costed millions of dollars and only you had a robot leg as good as fucking Cyborg’s, and still it pained when you moved two seconds too fast. You moved your toes about, swayed your ankle. Still with a slight sting, but you could brush it off. Tim pulled your jeans back down and helped you off the railing.

He didn’t speak much on the way down back to his office, and he let you have your nap on his couch for a few more hours while he worked away.

Though, you couldn’t exactly sleep.

You weren’t sure if you were bothered, anxious, or pleased, and you hated how you still considered that last one.

It was in the way he looked at you, touched you so gently. You could tell. You could definitely tell. You told Tim years ago to promise you that he’d stop. And he said he would. Turns out he couldn’t keep that promise.

Tim still loved you.

Carefully, without him noticing, you looked back over your shoulder and watched him crouch over his laptop the way that was going to strain his back for the next three months. And you weren’t sure if you liked that it made you smile, when you took too much time watching his eyes and his lips and even his nose scrunching up like a rabbit’s.

You’d think years after you decided to be just friends, and ended up being best friends would let you both move on completely. He dated Steph for a while, even. And still, he wasn’t friends with her now the way he was with you.

It wasn’t at all awkward. It didn’t have to be.

But maybe it wasn’t for the reason you thought.

The sketchbook. The really expensive one you always used up after a few months. It costed about a hundred dollars per piece, and you get one every single year along with other art materials like charcoal pencils and canvases and paint.

And they always arrived right at your door every Valentine’s morning.

No name. No tag.

You thought it was from Bruce at first, like how he continued to spoil you with just about everything else with commissions and pieces he didn’t even need but claimed to want for his new mantle at the office or a wall in one of his condos.

But it was all too intimate and personal.

After the third year, you found out it was from him.

You could tell with how it was all wrapped and carefully arranged. Only from his hands, and how gentle they can be when he held you…

You fell asleep on that couch, clutching the sketchbook to your chest.

----

It was past five in the morning when Tim finally stood up from his desk. You were well into your sleep, then you felt his hand on your shoulder, shrugging you awake.

“Huh?”

“Come on. Let’s get some sleep at the manor.”

Groaning into the couch’s fabric, Tim took fifteen minutes pulling you to stand until he finally got you on your feet. He helped you with your coat, then on the taxi home you fell asleep on his shoulder, and he fell asleep with his cheek on your head.

You got to the manor, stretched out, then just as the sun had fully greeted you, you both walked into the foyer. Alfred was still freshly awoken.

“Master Tim, where on earth have you been?”

“The office.”

“The off- never mind. Miss Y/N, I’m happy to see you.”

“Hey Alfred,” you yawned and gave the butler a hug.

“Will you be sleeping in your room?”

“Yes please.”

He nodded, then you and Tim walked over to the steps.

“Wait.” You backed away. “I want water. You go ahead.”

The zombie that was Tim Drake didn’t even turn his head to you as he lugged himself up the stairs. You dragged your feet to the kitchen, stretching out your arms. It was way too fucking early for this.

You reached into the fridge and grabbed the ice-cold pitcher of water, held up an empty glass, then poured it in.

You brought the glass up to your lips.

You closed the fridge door.

Then felt the freezing cold surge up your nose, your eyes pop open from the crust and saltiness that had formed over your eyelids, then your throat started to close up and you coughed the water out of your hacking mouth.

“J-Jason?”

A towel covered his face when he first walked in, which meant his arm was up and his muscles were flexing when his bulked up bare chest was practically screaming into your eyes. Eight pack abs. Pecs stronger than steel. Ripples on his sides. And his fucking arms that could tear apart a block of wood in one pull.

It was too much of a convenience that he was rubbing the sweat off his hair so much that he couldn’t see you with your jaw on the ground. Every muscle in your body tightened, screamed, then just as Jason looked up at you, drenched hair flopping onto his eyes, you immediately looked away and pretended your own throat wasn’t choking you right then.

He walked towards you. Fuck.

“Hey, pretty bird.”

That low, husky voice…

You nodded. “H-hey,” you choked. “What are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here?”

You drank the whole glass in one gulp, then you opened the fridge once again to pour in even more water.

“I came with Tim. I was with him in the office.”

“Oh,” he leaned against the counter right beside you, and all your eyes that were fucking defying you right then could look at were the veins popping out of his biceps.

“Why are you here?”

He pouted. “I always train this early.”

“You come here all the way from your apartment at five in the morning?”

“Since a few days ago, yeah.”

“Why?”

He scoffed. “No gym on earth has Bruce’s equipment.”

“Ah.” You went through the whole glass again. The sweat was starting to pour down his chest.

Placing it onto the kitchen counter just inches away from Jason’s body, you were practically floating out of the kitchen. As fast as you could. “I’m going back to sleep.”

“Bye, pretty bird.”

