Red Hood, Green Heart
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Red Hood, Green Heart
Masterlist
Jason Todd has died before-and he hasn't quite come back whole. Haunted by shadows of his past and the weight of justice in Gotham, he finds comfort only in silence and the static crackle of Alfred's voice in his comms.
That is, until the night a portal rips open above him and a very unexpected visitor-blue-skinned, horned, and definitely not from this world-crashes straight into his life. Literally.
You're a druid from the forests of the Forgotten Realms, on a peaceful path of healing and harmony⌠until a bandit ambush and a wild spell gone wrong land you flat on top of a masked stranger in a dark, alien city.
Jason doesn't do magic. You don't do guns. But somehow, between Gotham rooftops and druidic spells, trauma and trust, gunfire and green growth-you might just change each other's worlds.
Stats and things to note/ what characters look like.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chaoter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Taglist
@ggsenkabrns @givemefinganame @Paki777 @batfamilyfanatic

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Chapter 2
Previous | Masterlist
Jason Todd POV
This.
This was not how his night was supposed to go.
He was supposed to stop a few weapons runners, maybe intimidate a low-level thug into giving up intel, and then hit that grimy diner on 9th Street for a terrible cup of coffee and a sandwich full of regret. Simple. Standard Red Hood schedule.
NotâŚ
Whatever the hell this is.
Jason revved the engine and took a hard turn, the bike growling under him like it wanted to bite the road. Trash flew up from the street corner, and the lights of Gotham blurred by in flickers of sodium yellow and neon blue.
And sitting right in front of him on the metal bar of his custom-built, definitely-not-designed-for-passengers bike?
A pigeon.
A fat, smug, slightly molting pigeon.
Just sitting there.
Crook, apparently.
The bird didnât flinch at the wind. Didnât budge when the tires screeched around a corner. Just fluffed up, looked left, then back at Jason like he was bored of going only 85 mph.
âBirdâs got a death wish,â Jason muttered, eyes narrowing behind the red lenses of his helmet.
Crook cooed, slow and nonchalant â like he agreed but wasnât bothered.
Jason was going to lose his mind.
And then there was you.
You, clinging to his back like he was the last tree in a hurricane, arms locked around his chest. Your robes billowed out behind you like a kite about to be ripped in half. He could feel your breath against his armor â short, shaky, and very, very close.
Oh â and your tail?
It was wrapped around his ankle.
At first, he hadnât noticed. Then he tried shifting his foot and nearly drove into a mailbox.
âWhat theâ?!â he growled under his breath, looking down for a split second.
Yep. Still there.
Smooth and sinuous, a prehensile tail looped around the bottom of his boot, holding on like a seatbelt with opinions.
âThis is insane,â he muttered, jerking the bike onto a side street. âThis is so far past insane.â
But the pièce de rÊsistance?
Your horns.
Theyâd scraped against his helmet at least six times now.
At first it was subtle â a bump as you leaned too close when he accelerated. Then it happened again. And again. And again.
Now it was just a whole situation.
Scrape.
Jason gritted his teeth.
You made a soft noise behind him â maybe an apology, maybe a prayer.
âOkay,â he muttered to himself. âSo Iâve got a magical wounded blue lady with a giant stick, horns, and a clingy tail on the back of my bike. And her rat-with-wings pet is riding shotgun. Totally normal Gotham night.â
He swerved around a pothole the size of a small child and tried not to think about how warm you felt against his back. Or how even after getting shot and bleeding all over a rooftop, youâd had the guts to summon a literal bird to chat about the city.
Who was this woman?
Another bump â another horn tap.
Jason exhaled sharply.
âLady,â he called over the engine, âI swear if you chip my helmetââ
âIt is not my intention!â your voice called back, distressed. âI am very much holding on for my life!â
Another bump.
Scrape.
ââŚYeah. I noticed.â
Another turn. Another horn scrape. Another little tail squeeze around his ankle. Jason had resigned himself to this chaos. This ride was cursed. Gotham was cursed. He was cursed.
And then, it got worse.
Or better?
No. Definitely worse.
You shifted, just slightly â a flinch maybe, when he hit a rough patch of road â and suddenly, Jason went rigid as he felt you press even closer to his back.
And not just in a clinging-for-dear-life way.
Oh no.
You had, as he was very suddenly and physically aware, a lot going on up front â and now it was all flattened firmly against his back armor. Jason clenched his jaw.
His grip on the throttle tightened.
Donât you fucking think about it.Â
The smooth curve of your body, the warmth of your chest molded against him, even through his suitâ
âFocus on the road, Hood,â he growled to himself through gritted teeth. âDonât die because of boobs. Thatâs not how you go out.â
You shifted again, clearly trying to stay stable â but your movement just made it worse, and your breath hitched right by his ear.
Jason swore internally.
Crook, still perfectly unbothered up front, turned his head and gave Jason a long, blank look.
âDonât judge me,â Jason snapped.
Crook cooed. Judgingly.
Jason nearly took a turn too fast just to throw him off.
Behind him, you made a soft, pained sound â a little sigh, followed by a whispered, âForgive me, warrior⌠I am most unpracticed in taming such violent beasts of iron and fire.â
Jason blinked. Violent beast of iron andâ? Oh. The bike.
âItâs a motorcycle,â he said, loud enough for you to hear.
âMy apologies⌠this âcycleâ doth snarl like a wyvern with a stone in its talon.â
Jason snorted before he could stop himself. âWyvern. Right.â
You pressed even closer.
Jason stared straight ahead, absolutely not reacting.
âAre⌠are you alright?â you asked, voice a little weaker now, like your wounds were creeping back into your attention.
No. He was not alright.
But for very different reasons than you meant.
âPeachy,â he muttered.
This is fine. Everything is fine.
You loosened your grip just slightly to adjust your position, which only made things worse, somehow. Jason exhaled hard, cursed under his breath, and made the next turn fast enough to rattle even Crookâs feathers.
You yelped and clung tighter.
Jasonâs helmet knocked forward a bit. Scrape. Scrape.
âGodââ He let out a breath like a volcano that needed therapy. âAlmost there. Just hold on.â
You nodded against him, voice soft and a little dreamy: âI⌠I am grateful, kind knight.â
Jasonâs eye twitched.
He gunned the throttle.
Y/N POV
The beast roared beneath you once more.
A snarl of metal and fury, of clattering chains and grinding rage â you held on to the leather-clad warrior before you as though your very soul would be cast into the void should you let go.
Which, truthfully, was not far from what this experience felt like.
You pressed your cheek closer to his back â which, thankfully, was broad and solid â though the strange, armored leather made for an unkind pillow. Still, the sheer terror you felt outweighed the discomfort. Your arms clung around his middle, your clawed fingers digging into his chest, gripping him as tightly as you could.
The scent of metal and smoke bit at your sensitive nose. Your tail wrapped around his leg, squeezing with each wild turn. You feared you would be flung from this terrible creature of speed and fire.
And your body â oh gods, your bodyâ You were far from composed.
Your bosom, ample and heavy from your kindâs generous form, had flattened firmly to the manâs back as you pressed in closer and closer for safety, and still he gave no reaction, only grunted occasionally beneath that strange red helm.
It was not as though you noticed. Not truly. Your mind was far too occupied with not dying.
Your breath came in gasps, your eyes squeezed shut, and your legs had â at some point â latched fully to his sides.
âBy the stars,â you whispered, âI shall never ride such a beast againâŚâ
The man â Jason, you recalled â made a strange, tight sound in his throat, something between a growl and a sigh.
You whimpered as the beast beneath you jerked again and you pressed even harder to him, your fangs clenched, one of your claws clinging to the edge of a strap over his heart.
âPlease, great warrior,â you choked out, âmay this torment end swiftlyâŚâ
You felt him stiffen.
â...or I shall surely perish of dread and shattered dignity both.â
He muttered something incomprehensible over the roar of wind, and you dared to peek one eye (e/c) open. Metal towers blurred by in streaks of gray and shadow. You saw great glowing signs, strange glowing runes you could not read, and the flash of lights like lanterns possessed.
âWhat manner of realm is thisâŚ?â you thought to yourself.
Whatever sort of place you were thrown into it was clearly a place of chaos and strange machines.
And you had fallen straight into the arms â and now lap â of one of its brooding armored warriors.
You gritted your teeth and prayed silently to whatever druidic spirits might hear you:
Please let the metal beast stop soon. Please let my stomach stop twisting. And please do not let this human notice how scandalously I cling to himâŚ
The world continued to blur.
Not through tears â though surely, you were not far from weeping â but from sheer speed. Buildings passed like wind-blown ghosts, their shapes warped by velocity. Light flared and faded in dizzying flashes, and the monstrous thing beneath you howled its fury across the cityâs steel veins.
You were quite certain your soul had left your body at least twice already.
âBy the antlers of the Elder Stag,â you whispered breathlessly, your voice lost to the roar of wind and machine, âby the moss-woven throne of the Forest Queenâif I survive this madness, I shall never step foot on another of these cursed wheeled demons.â
The manâJasonâsaid nothing, but you felt his chest shake slightly beneath your fingers. Laughter? Or perhaps just the tremors of the beast you both rode. You dared not open your eyes again. The last time you had, your vision had been filled with streaking lights and a metal box on wheels that nearly scraped you in passing. Your shriek had surely drawn the attention of all nearby spirits.
Jasonâsaid nothing, but you felt his chest shake slightly beneath your fingers. Laughter? Or perhaps just the tremors of the beast you both rode. You dared not open your eyes again. The last time you had, your vision had been filled with streaking lights and a metal box on wheels that nearly scraped you in passing. Your shriek had surely drawn the attention of all nearby spirits.
Your claws digged into Jason's chest even deeper when a particularly hard tremor made the bike shake. You feared slicing through his strange armored leathers, yet you feared far more what would happen should you let go.Â
You felt your heart lurch. You felt your horns scrape lightly against the back of his helm.
Again.
Gods help you, again.
âCrook!â Jason suddenly barked, clearly not to you. âIf you peck my damn jacket one more timeâ!â
You blinked in confusionâyour eyes still closedâthen realized he was speaking to the pigeon.
Oh. Yes. Crook.
Somewhere in front of the warrior, the little bird must be making themself quite comfortable somehow.
Jason grumbled again.
âStupid rat-with-wings⌠You got feathers in my damn visor. Know what I'm going to do, I'm gonna turn you into soup.â
You gasped. âHe is only a humble creature of the sky!â
âYeah? Well the humble creature of the sky just took a dump on my throttle hand!â
You wouldâve laughed if you werenât too busy contemplating death. As it stood, you merely let out a strained soundâhalf whimper, half broken prayerâand clung tighter to Jason's sides, your cheek pressed flat to his back, breathing in through your nose in shaky huffs.
It smelled like leather. oil. Sweat. And that sharp metallic tang of a strange smoke.
It was nothing like the pinewood groves or the clean air of the Everdeep Glades.
âPlease,â you whispered, voice nearly lost to the rushing wind, âOh gods of grove and stream, hear this frightened daughter of bark and star. I beg thee⌠still this beast of shrieking steel. Let me survive this trial, and I vow I shall kneel at every glade, plant a hundred trees, never mock the song of the wind again. I shall speak to no mushroom out of turnâŚâ
Jason let out a soundâperhaps a grunt, perhaps a scoffâand shifted slightly beneath you. You took the movement as a terrible sign and braced harder.
âYou know I can hear you, right?â he shouted over his shoulder, voice wry. âMushrooms?â
You flushed, horror washing over you.
You had spoken aloud.
All of it.
Still clinging, you hissed through your clenched fangs, âYou were not meant to hear my oaths! That was a sacred entreaty to the forces of nature!â
âWell tell the forces of nature,â Jason growled, swerving around something with expert precision, âthat youâre squashing the circulation out of my ribs.â
You gasped and tried to loosen your grip. Immediately, the wind roared past your face harder, and you clamped down again.
Jason groaned. âGreat. Back to koala mode.â
âI do not know what a ko-ah-la is,â you chattered, voice thin with panic, âbut if it is a creature that clings in mortal terror to something it cannot understand, then yes. I am such a beast.â
Another irritated pigeon-squawk echoed faintly ahead, followed by Jason snapping, âCrook! I swear if you fucking shit on me againâ!â
âI shall knit you a new tunic!â you cried over the wind, hoping to salvage peace between the man and bird. âOne of woven vines and blessed moss!â
âLady,â Jason shouted back, âunless itâs bulletproof, I donât want it.â
You buried your face into his shoulder with a pitiful groan, your tail twitching as the monster-machine slowed.
At lastâfinallyâthe beastâs howl began to dim, the vibrations under you less violent.
You peeked.
You were descending into some dark alley, winding into a narrow corridor of stone and shadow, and the war-cries of the machine faded into a low purr.
Had you survived?
Had your prayers⌠been answered?
Jason eased the machine to a halt, boot touching the ground. You were still clinging like your life depended on it.
âWe're here,â he said flatly.
You opened your eyes fully, blinking against the light of a distant flickering lantern.
âWe⌠live?â you whispered in disbelief.
He snorted.
âYeah. For now. You gonna let go, or you wanna stay glued to my spine the whole time?â
You felt it.
Air
Not the kind that rushed you and made you pray for safety.
 Real, unmoving, blessed calm air â met your lungs. You gasped it down like water in the desert, your face still pressed to the armored back of the warrior who had become your unwilling anchor through this torment. Your knees gave a final wobble of protest as you released him, and before you dismounted the infernal hell steed, you slowly reached behind your back with stiff, clawed fingers and pulled your staff from where it had been lashed.
It hummed softly with the spirit-bound power within its ancient grain.
"Be still now," you whispered to the runes carved into its bark. âThy mistress hath endured a grave peril⌠but still she draws breath.â
The spirit within flickered faintly in agreement. You leaned the staff gently against the side of the great metal beast, which still hissed and pinged with residual heat, then slid down from the seatâ
And collapsed.
Crook let out little coos as he continued to stay perched on the red beast.Â
The ground met you with a solid thud, though your knees had buckled long before that. You slumped down in a tangle of robes and limbs, your chest rising and falling with ragged heaves.
Your horns ached from clacking against his helm. Your tail had cramped from coiling about his leg like a desperate vine in a storm. Your ears still rang from the windâs screeching cry.
You were, to put it plainly⌠undone.
"Oh blessed Mother of the Moonlit CanopyâŚ" you groaned as you pressed your forehead to the earth. "Oh Windfather⌠Root-Keeper⌠Flame-Watcher... or whateâer divine ears may hear meâthank thee. Truly. I swear it, never again shall I scoff at the rituals of spring. I shall sing every dusk-song. I shall bless each sprouting acorn. Justâjust never again allow me upon such a cursed creature as that."
You heard a low scoff above you.
Then, flatly: âYou done?â
You peeled open one eye. Jason stood beside the demon-borne steed â helmet still on, arms crossed, stance relaxed in that infuriating way of his. As though the tempest youâd barely survived was nothing but a midday stroll.
Still sprawled upon the cold earth, you breathed out slowly, then gave a weak nod.
"Aye," you rasped. "I believe... I believe the storm has passed."
âGood,â Jason muttered. âBecause this is the part where normal people get up.â
With a grunt, you tried.
You truly did.
But the moment your knees unbent and your weight shifted to your legs⌠they refused.
Completely.
The exhaustion, the adrenaline, the sheer spiritual offense youâd endured from the beast beneath you had left your limbs as stiff as timber. Your clawed hands splayed against the concrete for balance. You let out a whimper as you trembled, ears beginning to droop.
Jason watched.
ââŚAre you serious right now?â he asked, somewhere between exasperated and tired.
You cringed and bowed your head.
âI⌠I beg thy pardon,â you murmured. âMine legs⌠betray me. It seems the fear hath rooted itself deeper than I knew.â
He let out a groan and dragged a hand down the front of his visor.
Crook, still perched on the handlebars of the beast, gave a self-satisfied coo.
Jason ignored him.
âYouâre telling me you survived flying over Gothamâs skyline, clinging to me like a backpack, while the feathered menace, molested my visor and shit all over⌠and now you canât walk?â
ââŚThat is an accurate summation, aye,â you said, mortified. âIâI am grievously sorry for the trouble, sir knight.â
You flinched again as Jason sighed deeply. For a moment, he was quiet.
And then â with startling suddenness â you felt arms beneath you.
Strong ones.
Firm and sure, sliding beneath your knees and shoulders in a single smooth motion.
You gasped as your body left the ground, weightless once more â though this time not from a flying beast, but from Jason himself.
You startled, blinking up at him as your body curled instinctively into his hold. Your tail gave a twitch but did not grip. Your ears twitched as you tried not to stare. You had never been carried like this before â not even in your youth, when your people saw such displays as indulgent. Yet nowâŚ
Now, this mortal warrior of leather and metal cradled you with ease.
âYou were never gonna make it up the stairs,â he muttered, his voice low and irritated, though there was no heat behind it. âYou weigh less than my gear bag, anyway.â
You were certain your face flushed violet.
âIâI assure thee, I am stronger than I appear. I am simply⌠momentarily undone.â
He was already walking toward what you assumed was a stairwell carved into the building beside them. The alley was dark, the air heavy with the stink of rain-soaked stone and faint city oil. Yet in his arms, the shadows seemed⌠less cold.
âYeah,â Jason said dryly. âUndone. Thatâs the word for it.â
You pressed your hands awkwardly to your chest, trying to steady your hammering heart.
âI am deeply shamed to burden thee thus. I⌠I did not mean to become so feeble.â
Jasonâs grip shifted slightly as he adjusted your weight, making the climb up the stairs without strain.
âRelax. Not like youâre the weirdest thing Iâve ever carried.â
You blinked. âI beg thy pardon?â
âHad to haul Killer Crocâs tail outta the East End once. You? Youâre a pillow compared to that.â
ââŚWho is this Killer of Crocs?â you asked, eyes wide. âDid he offend thee with his garments?â
Jason gave a soft snort of laughter.
âSomething like that.â
You, dizzy and flushed from warmth, fear, and shame, dared to rest your head gently against his chest.
âI vow,â you whispered softly, âthat when my strength returns⌠I shall craft for thee the most sacred of salves and soothing balms. No hero who bears a wounded soul should go unblessed.â
Jason said nothing for a moment.
Then, with a shrug: âSure. Just donât put mushrooms in it.â
You give the red helmed man a gentle smile.Â
Jason walks a few moments getting farther and farther from the damp and dark alley and with a small amount of effort you lifted your head, your eyes â slitted and luminous in the darkness â settling once more upon the gleaming frame of the metal beast where it rested, exhaling heat and menace like some demon stabled for the night.
And near it your staff. The gem glowing faintly as it rests upon the floor.
âOhâ!â you breathed, ears flicking upright. âWait, kind sirâmy staff! IâI left it by the cursed beast!â
Jason paused mid-step, his boot resting on the first of the alley's winding steel stairs, forged more for utility than grace. He turned his head just enough to glance over his shoulder at the monstrous machine behind you both, and loosed a tired exhale.
âIâll grab it when I come back down,â he said. âRight now, you and I need to get out of the streets.â
Your ears flattened with shame, and you gave a small, embarrassed nod.
âI⌠aye. I trust in thy word. Forgive me. The staff is precious to me â carved from the limb of a mother-tree in the Glen of Thisteldown, blessed by moonlight and the winds of home. But I shall leave it to thy safekeeping.â
Jason blinked once beneath his helmet, probably having understood only two of those words, then gave a grunt of reluctant acknowledgment.
âYeah. Glen of Glitter-what-the-hell. Got it.â
And with that, the climb began.
The stairwell was narrow and of cold, rusted iron, bolted into the side of the brick building like a forgotten fire escape. The metal creaked faintly beneath his boots, but his steps were steady, practiced. You watched the ground fall further and further below, the misted alley swallowed by the night air and the thick shadows of surrounding rooftops. From up here, Gotham sprawled like a slumbering beast â glittering eyes of streetlamps blinking through a haze of fog, veins of neon and car lights tracing its snaking roads.
Crook, ever brazen, flapped overhead and landed halfway up the stairwell, perched on the rails as if to mock your earlier terror. He gave a smug little flutter of feathers and let out a warbled coo, puffing his chest like a conquering king.
Jason muttered, âYeah yeah, youâre so brave.â
Jason looks at your face for a moment before speaking once more.Â
âThen again Crook wasnât clinging to me and praying to mushrooms.â
You flushed and narrowed your eyes.
âI was not âprayingâ to mushrooms, I merely prayed for safety to the spirits and deities of nature.â
âUh-huh,â Jason said dryly, adjusting his grip on you without even breaking stride. âSounded more like a whole lot like screaming and horn-bonking to me.â
âI wailed in accordance with ancient custom!â you said, indignant despite yourself. âTo cry out is to honor the ancestors in times of dire peril!â
âYouâre welcome, then. I gave âem a concert.â
You huffed and turned your face toward his chest to hide the heat prickling your cheeks. The slow climb continued, a winding spiral up the backside of the building.
Wind brushed your cheeks the higher you went, tugging at your hair and sweeping the lingering scent of oil and fire from your robes. The air carried hints of distant rain, of wet stone and ozone, of flowers in some unseen window box, wilting in the Gotham night.
Jason moved as though heâd done this a thousand times, unbothered by your weight or the climb. The rise of his chest was steady. His arms remained strong beneath you. His presence â though gruff, sharp-edged â had grown oddly comforting.
Finally, you reached the top of the stairs.
Jason moves quickly, briefly stopping before a narrow iron balcony, barricaded by a tall rusted gate with a flickering motion sensor light above it. He gave the gate a kick, and it creaked open with a groan.
The balcony was long and narrow, affixed to the top floor of the building like a crowâs perch. Beneath you, Gothamâs rooftops stretched in patchwork formation, antennas and chimney stacks dotting the skyline. The chill air brushed against your skin, tugging your robes about you like phantom fingers.
Jason walked to the glass door at the far end of the balcony, reached one hand out without setting you down, and punched a short code into a security panel. A soft beep answered, followed by the metallic click of a lock disengaging. He slid the door open.
Warm, amber light spilled out like a sigh.
And then â with one quiet step â you were inside his home.
The change was immediate. Gone was the damp, flickering chaos of the alleyways below. Gone is the oppressive hum of the metal beast, the scent of burning oil and storm-wet concrete. Here, within this oddly still apartment, was a strange peace.
You blinked rapidly, eyes adjusting.
The space was open and lived-in, minimalist yet cluttered in curious ways. The walls were dark, exposed brick, partially covered by shelves of books, loose gear, and other foreign objects you have no name for.
This was a home built for one who never stayed long.
Crook flapped past and landed with a smug thud on a lampshade near the couch, ruffling his feathers proudly.
You, still cradled in Jasonâs arms, stared wide-eyed at it all.
"This⌠this is thy dwelling?â you breathed, voice hushed.
Jason closed the balcony door with his foot and finally looked down at you properly, his helmet now casting only half his face in shadow.
âFor now,â he said simply. âItâs nothing fancy but it's something at least.â
Jason stared at you fora beat longer. Then he stepped toward the couch, crouched, and gently set you down.
You sank into the cushions with a soft gasp, body still weak and limbs trembling from your ordeal, but grateful beyond words to be resting upon something soft â something real.
You looked up at him, blinking.
ââŚYou have my thanks.â
He gave a grunt and stood back up.
âIâll go grab your stick.â
âStaff,â you corrected faintly, already curling into the throw blanket Crook had now commandeered.
âWhatever.â
And with that, Jason was gone again â back down the endless stair to retrieve the sacred relic of your people⌠and perhaps steal one last glance at the infernal beast he had, against all odds, managed to tame.
Jason Todd POVÂ
Jason grunted as he took the first step back down the stairwell, boots heavy on the steel steps that creaked louder than they had any right to. The sound echoed in the alley below, like Gotham itself was mocking him. He adjusted his jacket, muttering under his breath.
"This night is goddamn cursed."
He pinched the bridge of his nose under his helmet. âShouldâve just gone to the manor like Alfred asked. At least then Iâd only be dealing with Bruceâs passive-aggressive silence and notâwhatever the fuck this is.â
Jason groaned, scowling at his own words. âDonât be that guy, Todd. Sheâs injured.... Might not even be into humans.â
Finally at the last step and rounding the corner and stepping into the alley where his bike rested, he finally spotted her staff â still leaning against the side like some eldritch relic from a fantasy epic. Jason came to a slow stop, tilting his helmeted head as he stared at it.
The thing looked like it had been pried straight from the hands of a forest god whoâd spent too much time hanging out with Tim Burton. Vines coiled along the dark wood like veins, shimmering faintly even in the dim alley light. Thorny growths twisted around the upper half, forming jagged loops and open floral carvings. A giant green crystal â at least, he hoped was a crystal â pulsed faintly as it was warped by limbs of the bark, embedded like bruised stars in bark.Â
Jason gave it a slow blink. â...The hell am I looking at?â
Jason cautiously reached out and picked the staff up. It was surprisingly light, yet warm to the touch â like it had its own damn heartbeat. The moment his fingers curled around the carved shaft, the vinework twitched. Actually twitched. A leaf slowly unfurled like it was greeting him.
âNope. Nope.â Jason pulled it back like it might bite him. âOkay. This thingâs alive. Great. Of course it is.â
He tilted it side to side, examining it closer. One side looked like the handle of a wizardâs cane. The other looked like it could summon birds, devour souls, or maybe open a juice bar in the Feywild. It was a cursed tree branch. It was a nature priestâs murder stick. It was... it was...
âJesus Christ,â he muttered. âItâs like Gandalf and Poison Ivy had a baby. And that baby dropped acid.â
A spark of red flickered near the top, and Jason instinctively recoiled.
He pointed at it. âYou do anything weird in my apartment, youâre going in the dumpster, you hear me?â
The staff didnât respond.
Of course it didnât.
It was a stick.
Sort of.
He twirled it slightly, testing its balance. âLight. Flexible. Could probably beat the shit out of someone with it. Guess thatâs a plus.â
With a final glance down the alley to make sure he wasnât being watched by any more falling druids, Jason sighed and turned back toward the building. The weight of the staff felt unnatural on his back as he secured it beside his gear. He could practically feel the thing pulsing against him â like a plant that really, really wanted to be friends. Or maybe invade his bloodstream.
This was fine. Everything was fine.
He trudged back up the stairs, muttering the whole way.
âIâve got a pigeon with an attitude problem, a blue girl who speaks like sheâs been summoned from a damn Renaissance fair, and a sentient stick that probably judges my Spotify playlist. I hate tonight. I hate tonight.â
The wind picked up as he reached the balcony again, brushing through the crimson tufts on his helmet. Crook â that little traitorous bird â was nestled comfortably on the druid girlâs shoulder, chirping like he owned the place.
Jason scowled. âGreat. You made yourself at home.â
Crook gave a low, unimpressed coo and turned his back.
Jason held up the staff. âYou forgot your overgrown toothpick.â
The Tiefling girl blinked slowly, eyes wide with relief and something close to reverence. She held out a hand for the staff like it was a long-lost lover returning from war.
He grunted and handed it over. âThere. Now try not to pass out.â
The staff purred when it touched her fingers.
Jason took a step back.
âI need a drink.â
Y/N POV
Jason then sighed heavily as he turned toward the adjoining space he had named âthe kitchen.â
You knew not what a âkitchenâ truly entailed, but you supposed it to be some sort of alchemical chamber, where concoctions of this realm were brewed with heat and fire rather than mortar and pestle.
 He grumbled something beneath his breath as he departed, boots echoing faintly across the wooden floors.
You, meanwhile, remained sunk into the plush, uncomfortably soft contraption heâd called a âcouch.â You had finally relinquished your stubborn clutch of his cloak, and now leaned against the backrest with a panting sigh, your ribs aching beneath your bindings and your legs trembling as though they had never known solid ground.
This world, this maddening realm of steel towers and roaring beasts, had tested you in ways your world never had.
Yet despite all the strangeness and exhaustion, your heart lifted as your (e/c) gaze found itâyour staff.
Jason had, true to his word, retrieved it.
It now stood propped neatly against the side of the couch, precisely where he had placed it with a rough sort of care.
A small smile tugged at your lipsâthough your fangs ached from clenching them earlierâand your heart gave a steady thrum as you beheld it once more.
Ancient wood, dark and smoothed by what seemed like centuries of your touch, curled upward toward its crown. The roots, gnarled and twisted as if frozen mid-reach, formed a cage about a singular green gemâthe heart of your staff.
The stone glimmered softly, pulsing in perfect synchrony with your breath, as though sensing your relief at its return. Magic lived in that rhythmâancient, wild, and ineffably yours.
âMy friend,â you murmured, reaching out with aching fingers to brush along the haft. The moment your fingertips grazed the bark, a wave of calm passed through you. A spark of primal recognition surged between the staff and your skin, and the pain in your bones quieted.
From your shoulder, Crook shifted his tiny talons and gave a pleased coo before leaping from your perch. His small wings fluttered as he alighted upon the staffâs roots. He gave an inquisitive chirrup, head tilting, then bent to tap his beak against the glowing gem.
âTread gently, dear Crook,â you said, your voice still hoarse from pain but tinged now with fondness. âIt is bound to me, however itâs power may yet startle thee.â
Crook puffed up his feathers indignantly, as if affronted by the suggestion he might be startled by anything. âI was just chekin it out doll,â he replied with an exaggerated fluff, his voice a soft whistle in your mind. âItâs hummin... Like a bee or somethin.. Is that normal.â
You chuckled, breath catching slightly at the motion, and placed a hand gently over your middle. âAye. it sings again, now that it hath returned to my side.â
Crook nudged the gem again with more care this time, then nestled himself right atop the curl of roots as though it were his rightful perch. You watched him fondly, his head turning this way and that, tail feathers twitching. The tiny avian was curious to a fault, and you had grown used to his commentary.
âGotta say, this nest is weird,â Crook commented. âEverything smells... stale, and burned.â
ââTis likely due to the fire-wrought lanterns,â you murmured. âThe light here burns without wick nor flame. I know not how the mortals of this land have managed such feats, but they are resourcefulâif mad.â
Crook let out a soft, amused warble, his beak clicking against the wood. âSo... we stayin here with the Mr tin head?â
You sighed, allowing your head to tilt back against the couch. âMayhap. At least for the eve. I am too battered to change mine own shape once more and too weak to walk the wilds of this city. For now, we will graciously accept his hospitality .â
Crook fluffed himself proudly. â He's got issues... But I like his threads. Shiny. Reflects the sky⌠Still the dude seems weird.â
You smiled, eyes drifting closed for a moment. âAye. He is as strange as he is grim... but he did not strike the final blow when he could have. I owe him that much.â
The staff pulsed again, a slow, warm thrum beneath the green gem. You reached out and rested your hand upon it again, allowing the rhythm to calm your soul. The ache in your limbs dulled slightly, and you felt magic begin to hum low in your bonesâjust a trickle, but enough to ease your breathing and lift the fog behind your eyes.
âI pray this sanctuary is true,â you whispered to the staff, to the gem, to the unseen spirits who had guided you across realms. âLet me rest without blade or fire at my throat.â
Crook let out a quiet coo, and you opened your eyes to see him nestled now entirely between the curling roots, his wings half-draped over the gem protectively. The green glow bathed his feathers in an emerald sheen.
Jasonâs voice echoed distantly from the kitchenâa curse, a clang of metal, and what sounded like a loud gulp. You suspected he was consuming one of the realmâs strange elixirsâperhaps from that cold, humming box.
Your ears twitch as you hear movements and you turn your face toward the sound.Â
Jason.Â
His presence, dense and simmering like the calm before a summer storm. The air shifted as the man entered, and with him came a strange blend of scents: metal, bitter herbs, something sterile and alchemical, and a faint trace of leather and smoke.
 You blinked, your weary eyes adjusting to the low lighting, as he walked toward you, a small white box cradled in his gloved hands. Crook gave a suspicious squawk from where he perched atop your staff, still pecking absently at the glowing green gem.
Jason sank down beside you onto the wide, worn couch, his movements surprisingly gentle for a man who exuded danger like a second skin. He set the box upon his lap and began to unlatch it with quick, practiced fingers. You tilted your head as you peered at it, nostrils flaring as your keen senses caught the odd smells wafting from within.
âWhat is that?â you asked softly, voice still slightly hoarse from the pain and exertion of the evening. âIt reeks of⌠potionless alchemy and strange salves.â
âItâs a first-aid kit,â Jason replied without looking up. His tone was dry but not unkind. âItâs got stuff for patching people up. Antibiotic ointment, gauze, antiseptics.â
Your brows knit. âAnti... biotic? That sounds as though it wars against life itself.â
âClose enough,â he muttered, pulling out a small bottle and a roll of bandages.
And then, for the first time, your eyes beheld his face.
Gone was the red helm, the hardened mask he wore into battle. In its place was a man.
And gods above, what a man.
You found yourself staring. Truly staring.
His skin was the shade of warm alabaster kissed faintly by sunâpale, but not sickly. Upon his brow and just between his dark brows rested a faint scar, like a mark from a story youâd never heard. His jawline was sharp, as though carved from fine obsidian, and his cheekbones were high and regal. But it was his hair that first captured your attentionâa mane of black as rich as raven feathers, falling in waves about his face, disheveled from the removal of his helm. And amidst all that darkness, a single bold streak of whiteâstrange and enchantingâfell forward onto his brow.
It was the stuff of legend.
But nothing could compare to his eyes.
Green. Not the gentle green of springtime moss nor the playful gleam of forest light through the canopyâbut sharp and vivid, like emeralds forged in flame. Those eyes stared down at the contents of the box, focused and unaware of the effect they were having upon you.
Your heart fluttered against your ribs.
You hadnât even realized your hand had moved until it touched him.
Your clawsâdulled, though still curved elegantly at your fingertipsâcurled ever so slightly against the line of his jaw. Your other hand rose, cupping his cheek as though sculpted by instinct alone. His skin was warm beneath your touch.
Jason froze.
Those brilliant eyes flicked to yours, startled.
You gasped softly, your cheeks heating in shame, but you could not pull away just yet. You studied the lines of his face, your breath catching as you whispered:
ââŚThou art⌠beautiful.â
There was a beat of silence. Crook made a surprised little noise, something between a squawk and a strange burp.
Jason blinked.
Your clawed fingersâcareful, reverentâwere pressed against the sharp angles of his jaw, your thumbs brushing over the high plane of his cheekbones, as if you could memorize his face by touch alone. His skin was warm beneath your hands, it looked as though it was kissed by battle and Gotham grime, yet somehow still beautiful in a way you did not understand. You tilted his face gently, peering up at the streak of white hair that fell like a rebellious banner across his brow.
âBy the stars,â you murmured breathlessly, âI had not realized mortals in this realm could be wrought with such artistry.â
His eyebrows twitched upward, and for a moment Jason looked genuinely bewildered. Then his lip curled, the smirk slow and sardonic. âIs this how you greet everyone from where youâre from?â he asked, voice low and rough from the ride. âGrabbing their face and ogling them like a statue in a museum?â
You blinked, reality returning all at once. Your hands shot away from his face like youâd touched a coal. âOh! Iâpray forgive mine overfamiliarity!â you said, ears drooping in shame. âI did not mean to transgress thy person. I was⌠thou art⌠exceedingly comely, and I was momentarily bewitched.â
Jason laughed. Not a harsh one, but low and genuinely amused, the sound rasping from his chest like gravel shifting underfoot.
ââBewitched,â huh?â He shook his head, bemused. âYouâre a weird one.â
âI am a Tiefling,â you replied earnestly, âwe are oft called worse.â
He only gave a faint snort at that, opening the small white boxâsome strange Gothamian contraptionâand pulling out unfamiliar tools and vials. The scent from within was sharp and alien. Astringent.
Your nose crinkled slightly, head drawing back from the bitterness of it.
âWhat is that?â you asked, eyes narrowing warily. âIt doth smell like the bile of a wyvernâŚâ
âItâs just the antiseptic,â he said, already pulling a piece of cloth from the box and soaking it. âDisinfectant. Gonna clean you up a bit. Youâve still got blood dried along your side.â
You gave a small nod and leaned back against the couch cushions, your staff still propped up, Crook, who had been watching intently from atop it, pecked the green gem gently and squawked.
âYou touchinâ the pretty boy now, huh?â the pigeon snickered. âHe's oneâs got a nice face, Iâll give ya that. Canât blame ya.â
You eye the pigeon on your staff.Â
âCrook the way of your tongue is very strange.âÂ
Crook let out a soft coo as his thoughts flood yours. âBorn and raised in Gotham, baby,â Crook replied with a puff of his feathers. âWe all talk too much. Even the rats curse you out when you step too close.â
You giggled softly, the first sign of ease in your expression since you had arrived. But the moment of lightness passed as Jason lifted the hem of your tattered robe to examine the deep bruise blooming along your side.
His brow furrowed.
âThis the worst of it?â he asked.
âAye,â you said, voice quieter now. âBefore the portal opened one of the thieves struck me with their dagger, luckily I did not detect any poison or fowl magic or enchantment from the blade."
Your voice held a hit of exhaustion as you recall the events that took place to your current predicament. " As you bore witness, I used what magic remained in me to stem the bleeding and soothe the pain. Come the morrow, I shall be mended fully.â
Jasonâs eyes flicked to yours. âYour magic can.. Do that ?â
âI am a druid,â you said, lifting your chin slightly with pride. âThough my powers are diminished slightly with my wounds, my bond with the earth and it's rhythms remains.â
Jason let out a slow breath and began to dab gently at the drying blood on your side. âWell⌠Not the strangest thing as far as Gotham goes.â
âTruly?â
âNope.â Jason was quiet for a moment, his fingers surprisingly gentle as he cleaned the wound.
You watched him through half-lidded eyes. âForgive me for asking but⌠dost thou always carry such items in thine home?â You nodded to the med kit. âArt thou a healer of some sort?â
Jason scoffed. âNot even close. Just⌠been in enough fights to know what to have on hand.â
Crook flapped his wings briefly and muttered in your mind, âBy the way broddy acts, thats an understatement of the year.â
You looked at the strange little box with a thoughtful hum. âMayhap I should replenish my satchel⌠If I am to endure more of these Gothamian perils.â
Jason arched an eyebrow. âLetâs hope it doesnât come to that.â
Your tail flicks behind you as you reply to him.
âI shall endeavor to stay out of harmâs path,â you replied solemnly. âThough harm seems determined to find me regardless.â
Jason didnât argue with that. His eyes flicked to your face againâdrawn, tired, but still with that glowing, otherworldly edge. He cleared his throat, recapping the bottle of antiseptic and tossing the bloody cloth into the small plastic bin inside the kit.
âYouâll be alright,â he said. âJust⌠donât go passing out.â
âI make no promises,â you said wryly. âYour strange realm yet turns my stomach and rends my senses. âTis like being struck repeatedly with invisible hammers.â
Jason gave a snort of something between sympathy and amusement.
âIâll be back. Stay there.â
You nodded. âI am not keen to rise again anyway.â
As he stood and walked toward the hall, Crook fluffed himself up on your staff and muttered, âYou gonna kiss him next time?â
Your cheeks flushed violet. âSilence, Crook!â
âIâm just sayin Doll... You gotta admit, 'Thou are beautiful' sounds like a kiss watin to happen.â the bird chuckled as he mimics your words you said mere moments ago.
You buried your face in your hands and groaned.
Jason Todd POV
He let out a deep breath, the kind that dragged from somewhere behind his ribs and took a bit of the weight of the night with it. His boots padded softly across the hardwood floor as he made his way down the hall.Â
He had no idea what time it was anymoreâlate, obviously. Gotham always felt timeless when the sky was black and the buildings swallowed up the moonlight. Just another absurd chapter in his already fucked-up book of a life: a wounded, blue-skinned tiefling druid now recovering on his couch... and a damn pigeon that wouldnât stop staring at him.
He stopped by the linen closet first, yanking it open with practiced impatience. The overhead light buzzed faintly. He grabbed the softest throw blanket he could findâgray, thick, freshly washedâand then hesitated.Â
The gown she wore looked like it had seen better days, and now that he thought about it, if she was going to be sleeping in his home, maybe she needed something a little less⌠ceremonial and âgoddess emerging from a sexy fantasy gameâ and more âI wonât catch a chill in this freezing apartment.â
With another sigh, he veered off into his bedroom. It took him all of five seconds to root through the top drawer and pull out one of his smallest black shirtsâwell, small for him. Soft, a little faded, but still in decent shape. Would probably hang off her like a dress, considering his the height difference and⌠her more dramatic curves.
He glanced toward the mirror above the dresser and grimaced. Bloodstains dotted his Red Hood armor in a Jackson Pollock nightmare. His gloves were still smudged. His arms are sore. His entire torso felt like one tight knot. Without ceremony, he peeled off the armored suit piece by piece, grimacing as bruises announced themselves in livid colors.Â
He shoved the pieces into the closet, shut the door, and grabbed a plain pair of black sweats and a tank top. He tugged them on quickly and rubbed a hand through his mess of black hair.
His single white streak fell forward over his brow. He debated cutting it off every few weeks.Â
Never did.
Blanket in one arm, shirt draped over his shoulder, Jason left the room and padded quietly down the hall. The apartment was quiet now. Unnervingly so. A few clicks from the kitchenâprobably that damn bird again. His Glock was still in reach if it tried anything funny.
He stepped back into the living room, adjusting the bundle in his armsâand nearly dropped the whole damn thing.
There she was, exactly where heâd left her on the couch⌠and yet, not. Her cloak had been removed and was folded neatly to the side, revealing the full shape of her figure beneath that silky, enchanted but slightly torn gown.
The light caught on the sheen of itâ silk clinging to her in all the places that made heat crawl up the back of his neck.
Her chest, full and high, was barely contained by the neckline of the gown, her posture unbothered by the obvious reveal. Her tail flicked lazily off the edge of the couch like it had its own set of opinions about everything in the room.
Her horns gleamed in the warm light, her indigo skin shadowed beautifully in dips and planes. She looked like something carved out of a myth. A creature meant for stars and being worshipped like a god, not his dingy ass apartment in Gotham.
Jason coughed into his fist and forced his feet to move again.
She looked up, her bright eyes glowing faintly in the low light. Her expression was soft, a little tired, still clearly in painâbut she smiled when she saw him.
âSir Jasonâ She called out cheerily.Â
He tried not to look directly at her chest as he spoke. âBrought you a shirt,â he said, holding it out like it might bite him. âThought maybe youâd want something less⌠uh, ancient temple chic.â
She blinked at it, gently taking the offering in clawed hands, turning it over curiously. ââTis⌠not a tunic?â she asked, lifting it like it was some strange fabric riddle. âSoft⌠but strange of cut.â
âItâs just a shirt. You can wear it to sleep or whatever. Itâll be long on you, but⌠yeah.â
She nodded solemnly and folded it over her arm like it was sacred. âI shall treasure it.â
God, he hoped she didnât mean that literally. It was just cotton. Like, Target clearance bin level stuff.
Jason rubbed the back of his neck. âI, uh⌠Iâll give you a minute if you wanna change.â
Crook the pigeon fluttered down from the staff she had leaned against the couch and landed squarely on the armrest beside her.
The Bird seemed to give him a look and if the little rat-with-wings had eyebrows they would be going up and down almost as if to say, âYou gonna watchâ.
Jason narrowed his eyes at the bird. âIâm leaving.â He turned and walked toward the kitchen again, letting Y/N have the space.Â
In a few short strides he makes it into the kitchen where he grabs himself a bottle of water from the fridge. Once Jason does he moves to the sink and lets his head thunk softly against the cabinet door.
âSheâs gonna be the death of me,â he muttered.
From the living room, he heard her soft voice: âSir Jason?â
âYeah?â
âI believe⌠I have successfully donâd the cotton tunic of thine people.â
Jason shakes his head and sighs and takes a slow sip of the water.Â
He puts the water down and when he turns he nearly spits the water out of his mouth at the sight of you.Â
He did not expect to see that.
You were perched on his couch once more, legs tucked underneath you like some mystical creature out of a fever dream, your long tail lazily flicking across the cushion. That wasnât the part that threw himâhe was getting slightly used to the horns, tail, blue skin, and claws and fangs (barely).
 No, it was the fact that you were now wearing his shirt. The smallest one he could find. And somehow, it still swallowed you.
The shoulders of the black T-shirt had slipped halfway down your arms, exposing a scandalous amount of collarbone, andâJason dragged his eyes awayâthe generous curve of your cleavage where the shirt hung low.Â
The hem nearly reaching your knees, but the way it clung to your body, the fabric pulled slightly over your hips from how you satâhell, he felt like heâd walked onto the cover shoot of some medieval fantasy pin-up calendar.
He cleared his throatâsharplyâand made a beeline for the coffee table, tossing the folded blanket onto it. âAlright, Sleeping Beauty,â he muttered, avoiding your eyes. âYou look like youâre about to pass out. Time for bed.â
You tilted your head at him, blinking slowly, a soft yawn escaping you as you rubbed your eyes. âBedâŚ?â you echoed sleepily.
Jason nodded. âYep... Your taking my room, it's just down the hall, You need real rest and couch of yours truly sucks.â
"Plus Alfred would have my head if he found out I made an injured person sleep on the couch⌠Especially if they are a lady." Jason thinks to himself and shivers as he pictures the glare of the Wayne family butler.
Your voice no longer holding sleep spoke in a surprised tone. âThou wouldst have me sleep within thy chamber?â
"That's what I said." Jason answers as he crosses his arms across his chest.
The light shines off your horns as you gently shake your head.
âNay⌠I could not ask thee to forfeit thine own resting place upon mine account. I shall sleep here.â
Jason paused.
Counted to three.
Then spoke.
âIâm sorry but you seem to be confused here. Iâm not asking. Iâm telling you. Couch. Sucks. Youâre not sleeping on it, end of story.â
You straightened, blinking at him. âBut thou hast suffered a great many wounds to thine own pride and body this eve. Surelyââ
âIâve had worse,â Jason cut in, throwing up a hand. âAnd Iâve crashed on worse. I slept on a concrete slab in a warehouse in Jakarta once. This? This is fine.â
Your eyes narrowed, indignant. âIf thou thinkest me some fragile blossom to be coddledââ
âOh my god,â Jason muttered, running a hand down his face. âItâs not about coddlingâitâs about logic. Youâre the one who got yeeted by a portal and landed on me bleeding to death.â
âYeeted?â you asked, brow furrowed.
He saw you blink in total confusion while the rat-with-wings bird gave a look like he was watching a soap opera.
Jason set his jaw. âPoint isâyouâre the one with magic rib bruises. You need a bed.â
You stood upâwell, rose gracefully like some kind of moon priestess with zero concept of personal spaceâand crossed the room to face him. Even in his too-big shirt, you moved like a noble about to duel a prince. Your chin lifted, (e/c) eyes silted and glowing slightly, tail whipping in agitation behind you, and blue skin glowing under the hallway light.
âThen let us barter, o armored one,â you declared, hands folded before you. âI propose we share the bed. Surely it must be large enoughââ
Jason made a sound so offended it couldâve passed for a dying animal. âAbsolutely not.â
You stepped closer, now toe-to-toe with him. Jason refused to look down. Refused to notice the way your shirt had shifted again. Refused to acknowledge the internal screaming happening in his frontal lobe.
âI insist,â you said firmly, tail flicking. âThis is thy abode. I am but a guest, lost and stranded within thine realm. I could not usurp thine comfort.â
Jason threw his arms up. âItâs not usurping!â he cried, and for a moment he truly felt like he was losing a court trial. âItâs called being a decent person! Youâre hurt, Iâm not! You take the bed!â
âThen let me repay thy kindness by allowing me the couch.â
âThatâs not happââ
âThen once more I offer the previous proposition!â
Jason groaned and gestured at the hallway. âGo. To. Bed.â
You folded your arms across your chest, and Jason had to literally look away because your cleavage was now center stage and demanding full attention. âNay,â you said, chin lifted defiantly.
âNay?â Jason echoed, baffled. âDid you seriously just ânayâ me?â
âI did, indeed.â
He glared.
Your (e/c) silted eyes glared back.
The silence stretched.
Jason Todd POV-Current Location (Bedroom)
Jason lay rigid on one side of the bed, facing the wall like it owed him money. His arms were crossed. His jaw was locked. Every muscle in his body was pulled tighter than his last set of batarangs. And behind him, with your back also pointed stubbornly toward his, you were a warm, silent presence that made him want to scream into his pillow.
He regretted every choice in his life that led to this moment.
The bed wasnât small, exactly. It was a decent queen. But the woman beside him was not a small person. Between your curvy figure, the way you radiated a surprising amount of heat for someone with blue skin, and your enormous cloud of (h/c) curls sprawled across half the pillow, Jason felt like he was trapped in some magical hostage situation.
And your tail.
That was the real enemy.
Every few minutes, it would move. Subtle. Innocent. A little flick across his lower back. A soft twitch brushing his leg. Once, it curled near his thigh and Jason nearly levitated off the mattress.
He gritted his teeth. â...youâre doing that on purpose,â he muttered under his breath.
From behind him, your voice floated softly through the dark. âI do naught but rest. If my tail offends, take it up with the gods who made me thus.â
Jasonâs eye twitched.
He glanced toward the nightstand. Crook was there, already asleep, head tucked under one wing, looking like the worldâs most judgmental paperweight.
âLittle bastard.â Jason grumbled.
You sighed, a soft, weary sound. âI do not comprehend how a mattress so grand may still feel as though it is carved of stone.â
Jason scoffed. âThatâs probably just your ribs. You hit the roof like a wrecking ball.â
âAnd yet thou art the one who curses and fidgets like a man atop nails.â
âIâm not fidgeting,â Jason hissed. âYou keep whipping me with your tail.â
âMy tail is not under my control whilst I dream,â you huffed. âBlame thine proximity.â
Jason turned his head slightlyâjust enough to glare into the darkness. âMaybe if someone had let me take the couch like a reasonable personââ
âSilence you stubborn fool of a man and sleep.â you shot back primly.
Jason groaned and flopped onto his back, staring up at the ceiling like it held answers.
And that was when your tailâtraitorous, smug little thingâdrifted again. Light as a whisper, it brushed against his side. His ribs jerked in surprise.
âSeriously?!â he hissed.
A long pause.
Then a sleepy murmur from your side. âPerchance the tail likes thee. It acts of its own will, oft led by instinctâŚâ
Jason blinked at the ceiling, his face burning. âYouâre telling me your tail has a mind of its own?â
You gave a drowsy hum. âAye. Much like thine own pride, methinksâŚâ
He glared into the dark again. âWas that an insult?â
âI am far too tired to insult thee properly,â you mumbled.
There was another silence.
Jason slowly turned his head again. You were still facing the opposite way, your back a soft silhouette against the moonlight spilling through the window. Despite everything, despite the bruises and the chaos, you looked⌠calm. Peaceful, almost.
The warmth of you beside himâyour strange scent like moss and moonlight, the way your body curved softly beneath his shirtâit was doing things to his brain.
Jason groaned and rolled back toward the wall. âIâm never going to sleep,â he muttered.
From behind him: âThen perhaps I shall cast a spell of slumber upon thee.â
Jason chuckled softly. âIs that a real thing?â
ââTis possible,â you said vaguely, already halfway to dreamland.
Jason sighed.Â
The room quiet again.
Your tail had stilled.
Your breathing had deepened.Â
His body had started to relax, if only a little. The bed was warm, smelled like pine and woodsmoke and that soft, mossy scent that clung to you. There were still bandages taped under your borrowed shirt, and he could feel the rise and fall of your breath every so often from beside him.
But he wasnât quite ready to close his eyes yet. Not with you here. Not with a literal horned druid lying in his bed, perfectly calm, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
ââŚHey,â he murmured quietly, not turning his head.
A pause, then your voice drifted up behind him, husky with the edge of sleep. âMm?â
âHow is itâŚâ He hesitated. âHowâs it comfortable? Sleeping. With horns.â
Another pause.
Then you exhaled slowly, voice soft and matter-of-fact.
âMayhap thou shouldst ask thyself how it is comfortable to sleep without them.â
Jason blinked.
You continued, faintly amused, âFor thee, âtis strange. For me, it is all I have ever known. I was born thus. Grew with them. Lived beside them, atop them, beneath them. Mine horns are of meâas thine skull is to thee.â
Jason stared at the ceiling, lips twitching slightly. ââŚFair point.â
ââTis no great mystery,â you added. âMy kind rest easy in such forms. We do not jab ourselves with our own heads in the night.â
Jason tried not to chuckle. âDidnât say you did.â
âMmm.â
He closed his eyes finally, nestling a bit deeper into the pillow, feeling the warmth of you behind him again.
Silence stretched. A peaceful one.
Until another thought nagged at him.
ââŚOkay butââ he turned his head just slightly, voice thick with near-sleep, âhow the hell did you get that shirt over your head?â
Behind him, a quiet beat.
Then:
ââŚSleep now, mortal.â
Jason smirked into his pillow.
âRight.â
A soft flick of your tail brushed his calf.
He let out a long breath⌠and finally, finally let himself drift.
Next Chapter 3
Chapter 12
Previous | Masterlist
Jason Todd POV â Hours later
The quiet hum of the city bled faintly through the thin apartment walls. Somewhere below, a car alarm shrieked, then died.Â
Gotham never sleptâonly held its breath between screams.
Jason sat at the edge of his bed, boots fully-laced, the dim lamplight casting long shadows over the floor.Â
Heâd already gone over his weapons twiceâchecked, cleaned, loaded, and reloadedâbut habit demanded a third time. Ritual wasnât just comfort; it was control. And control was something he didnât get to have often.
The cool metal of the gun felt right in his palmâfamiliar, almost soothing. He spun the cylinder, checked each round, clicked it back in place, and slid it home into the holster. His vest came next, the leather creaking faintly as he adjusted the straps tight across his chest.Â
The smell of gun oil and faint smoke lingered in the air, cutting through the stale apartment scent.
He paused, gloved fingers flexing as he took in his small room.
The room around him was swallowed mostly in shadow, the kind of gloom that blurred edges and softened memories. Sparse, simple, unadorned. A man could live here for years and leave no trace that heâd ever been at all.
The bed remained unmade, sheets tangled from last nightâs chaos, as neither of you made the bed during the day.Â
And as Jason looked at the messy sheet he could still picture itâ
The moment heâd snapped out of it.Â
His gun under your chin, your glowing e/c eyes staring up at him as he pinned you down and was so close to pulling the trigger.Â
And Jason clenches his fists and takes a breath not wanting to go down that pathâ
As he lets his breath out he looks around the small space that is his room.Â
Really looked, taking in the space around him.
It wasnât the same barren cell it used to be.
Yeah, the bones of it were still thereâthe cracked mirror leaning crooked against the wall, the scarred dresser, the faint smell of detergent mixed with dustâbut his sparse corner of the world had begun to change in small, quiet ways.Â
Subtle enough that if you didnât live here, youâd miss them.
A thin shirtâyoursâ on the ground, the pale fabric catching what little light there was.Â
A coil of soft fur clung to the rug near the bed.Â
Claw and hoof marks, thin but there on the floor nonetheless showing marks of your other forms as you wandered his apartment.Â
Thin scratches on the door handle and walls from your clawed fingers.Â
All little signs that you were thereâŚ.
And not just you.Â
On the nightstand, right beside his battered copy of The Count of Monte Cristo, lay a feather.
Crookâs.
One of many that were scattered all over his home.Â
Jason shakes his head and continues to look around.Â
And his eyes narrowed as they focused on one thing.Â
One very specific thing.
The mirror.Â
The familiar photo that hung tucked on the side of the mirror that always seemed to mock Jason.Â
A single, frayed image that somehow survived all his attempts to burn the past.
Back when things made sense.Â
Back when he still believed he could be something.Â
Before the grave.Â
Before the crowbar.Â
Before coming back wrong.
He stared for a long time, jaw tightening, something sharp and bitter coiling in his chest.
Until finallyâ
He turned away and strode out of the room roughly yanking the door open.
And as he walked through he didnât slam the door.
He would take his anger out on the scum rather than his home.Â
And as Jason continued to stride the anger under his skin bubbled and simmered.
The anger wasnât loudâit was a quiet rage, heavy like a stone sinking in his gut.Â
And as he made his way farther from the room he saw the dim light from the living room spilled out ahead, orange and soft against the walls.Â
And finally when he made it to the end of the hall you stood by the sliding glass door.
Waiting.Â
The faint city glow painted your outline in silver and gold, the curve of your horns gleaming like polished obsidian. Crook perched on your shoulder, head cocked, feathers ruffled, cooing under his breath as if to announce Jasonâs arrival.
Jason stopped for a second in the doorway.Â
He didnât know why.Â
Maybe it was the way your tail swayed slowly behind you, or the faint smile that spread across your lips the moment you saw him. Maybe it was just that, for a man who had no one left, the sight of someone waiting felt like something he didnât deserve.
You held his helmet in your clawed hands. The red gleamed faintly in the half-light, edges polished where his fingers had worn the paint smooth.
He walked up to you, each step measured, the weight of his gear shifting across his shoulders. You extended the helmet out toward him, your smile patient, gentle. âThy armor, ser,â you said softly, tone half teasing, half reverent.
Jasonâs gaze met yours through the dim. He didnât answer right away. His throat felt tightâhe hated that it did. So he just nodded once, rough, took the helmet, and fit it under his arm for a second.
Your eyes were warm when they met his. âThou art ready, then?â
âAlways am,â he muttered, voice low, but there was no real bite in it.
He lifted the helmet, turned it once in his hands, then slid it down over his head. It sealed with a soft hiss, the internal systems flickering to lifeâHUD blinking online, data scrolling across his vision. Red light washed through the visor, and with it came the other part of him.
Red Hood.
The man Gotham feared. The one who didnât hesitate. Didnât question. Didnât care.
He rolled his shoulders, feeling the suit stretch and settle, and exhaled slowly.
You nodded once more, your tail flicking gently, your voice low and melodic as always when you bid him well. âGo then, and return whole. I shall keep thy hearth warm.â
Jason tilted his head slightly, visor gleaming. âDonât stay up late,â he said. The words came out gruff but quiet.Â
A ritual now.Â
One heâd meant once, but you never followed.
Your fanged smile widened slightly. âI make no promises.â
He almost laughedâŚ. Almost.
The corner of his helmet dipped in acknowledgment, and then he turned, sliding open the balcony door.Â
The night air rushed inâcold, sharp, smelling of rain and exhaust and Gotham. He stepped out into it, boots heavy against the concrete, and pulled the door closed behind him.
Down the metal stairs he went, each step ringing faintly in the hollow alley.Â
The night swallowed him whole.
Below, his bike waited.Â
Red as blood and sleek as sin, tucked in the narrow space where shadows pooled. He swung a leg over it, leather creaking, gloves gripping the handles. The engine growled low as he turned the key.
For a moment, the HUD linked to the local channelsâpolice chatter, emergency bands, the constant static heartbeat of Gothamâs chaos. He flicked them off with a sharp motion. Tonight, he wasnât here to play patrolman.
No, tonight he got to play babysitter.
He snorted under the helmet, a humorless sound, and twisted the throttle. The bike roared to life, the sound bouncing off the walls, scattering stray cats and shaking loose old paper flyers from brick.
He leaned forward, the engineâs vibration pulsing through him, matching the rhythm of his heartbeat.
The city stretched out ahead like a vein of dark metal and light, streets slick with rain and neon bleeding across puddles. Somewhere above, thunder rolled.
Jason revved once, hard, then peeled out into the street. Tires screeched, smoke curled, and in a breath he was goneâcutting through the night like a bullet.
Wind whipped past, sharp and cold, tugging at the edges of his jacket. The red of his helmet gleamed each time he passed a light, a flash of color that vanished into shadow the next instant.
He rode through Gothamâs veinsâpast shuttered shops, graffiti-tagged walls, the distant glow of dive bars and dying street lamps. He knew every street, every turn, every pitfall. This was his city, broken and rotten as it was.Â
His.
And as the rain began to fall in thin silver lines, Jasonâs thoughts flickered brieflyâto the photo on his dresser, to the man in the mirror, and to you waiting back at the apartment with that gentle, impossible patience.
He didnât deserve any of it. Not the memory. Not the care.
But for now, he had purpose.
Red Hood didnât need peace.Â
Didnât need forgiveness.
Just the job.Â
The mission.Â
The message.
And tonightâs message would be clear: Gotham belonged to him.
He gunned the throttle, and the bike roared beneath him like a living beastâlow, guttural, hungry for the road. The city lights streaked by in violent ribbons of neon and grime, smearing color across the black mirror of his visor. The skyline loomed ahead, jagged teeth against the starless void. The night swallowed him whole.
The air cut against his leathers, sharp and cold, carrying the stink of Gothamâsmog, rain, piss, metal, blood. Home sweet goddamn home.
Jason tilted his head, fingers flexing on the throttle, the hum of the bike grounding him. He pressed the comm on the side of his helmet. âYou there, Tim?â
A crackle of static, then a breathless voice answered, âYeah, Iâm here. En route now. Almost there.â
Jasonâs jaw tightened. âYouâd better be alone and on time, Drake. I mean it.â
He didnât wait for the response. He cut the comm dead, his thumb jabbing the switch with finality.Â
The line went silent, and for a moment all he could hear was the howl of the wind and the bikeâs engine beneath him.
âChrist,â he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. âIm a fucking idiot.â
How many times had he said it?
How many times had he swornâswornâthat he was done with this kind of shit?Â
No more capes.Â
No more Bat-family circus.Â
No more being dragged into other peopleâs messes.
Heâd built his own rules, his own territory, his own way of doing things.Â
Gothamâs underworld was hisâits filth, its chaos, its violence. He was the law here, the only one that mattered.
And yet⌠here he was.
Doing exactly what heâd promised himself heâd never do again.
Jason leaned forward, twisting the throttle harder until the engine screamed. The city blurred faster around him, headlights splitting and streaking across the dark as he tore down the empty avenues.
âEvery damn time,â he growled, voice lost to the roar of the wind. âEvery fucking time they pull me back in.â
Time Skip Few Moments LaterÂ
Finally after a bit more speeding⌠Jason Arrived.Â
He carefully pulled up to the mouth of the alley, engine purring low before he cut it entirely.Â
He rolled the bike into the shadows and set it behind a half-collapsed fence, hidden from view.Â
His boots hit the ground with a solid thud, and he scanned the street.
The alley off 43rd and Kingsley wasnât much to look atâthen again, most of his stomping grounds weren't.Â
A cracked artery between the cityâs bones, reeking of rot and damp brick. Rusted dumpsters lined one wall, graffiti tagging every surface in symbols only gang kids could decipher. A single streetlight flickered overhead, buzzing weakly like it was afraid of the dark.
Nothing moved except the occasional drift of litter in the wind.
Good.
He didnât need witnesses.
Jason adjusted his jacket, checking the weight of his holstersâtight, loaded, ready.Â
Then, without a word, he scaled a fire escape, the metal creaking faintly under his weight.Â
At the top, he crouched low, a silent shadow in red and black.
From up here, Gotham stretched out before him. An endless sprawl of rust and concrete, its pulse thudding beneath the city lights. He watched the cars crawl like ants along the arteries below, each one a reminder of how big this place wasâand how small most people were inside it.
Jason smirked under his helmet, the sound low and humorless. âMy shithole,â he muttered. âEvery goddamn inch of it.â
The HUD in his visor flickered, scanning the streets, tagging movement, heat signatures, distant sound. He didnât really need it, but it was habit nowâlike checking for knives before turning a corner.Â
The system pinged quiet, the digital map clean.
He flexed his fingers, gloved and calloused. The tension in his shoulders was coiling tighter by the second.
Jason hated many things but most of allâ
He hated waiting.
The red digits of the time display blinked on his wrist: 10:59 PM.
He exhaled slowly, forcing the air out between his teeth. The longer he sat still, the more his mind wanderedâto places he didnât like.Â
To memories that never stayed buried.
Then the clock flipped.
11:00 PM.
And As Jason huffed an annoyed breath his eyes caught somethingâ
A blur of motion dropped into the alley below.
He followed the movement, and sure enough, a lean figure landed in the shadows, boots hitting pavement with a quiet scuff and crashing into the trash cans causing a loud noise.Â
Jason watched as the kid awkwardly caught himself and leaned over hands braced on his knees, chest heaving.
Tim Drake.
Panting hard, probably sprinted the last few blocks.Â
His suit was dark, armor fitted and lightâsleeker than the old Robin design, more dramatic.
More than thatâŚ.
It was more red.Â
(what Tim wears as red robin)Â
Jasonâs HUD recognized the faint pulse of his biometric signature before he even stood up straight.
Jason stood at the edge of the rooftop, arms crossed, a silent predator watching prey.
Tim continued to pant âDamn it, I rush and he isn't even here.â
Jason narrows his eyes and drops down from the roof without a sound, landing behind him in a crouch.Â
The impact cracked the air with a dull thud.
Tim flinched, spinning around instantly.
âJesus,â he gasped. âYouââ
âYouâre late,â Jason said flatly, voice filtered and metallic through the helmet.
Tim opened his mouth, fumbling for words. âYeah, traffic wasââ
Jason raised a hand, cutting him off. âNot interested.â
Tim shut his mouth.
Jason stepped in closerâtoo closeâand before the kid could react, he grabbed him by the collar and spun him around, pressing him hard against the wall.Â
His hands were rough but methodical, patting down Timâs arms, sides, legs, waist.
âHeyââ
âShut it.â
Jasonâs voice was pure ice. His gloved fingers moved with precisionâchecking for wires, transmitters, trackers, anything that screamed Bat-tech interference.
Tim didnât fight him, but Jason could feel the kidâs heartbeat hammering under his fingers. His armor plates shifted faintly with every inhale, every tense muscle.
Satisfied, Jason finally stepped back, shoving him away with a grunt.
Tim stumbled but stayed upright, wiping at the dirt on his suit. âYou done?â
Jason tilted his head slightly, the faint red glow from the helmet catching the edge of Timâs face. âFor now.â
The tension hung heavy in the air between themâthick, electric, sharp enough to cut. It filled the narrow space between brick walls and the distant hum of Gothamâs pulse, a rhythm Jason knew better than his own heartbeat.
He gave Tim one last glanceâhard, calculatingâand then turned away, the servos in his armor whispering faintly with every motion.Â
His boots crunched on the gravel as he crouched and launched himself up, scaling back up the wall.Â
Tim didnât move.
Not at first.
Jason could hear him down below, still catching his breath. The kid was in over his head and knew it.Â
Good.Â
Maybe thatâd keep him quiet for five goddamn minutes.
âDRAKE.â
The barked name echoed down the alleyway like a gunshot.
Tim startledâJason could hear it, feel it even through the static of the comm linkâand stammered, âS-sorry!â
Jason rolled his eyes behind the helmet. âJesus, kid. If your gonna piss over everything then this is fucking pointless.â
Tapping his foot impatiently he waited for the boy.
Finally after a few seconds, Tim finally scrambled up after him.
Jason didnât turn to help him.Â
The kid could climb; Bruce made sure of that no doubt.
When Timâs boots hit the edge of the roof, Jason spun around so fast it startled him.
Timâs foot caught on the edge, and he nearly slipped backward.Â
Jasonâs hand shot out, grabbing the front of his suit and watched as the kid dangled under his grasp clutching Jason's arm tightly.
The street below yawned open, a thirty-foot drop to asphalt and trash cans.Â
Not enough to kill someone⌠unless they landed wrong.
Jason leaned in close, the mirrored red of his visor inches from Timâs wide, startled eyes.
âRule time, bird boy.â
Tim stiffened. ââŚWhat?â
âYou wanted my help, right? So here's the deal. You come crawling to Red Hood, you play by Red Hoodâs rules.âÂ
Jasonâs voice dropped lowâgravel, steel, and venom all rolled into one. âYou donât like it, you can take your pretty gadgets and fly the fuck home.â
He gave the front of Timâs suit a little shake, just to punctuate it.Â
The kid looked ready to pass out.
âRule number one.â Jasonâs tone hardened. âYou donât get in my way. That means no crying about how I handle business, no speeches about morality, and sure as hell no telling me who I can or canât put in the ground. I see scum, I clean house. Thatâs how it works. You donât like it? Tough shit.â
Tim swallowed hard but didnât answer.
Jasonâs grip loosened slightly and Tim gasped a bit. âRule number twoââ He jabbed a gloved finger into Timâs chestplate with his free hand. âYou donât play hero. I donât need a sidekick tripping over his own damn cape. You canât handle whatâs coming, you step back. Simple as that.â
Timâs jaw tightened.Â
He wanted to say something, Jason could tell.
But he didnât give him the chance.
âRule number three,â he continued, voice sharp. âYou donât talk unless itâs mission-related. I donât care about your feelings, your theories, or what Bruce might think. You got something useful to say? Fine. Otherwise, keep your mouth shut.â
He let that sit for a second, watching the frustration flicker behind Timâs mask.
Then he went on, âRule number fourâno calls. You contact anyone else, this whole thing goes to hell. No Oracle, no Dick, no Bat-daddy checking in. Weâre ghosts tonight, got it?â
Tim blinked. ââŚGot it.â
Jason gave a short, humorless snort. âGood. And rule number fiveâŚâ
He leaned in close again, voice dropping to a low, dangerous murmur. âYou donât touch my shit. You donât touch my bike, my gear, my guns, my commsânothing. You breathe wrong near my stuff, and Iâll throw you off this goddamn roof myself.â
He waited a beat.
âGot that, Drake?â
And when Tim didnât say anything Jason jostled him a bit as if to drop him.
Tim nodded quickly then. âGot it.â
Jason nodded and pulled the boy forward off the ledge.
âGreat,â Jason said flatly. âThen letâs get started.â
He turned, the brown leather jacket of his armor flaring behind him as he moved. The air smelled like rain and rust. Somewhere below, a siren wailed, fading into the distance.Â
He didnât look back to see if Tim followedâhe just moved.Â
Always forward.
And right now forward is toward one particular person.Â
Vargas.
That name burned through Jasonâs thoughts like gasoline on wet pavementâspitting sparks, hissing heat.Â
The sound of it alone brought up memories heâd rather have buried. Sweat-slick alleys. Deals gone sideways. Nights when heâd stood just close enough to smell Vargasâs fear, to see the manâs greasy hands shaking around a pack of smokes as he swore heâd go clean.
âBut the bastard never did.â Jason thought to himself bitterly.
Jason flexed his fingers, the leather creaking. Cracked his neck. The tension in his shoulders thrummed like wire ready to snap. Then, pulling his grappling gun from his belt, he aimed for the steel lip of a rooftop ledge ahead and fired.
âKeep up, Drake.â
The line went taut, and Jason shot off into the dark, the wind smacking against the hard shell of his helmet. Behind him came the faint hiss of another line firingâTimâsâjust a fraction too slow.
The Red Hood hit the next rooftop in a crouch, boots grinding against gravel as he scanned the sprawl of the East End.Â
Gotham was a mosaic of grime and glow, smoke rising in lazy plumes from vent stacks and street-level fires. Sirens somewhere far off. The thump of bass from a bar below. A womanâs laugh that broke too sharp.
The living pulse of the city he both hated and couldnât leave.
Tim landed beside him, lighter on his feet, the soles of his boots whispering instead of thudding. Jason started moving again before the kid could speak.Â
Roof to roof. Shadow to shadow.Â
The two of themâone ghost and one ghostâs replacementâcut across Gothamâs spine like twin bullets.
Halfway across the next building, Jasonâs voice came through the comm, roughened by static and the rasp of wind.
âYou learn anything else since this morning?â
There was a short pause. Timâs breath hitched in his mic as he vaulted a gap. âNothing concrete. Iâve been monitoring police bands and encrypted chatter from the Narrows, but thereâs radio silence. The ArpĂas went dark around duskâlike someone pulled the plug. No traffic, no movement, no sightings.â
Jason grunted. âSo theyâre not as dumb as I thought.â
Tim adjusted his pace to keep up, cape snapping behind him. âOr someone smarter is calling the shots now.â
Jason didnât answer. He didnât have to. They both knew what that meant.
Vargas.
The son of a bitch mightâve finally found himself bait worth biting into.
The rooftops ahead started to slope downward, narrowing toward the industrial edges of the Narrowsârusted warehouses, broken cranes, and the skeletal remains of what had once been a shipping empire before the mob chewed it to bone.
Jasonâs boots hit the last ledge hard. He paused there, crouched, the city spread beneath him like an open wound.
He scanned the streets belowâvacant except for flickering neon and a pair of junkies arguing over a bottle. Somewhere farther down the block, a cat yowled.
Tim came up beside him, panting slightly. Jason didnât look his way.
He was thinking about Vargas.
The man was a parasite.Â
A leech. Crawled his way through Gothamâs gutters for years, selling scraps of intel to whoever would payâPenguin, the Triad, even Black Mask at one point.Â
Never stuck with anyone long enough to get caught in the fallout. Always scurried back into the dark when shit went south.
Jason had used him too.Â
More times than he cared to count.
Vargas was like a sewer rat that somehow always knew when the flood was coming.
And Jasonâreluctantly, bitterlyâhad learned to listen.
The bastard always knew something.
Timâs voice broke into his thoughts. âThere are plenty of people who couldâve been used for something like this. So why Vargas? Why would the ArpĂas want a bottom-feeder like him running point on an operation this big?â
Jasonâs lips twisted beneath the helmet. âSame reason I used him.â
Tim turned slightly toward him. âWhich is?â
âHeâs a fucking leech,â Jason said flatly. âHeâs got dirt on everyone worth knowing in this city, and heâs damn good at keeping himself alive long enough to trade it. Doesnât matter whoâs paying. Penguin, Maroni, meâwhoever. He always makes himself useful enough to survive another week.â
Tim frowned. âSo they trust him?â
Jason let out a humorless laugh. âNo. They use him. Big difference. The ArpĂas donât run with anyone outside their bloodline, that's most gangs though. Even if Vargasâs info is gold, heâs still a corpse waiting to happen. When he stops being useful, theyâll toss him in a ditch and call it a night easier and less messy.â
The kid was quiet for a while after that.Â
His eyesâwidened behind his domino maskâshifted toward the streets below. âIs that really how it is down here? In your part of the city? Away from Bruceâs rogues, away from the Joker and all the theatrics?â
Jasonâs laugh was low, bitter, and rough. âYou think the crazy stops where the masks do, Drake? That just because youâre not facing down clowns with acid pies, the people here are any less fucked?âÂ
He turned his head, the red glow of his visor cutting through the dark. âYou canât even imagine the shit Iâve seen down here. What people do to survive. What they do for a taste of power.â
Timâs jaw tightened but he didnât respond.
Jason scoffed and kept moving.
He vaulted to the next roof, gravel scattering under his boots, his voice crackling through the comm again.Â
âDown here, thereâs no rogues gallery. No colorful freaks to fight. Just desperation with a trigger finger. Guys who sell their souls for a ten-dollar high. Girls who disappear in the alleys and never make the morning news. The monsters in my Gotham donât wear shit costumes and have bad makeup, kidâthey wear faces youâd pass on the goddamn street.â
He stopped on the edge of a roof overlooking the waterline, where the Narrows met the docks.Â
The place was half-deadârusted cargo containers, collapsed fences, lights buzzing in and out like dying fireflies.
He could see it nowâthe faint glow of a warehouse down the block, its doors cracked open just enough to leak a strip of yellow light onto the pavement.
Jasonâs hand went instinctively to his sidearm. âThatâs one of Vargasâs spots.â
Tim followed his gaze. âYouâre sure?â
Jasonâs laugh was quiet, dangerous. âI know my rats. Thatâs him.â
The younger hero crouched beside him, scanning the perimeter through the lenses of his cowl. âNo visible sentries. No movement.â
Jason tilted his head, studying. âNo movement means theyâre inside. Rats donât leave the cheese out for free.â
Tim frowned, opening his wrist console. âI could send a droneââ
âNo.â
Jasonâs voice cracked like a whip, sharp and cold enough to make Tim freeze.
The older manâs tone softened only slightly. âYou wanted my help? You do it my way rember.. That means no fancy gadgets. No little toys. Just instinct. Gut. The only thing that keeps you alive in a place like this.â
Tim nodded reluctantly. âGot it.â
Jasonâs hand tightened on the grip of his pistol. He didnât move yet.Â
The silence between them stretched long and taut.
Wind hissed through the metal framework of the old cranes. A distant ship horn moaned across the bay.
Jason exhaled slowly through his nose. âAlright. We do this quiet. You keep behind me. If things go south, donât try to play hero. I donât care what Bruce drilled into that shiny head of yoursâif I say run, you run. Got that?â
Timâs chin lifted. âUnderstood.â
Jason eyed him for a long moment, the red glow of his visor flaring brighter as if testing the truth of that word.
Then he moved.
They descended in near silence. The metal groaned under Jasonâs weight, boots landing soft against the rusted steps.Â
Tim followed carefully, lighter, more measured.
At the bottom, Jason raised a fistâhalt.
They were a dozen yards from the warehouse door now, the strip of yellow light still spilling from within. Jason crept closer, hugging the shadows, eyes sweeping every inch of the scene.
Two tire tracks in the dirt. Fresh.
Footprints.Â
At least three sets.
And the faint metallic tang of gun oil and smoke into the air.
He murmured low. âTheyâre here.â
Tim leaned in slightly. âWhatâs the plan?â
Jasonâs answer was almost a growl. âWe knock.â
And scowling behind his mask Jason walked to the door.
Until finally he was only inches from it, and raising his legâ
Jason drove his foot into the steel-framed warehouse door.Â
The impact reverberated through the structure like a cannon shot.Â
Metal screamed in protest, the sound bouncing off rusted beams and crates stacked haphazardly, shaking dust from the ceiling. The smell of old wood and diesel mixed with the faint tang of smoke from someoneâs forgotten cigarette.
Jason stepped through the gaping doorway like a storm incarnate. Guns in hand, each step deliberate and deliberate enough to make the boards creak beneath him.Â
âEveninâ, boys,â he said, his voice gravelly, low, the kind of tone that could cut through concrete.
Tim followed, slightly behind, his bĹ staff snapping open with a metallic hiss. The sound was sharp, deliberate, a percussion in the quiet chaos that had already begun to build.
Four men occupied the space.Â
Three were leaning against crates, hands twitching, eyes darting between each other.Â
The fourth sat lazily on a folding chair near the center, a half-burned cigarette dangling from his mouth, ash threatening to fall.Â
At the sight of Jason and the sudden, unnatural silence that seemed to follow him, they froze mid-motion.
Jasonâs eyes narrowed beneath the red helmet, scanning, calculating.Â
Every detail: the sweat beading on foreheads, the subtle shift in weight as if they were all coiled springs ready to snapâor break.
The first man, eyes wide and voice trembling, tried to speak. âWeâweâre all paid up, man! Nothinâââ
Another chimed in over him, the words tumbling in a nervous torrent. âWe follow your rules! Ainât sellinâ to kids! Ainât recruitinâ no minors! Weâwe do what you say!â
A third barked, almost desperately, as if throwing words fast enough could shield him from what he knew was coming. âYeah! We stick to the streets we know! We donât step out of line! Youâyou know we respectââ
And the man in the chair, trying to hold the attention of the other three, waved the cigarette like a wand, trying to calm them, to assert some control but no doubt was pissing his pants like the others. âShut up! Justâjust keep calm! Heâsâheâs always like this! Itâsââ
Jasonâs finger twitched on the trigger of his pistol.Â
Did he need to shoot a guyâs ear? No. Did he want to? Fuck yeah.
A sharp pop rang out, deafening in the close, stale space. The man in the chair flinched violently, his head jerking to the side as the bullet grazed his earlobe, tearing through cartilage with a wet, metallic snap.Â
He let out a shriek, blood blossoming red against the pale skin, and stumbled back.
Jason stepped forward, boots clanging against the floor.Â
His movements methodical⌠predatory.Â
âBoys. Boys. Do me a favorâŚâ His voice deepened, edged with an authority that brooked no argument. ââŚShut. The Fuck. Up.âÂ
Immediately, the room fell silent, the kind of silence that presses down on the chest, heavy with fear.Â
Not a twitch, not a breath out of place. The remaining three men and the ear-scorched guy now huddled in their space, trembling visibly.
Jasonâs head tilted slightly, the faint red glow of his helmet catching the sweat on their faces. Nodding, slow, deliberate, he murmured almost casually, âGood.â
He turned slightly, glancing at Tim.Â
The kid was standing with the tense stiffness of a soldier, staff clutched tight, eyes trained on Jason, waiting for instruction. Jasonâs tone sharpened again, rough, as he addressed both the men and his charge of the night.
âHereâs how itâs gonna go.â His boots scraped against the floor as he stepped closer, the men shrinking back. âShoving rules aside for a secondâboy wonder here, is going to ask questions. You fuckers are going to answer. Try to bullshit me, try to twist it, or just cause I can.. Iâll put a goddamn hole in your head. Capiche?â
All the men nodded quickly, fear written plain across their faces.Â
The one whose ear Jason had shot was trembling, blood running down his neck, his hand clamped tight against the wound as he tried not to cry.
Tim exhaled slowly, straightening his posture. âAll right,â he began, his voice steady but edged with that particular kind of Robin authority. âWeâre looking for shipmentsânew ones. Weapons, drugs, anything coming in through Narrows or the East End docks this week.â
The men looked at one another, hesitant. Jason cocked his gun, and that sound alone made their tongues loosen.
âTwo shipments,â one of them stammered. âOne came in Tuesday nightâjust street-level stuff, pistols, ammo. But the next oneâs bigger. Military-grade hardware, Vargasâ said itâs cominâ through Blackgate pierâdock six.â
Timâs eyes narrowed. âWhoâs running protection on it?â
âNot Vargasâ usual guys,â another man muttered quickly. âSome outsidersâAripas muscle, you know? Big types, foreign accents, real quiet. They donât talk much.â
Jason snorted behind his helmet. âYeah, that tracks.â
Tim nodded, pressing. âWhereâs the shipment now?â
âThey got it stored in an old fish freezer by the pierâwaitinâ for Vargas to give the word,â the man blurted.
Jason tilted his head slightly, letting the silence stretch before finally asking the one question that made the room feel smaller. âWhats Vargas supposed to be doing?â
He watched as sweat broke across foreheads. The men hesitated, glancing at one another like maybe one of them would find a way out of this.Â
But Jasonâs patience ran on a fuse about an inch long.
âWell?â
âH-hes supposed to be at the docks!â the first man shouted, the words tumbling out of his mouth like they were on fire. âIn two day.!â
Jasonâs tone was cool, almost conversational. âWhy?â
âHeâsâheâs makinâ a deal,â the man said, voice cracking. âSomething about a trade. Money for infoâintel about your routes.â
That made Jason still for a beat.Â
The corner of his mouth twitched beneath the helmet. âCute.â
He took another step forward, gun dangling loosely at his side. âNow⌠one more thing, boys. Whereâs Leon Vargas right now?â
All eyes darted upwardâtoward the metal-railed office built into the second level of the warehouse. The glass window was dimly lit, blinds half drawn, but even from here, Jason could see the shadow shifting nervously behind it.Â
The bastard had been watching the whole time.
Jasonâs voice dropped into a growl. âWell, wellâŚâ
He looked back at the trembling men. âYouâve been real helpful.â He gave a short, mock nod to them. âSo, in the spirit of appreciationâcongratulations. Youâre all free to go.â
The men didnât move.Â
They stared, confused, frozen like deer in headlights.
Jason gestured lazily with his gun. âWhat? Youâd rather stay? âCause I wouldnât want to keep Vargas waiting too long. Timeâs ticking.â
They still hesitated, so Jason shrugs. âAlright then you bastards have till the count of oneâŚâŚOneââ
He smirked as they scrambled over each other, bolting for the exit.Â
The sound of shuffling boots and panicked shouts echoed as the broken door slammed shut behind them.
Jason chuckled low under his breath. âSee? Fast learners.â
Behind him, Tim exhaled through his nose. âYou enjoy that way too much.â
Jason ignored him, smirking behind his helmet as he looked toward the narrow stairway leading up to Vargasâ office. âCome on, boy wonder.â
They started climbing, boots thudding against the metal steps.Â
The air felt thicker up hereâheavy with tension and the faint smell of cheap cigar smoke.Â
Jasonâs pace was steady, deliberate, like a predator closing in.
Tim followed close behind, already bracing himself. From what little heâd seen tonight, he knew Jasonâs first instinct wouldnât be diplomacy.
As they reached the landing, Tim spoke quietly. âDonât kill him. We need to see what he knows.â
Jason stopped, hand resting on the handle of his pistol. He turned his head just enough for Tim to catch the gleam of his helmetâs lens. âWhatâs rule three?â
Tim sighed, already regretting speaking.Â
But nonetheless, he recited it like a soldier repeating a drill.Â
âRule number three: I don't talk unless itâs mission-related. You donât care about my feelings, my theories, or what Bruce might think. I have something useful to say? Speak. Otherwise, keep my mouth shut.â
Jason nodded once, satisfied. âGood.â
He faced forward toward the door again, slowly resuming the climb, gun in one hand. âYouâll get your answers, kid.â
And after a few more steps Jason stood on the last step.Â
Thenâ
With the faintest shift of his stance, he drew back one leg and slammed his boot into the door.
The impact was an explosion of soundâwood splintering, hinges screeching, the frame cracking open under the sheer force.
Jason stepped through the wrecked doorway, smoke-like dust curling around his boots.Â
Inside, the office was dimâonly the flickering glow of an old desk lamp cutting through the haze.Â
Papers littered the floor, half-crushed under heavy boots, and a half-finished cigar rolled off the desk from the shock of the kick.
And there, at the far end of the room, Leon Vargas was scrambling like a rat.
The man was halfway out the window, fat hands clawing at the frame, one leg already hanging over the ledge.Â
He was muttering something under his breathâprayers, curses, maybe both.
Jason raised a brow behind the helmet. âReally?â
Vargas froze.
Too late.
Jason crossed the room in a few strides, grabbed a fistful of the manâs jacket, and yanked him backward.Â
Vargas hit the floor hard, a choked grunt leaving his mouth as he tried to scramble away.Â
Jason wasnât having it.Â
He planted his boot on the manâs chest, pinning him down like a bug under glass.
âLeon,â Jason said, voice almost conversational, though the steel beneath it was unmistakable. âHey, pal. How ya been? Havenât seen you in a whileâwhatâs that about?â
Vargas wheezed under the weight, eyes wild with panic. His hands clawed at Jasonâs boot, but the Red Hood only pressed harder.Â
The man coughed violently, gasping.
âPâplease, Hood, buddy, IâI can explain,â Vargas stammered. âThings got⌠complicated, you know how it is. Rumors on the street here and there, Aripas wanted info, you were laying low, IâI didnât think itâdââ
Jason pressed down harder, cutting him off with the sound of his ribs protesting. âLeon, buddy,â he drawled, the humor sharp as a knife. âHave some fuckinâ dignity, man. This begging and excuse-making bullshit? Itâs embarrassing.â
Vargas tried again, words dissolving into a panicked babbleââIt wasnât me, I swear, they came to me, said it was business, said theyâd kill me if I didnât helpââ
Jason tilted his head, voice flattening. âCut the crap Vargas no one would force your dumb ass for anything.â
He pointed his gunânot at Vargas, but at Tim.
âAnswer what he,â Jason said, gesturing with the barrel, âwants to know.â
Tim blinked, caught off guard by the gesture, hands instinctively raising in protest. âHeyâmaybe donât aim that at me.â
Jason ignored him.
The silent threat, the gleaming gunmetal, and the weight of the Red Hoodâs boot were more than enough to make Vargas crumble.Â
He started talkingâfast.
âOkay, okay! Iâll tell you everything!â he sputtered, voice trembling. âThe Aripasâthey came to me weeks ago. They wanted distribution routes. Not for drugsâguns. Military tech, untraceable. Blackgate dock was a decoy; the real shipments go through Dock Twelveâsouth side, no records, no customs. Theyâve got bribed dockhands running double shifts to hide the crates.â
Tim frowned, processing fast. âWhoâs running the inside line? You said bribed dockhandsâwhoâs paying them?â
âNot me!â Vargas insisted, flinching under Jasonâs boot. âSome ex-military guyâcalls himself Colt. Runs a private security outfit outta BlĂźdhaven, but heâs got Gotham roots. Works for whoever pays best. Heâs the one handling pickups, drop-offs, transfersâthe whole system.â
Jasonâs head tilted slightly. âNever heard of him.â
Vargas nodded quickly, eager to please. âYeah, yeah, thatâs the point. Guyâs a ghost. Doesnât stick around long enough to make enemies. But the Aripasâthey want something else, too.â
Timâs eyes narrowed. âWhat?â
Vargas swallowed hard. âInformation. Theyâre building files. On vigilantes. On You, on Robin, on Nightwing, even on Batman. Theyâve been watching, mapping out patrol patterns, safehousesâhell, they even got someone working on tracing some Tech shipments to draw you guys out.â
Tim stiffened. âThatâs impossible. Those networks are locked down tighter thanââ
Vargas cut in with a desperate shake of his head. âNot if someoneâs leaking it! Someoneâs feeding them data. I donât know who, I swear, but theyâre in deep. Way above street level.â
The words hung heavy in the air. Jasonâs silence was darker than any threat.
Tim took a step back, the gears in his head already turning. âThatâs⌠thatâs everything?â he asked quietly.
Vargas nodded frantically. âThatâs it, I swear, thatâs all I know! Iââ
Jason repeated it, softly. âThatâs it?â
âYes!â Vargas wheezed, still pinned. âThatâs everything, I swear!â
Jason leaned in a little, pressing his boot harder into Vargasâ chest until the manâs breath came in shallow, broken gasps. âYou sure?â
âY-yeah,â Vargas rasped, voice cracking. âIâm sureââ
Jason nodded once, calm as a man checking off a list. âGreat.â
The gunshot cracked like thunder in the small room.
Vargas screamed, clutching his shoulder, blood seeping fast through the fabric.Â
The smell of gunpowder hit the air, sharp and acrid.
Tim jerked back, eyes wide. âJasonâwhat the hell?!â
Jason turned his helmeted head toward him, voice flat and unbothered. âAll right, kid. You got my help. Now youâve got a choice.â
He gestured lazily with the gun. âStay and watch how I handle things⌠or piss off back to Bruce and tell him what you know. Because thisââ his tone dropped lower, dangerousââthis wonât be pretty.â
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Timâs hands turned to fist, so tight Jason could hear the gloves on his hands crinkle.Â
And as the boy stood there seems he finally realized the Red Hoodâs reputation wasnât built on rumors; it was built on moments like this.
He swallowed hard, jaw tight.Â
Then, with visible restraint, he turned toward the door.
And after a few stepsâ
Just past the threshold, he paused, half in shadow. â...Thank you, Jason.â
The words hit like a sucker punch.
Jason froze.Â
For a second, he thought heâd misheardâŚâŚ
Heâd gone out of his way to play the bastard tonightâbark orders, snarl, make the kid hate him.
It was better for everyone that way...
But that toneâearnest, quiet, undeservedâthrew him off.
By the time he found wordsâ
Tim was already gone, footsteps fading down the stairs until they disappeared completely.
Silence fell.
Only Vargasâ ragged whimpers filled the room, wet with pain.Â
Blood dripped onto the cracked tile, slow and steady.
Jason stood there for a moment, staring at the door the kid had left through.Â
A muscle ticked in his jaw. He hadnât expected that. Hell, he didnât want that.
He wasnât the guy you thanked.
Not even before, when he still held the Boy Wonder mantle.
Finally, he exhaledâa low, rough soundâand turned his attention back to the bleeding man on the floor.
âVargas,â he said softly, voice low but carrying weight. âMan, I thought we were close. You hurt me.â
Vargas tried to speakâsome broken attempt at a pleaâbut Jasonâs glare from behind his mask was enough to shut him up.
âYou crossed me,â Jason said, stepping harder, his shadow cutting across the floor like a blade. âAnd if a parasite like youâs stepping out of line, then youâre not alone. Which meansâŚâ
And stepping off the crying man he crouched slightly, just enough to meet the manâs terrified eyes.Â
The gleam of red from his helmet reflected in them like firelight.
âI guess I gotta send a message, donât I?â
Vargasâ voice cracked. âP-please, Hood, donâtâplease, I can fix it, I swear, Iâllââ
Jason tilted his head.
âShhhh.â
The sound was almost gentle.
And Vargas whimpered as he watched as Jasonâ
The Red Hood moves his arm and with his pistol pointed to the light.
And thenâ
Darkness.
The only sounds heard were the city outside and the sound of water swaying.Â
Few Moments Later
Gotham was loudâŚ.Â
It always was.Â
But now back outside from a rooftop across the street, Jason Todd stood, watched and listened to the city.
But most of all he looked at his work.Â
From the cracked window, the body of Leon Vargas hung upside down.Â
His ankles tied with heavy chains, his clothes soaked in blood that trailed down and dripped steadily onto the pavement below.Â
His lifeless body swayed faintly in the night breeze, head lolling, his empty eyes reflecting the orange glow of the nearest streetlamp.
Paintedâno, smearedâacross the side of the warehouse wall in the same deep red, Vargasâs blood formed the jagged, violent scrawl of Jasonâs warning.
âGOTHAM IS MINE.â
âSTAY CLEAN OR GET DEAD.â
The letters dripped, thick and wet, trailing down the concrete like the city itself was bleeding. It wasnât art. It wasnât even a threatâit was a statement of ownership. A brutal, simple truth carved into the bones of the cityâs filth.
And As Jason continued to stare he felt the chill creeping into his bones and in the cold he smelled the faint metallic tang of blood and gunpowder.Â
He didnât move for a long time.Â
Just stood there, arms crossed loosely over his chest, breathing in that moment of silenceâone that was earned the hard way.
Vargas was a message..Â
A reminder to every dealer, every scumbag, every rat who thought the Red Hood was slippingâthat his territory was still his.
And yet⌠standing there, high above it all, the victory didnât taste sweet.Â
It never did.
Jasonâs hand rose, dragging the edge of his glove across the side of his helmet as if to wipe the sweatâor maybe the weightâfrom his face.
 He could almost feel the ache behind his eyes, the dull buzz of adrenaline fading out of his veins.
âLetâs see whoâs got the balls to step out of line now,â he muttered, voice low, half a snarl and half a sigh.
His tone wasnât triumphantâit was tired.
He stood there for a few more momentsâŚ
Until finallyâ
He turned away from the scene.
Behind him, the warehouse loomed like a tombâits message glistening under the flicker of a dying streetlight, its occupant swaying slowly in the wind. Gothamâs criminals would see it before dawn. Word would spread like wildfire. And fear, old and familiar, would settle back into the cracks where it belonged.
Jason took one last glance over his shoulder.
For just a moment, he thought of Tim. The kidâs voice, small but steadyâThank you, Jason.
He clenched his jaw.Â
That had hit deeper than it shouldâve.
He didnât need thanks.Â
Didnât deserve it either.
âDumb kid,â he muttered under his breath.
The Red Hood raised his grappling gun and fired.Â
The line shot across the night with a metallic snap, catching onto the next rooftop. He leapt, boots hitting the ledge in a clean, practiced landing. From there, he moved fastâsilent and steady, a blur of motion across Gothamâs skyline.
Each leap, each run, was an old rhythm he knew too well. The rooftops blurred into one another, the city rolling beneath him like a living map of chaos and crime. Neon lights shimmered off his armor, reflecting on the slick glass and steel of high rises.
And as he moved, the thought crept back inâthe one thing that still mattered, the one thing that kept him from going fully over the edge.
Home.
That word meant something different now.
The thought of itâthe image of dim, warm light flickering through the windows, Your horans catching the light, Your claws scraping the walls, the faint sound of Crook (the little bastard he was) shifting on his