Up the stairs. Into your old room. Away from anyone else.

You fell to your bed, but you couldn’t sleep a single wink.

And you weren’t even sure why.

Or who.

-----

 MASTERLIST | 3 BIRDS 1 STONE MASTERLIST

-----

MAIN TAGLIST:

@everyartistwas-firstanamateur, @sarcasmismyfirstlove, @damned-queen-of-gotham, @idkmanicantenglish, @wunderstell, @birdy-bat-writes, @get-loki, @everyday-imfangirling, @comic-nerd-dc, @multifandomgirl-us, @multifandoms916, @icequeen208, @offendedfishnoises, @egdolan, @xemiefx, @arkhamtoddler, @elsenthal, @mythicbitchx, @lucy-roo, @roseangel013bf, @loxbbg​, @reclusive-chicken-nugget​, @l-inkage​, @http-cherries​, @shadowsndaisies​, @river9noble​, @zphilophobiaz​, @annoylinglyaries​, @knightfall05x​, @hyp-oh-critical​, @satan-s-ass​, @1-800-starmora​,  @flowersgirl02, @nahcho​

SERIES TAGLIST: 

“I thought you needed it, with you on patrol tonight.”

“How’d you know?”

“It’s Wednesday.”

Wednesdays he patrols the alley, so he won't be getting any shut eye for the whole of the night. And he had an hour, maybe two, before he leaves. Still you convinced him to come with or the lack of company lulls you to boredom. And that wasn’t much an option even when it’d be inevitable having a paper due before AM.

Jason didn’t argue, and he wasn’t much to have caffeine before he goes on patrol. He just took the cup and sipped.

You pulled out your laptop. “Got anything to do for the night?”

From your screen, you looked up and Jason was on his phone. “Errands.”

“Errands?”

“Yeah,” he showed you his screen. It opened a text from Roy. “Is Roy asking you to do something for him?”

“Nah. I just need to reply. It’s been two days.”

“So errands to you is replying to text messages-“

“You know I don’t like texting when it isn’t necessary.”

“You reply to me.”

He snorted and sipped from his cup. “’Cuz you're tolerable.”

“Thanks so much.” You stretched out your fingers. “Now be quiet. I need to finish this.”

You never once would have thought that was the last thing you’d ever say to him that didn’t have any unusual undertones, when you didn’t have to think too much about what you’d say and what light you’d put yourself into. And what was worse, it wasn’t one you’d prepared for, neither was it anything to expect even when it was all in front of your nose for so many years.

“Bathroom,” he said to you after half an hour of silence.

And all else would have stayed that way if you let it. But even that had proven to be something so difficult for you to do.

It started when, out of the gaps from the supposed noise cancelling headphones you got from Wish, his phone rang. It was Roy. Because of those headphones, and how they failed at their one job, you heard that ringtone, the first of this descent, this succession you’d no longer knew how to stop.

You picked up his phone and told Roy he’d call him back.

Another step was looking too closely at his lock screen that opened just as you hung up.

It was taken from a couch. Your couch it seems. The one in your apartment that faced your window. And in front of it, too far for you to recognize immediately but close enough that you’d know, was a head of hair, back turned and facing out the curtains, with an arm outstretched so she was holding the fabric out the way to look out the glass.

Her hair was, however, something you could tell was yours. Because then you remembered the day this picture was taken. You invited him over to your apartment and a parade went on just outside your building. Jason didn’t care for it and stuck to the couch. You wanted to at least take a peek.

But it would have been nothing to think much of if it weren’t for the fact that the whole picture was centered on you, that it wasn’t the curtains or the windows or even the blank wall perfectly shined on was what the photo was so focused on.

It was ignorance, genuine confusion you just wanted an answer to.

But something, some voice perhaps, told you it was a good idea to snoop around your best friend’s phone, because that very voice knew there was so much more to this than you ever would have thought.

Another step you didn’t know would push you further into this fall was guessing his password right the first time.

It was then when you knew there wasn’t any turning back, whatever it was you’d gotten yourself into.

All it was, and all it should be, was a photo of you, one of you turning your back to tell him you’d seen god knows what outside your window, something that seemingly made you smile in a way you’ve never seen yourself before, so raw and candid, one you could never force yourself to have if you tried. Because it seems it came out when you weren’t. A photo that Jason had set as his home screen. All it should be was a photo, and a few taps of his fingers that should mean just as much as saying you looked at all decent. All it should be was pixels, a moment captured just because, something he’d look at amusingly that had nothing to do with depth nor thought.

All it was is you, his best friend, someone he took to prom once and ended up skipping because you had food poisoning that night, and he spent the night holding up your hair with your head in the toilet. All it was is you, the girl who tried and miserably failed to hook him up with so many others because no one seemed to stick with him long enough, longer than just a fling or enough to have meaning.

All it was is you. It was him. It was just Jason.

It can’t be anything more.

You put the phone down just as Jason came back from the bathroom.

“Roy called.” You found it difficult to even talk. “He wants you to call him back.”

The man just scoffed. “All he’s getting is a text outta me. You didn’t have to answer.”

You shrugged. Maybe you shouldn’t have.

But it shouldn’t matter if it didn’t mean anything.

That he didn’t actively choose to have your face to look at every day when you weren’t around, on his phone which he was on so much of the time, even when he barely talks to anyone.

That it wasn’t you, at a moment you didn’t even notice, and a photo he’d cropped out so it was you and you alone that he could see, that he didn’t care for the curtains, the view out the window, or the blank wall, that he only cared to see you.

That he didn’t choose to have you to look at every time he closes an app or sends a text or takes a photo or do anything with that little device.

It shouldn’t be any of those things.

But, even with your efforts not too futile, it didn’t even matter.

Ten years, more than that, without seeing him anywhere near that light.

But not one day out of those years did you remember looking up from where you were sitting quietly across him and notice how lightly his tongue dragged over his top lip to clean off the coffee’s brown, or how he ignores it when his hair tickles his eyelids but can’t stand it when it was on his nose.

You thought you’d never notice how that night, the dark circles under his eyes were more eminent than they’d so often be, how when he answered your call that late afternoon, he’d just woken up from a nap, or more likely, just had the time to at all sleep. How he didn’t even sound like it was a bother and went with you anyway.

How he’s never rejected a night with you at the café even when you thought he would, even when he’d barely do anything more than nap or fiddle with his phone. Sometimes he’d pretend to ask about what you were up to, pretend to be interested.

How he’s never said no to you at all. Even for the most trivial things, even when it seemed so unlike him to be invested in what you do, even when it doesn’t concern him at the least.

You never saw him in that light.

Suddenly he was shining under it brighter than any beautiful woman’s eyes or a concert stadium’s stage lighting.

At one point you couldn’t remember, you were told it was possible to fall in love in a day, and naturally you didn’t believe it. Or if it were true, that it wasn’t at all any deeper than a child’s play pool or a pond outside a garden.

And it was all too unlikely that you’d know all these with what time you had.

But you did.

All it took was an hour. Less than two.

And it was your chest burning, jumping even, that went with your stomach when he slid the small cake he’d ordered over to your side of the table so you could have a bite, even when you knew that little slice was barely enough to stuff him.

It was your eyes that took too long to linger on what was just his face, no longer just a face, but was now one you could stare at for so long as you could see, for so long that you’d take advantage of your sight and choose to only ever look at things so beautiful, such as him.

It was your hands, sweating profusely and defying all effort you’d pathetically exert, how they shook so much you had to fist them just to have some kind of conscious control.

But even that wasn’t possible. You had no control in any of this at all.

It was the opposite of gradual falling, the kind you thought would only bring out something so intense and genuine and at all real, something that’d last and evolve from the frantic beating in your chest into comfort you’d find in no one else.

It wasn’t something you’d seen come from so far and prepared for even with it so clear, that you’d look to yourself and actually watch yourself fall and at all have a say in any of it.

Because, if anything, it was tripping over a cliff that suddenly appeared behind you, or a beaver dam you thought was made of stone, but instead was filled with leaves and branches so brittle and fragile that the water broke through it easier with one, single ripple from its surface.

You watched yourself then, as everything you felt, every ounce of redness in your face that morphed into this fire that never would stop burning even with what you’d try to extinguish, that this shaking in your palms turned to this reeling, this desire to hold something or someone, someone that was him and only him, when you looked up and saw his hand and you realized it was what you were crying out to hold.

Like you’d transcended out your own body and saw what you never thought existed suddenly unfold.  

It wasn’t possible.

But you didn’t even allow yourself the time to deny it.

“Want me to get you more?” Jason asked you, and you realized you’d finished the cake he’d given. And you didn’t even like cake.

“I’d love one.”

Just as he started to get up from his chair, he looked at you quizzically.

“You alright?”

The nod you gave him was too subtle to imply truth, but he didn’t look into it twice. He just got up and bought you another slice.

Then he handed the whole thing to you, took one bite, then gave you the same fork he’d just raked over his lips.

A smile so palpable, a smile you saw him look at and return, for only just so few a second, it stayed and delved into this threshold with him you never would have foreseen.

But it was that very smile that sealed it, that locked you in, and right then you knew that perhaps, this was what you’ve wanted in a good life for so long.

It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be.

You couldn’t possibly have fallen in love with him in eighty-three minutes.

But at the end of it, you didn’t even try to deny.

You did.

-----

MASTERLIST

-----

A/N: Let me know if you want on my taglist!

-----

MAIN TAGLIST: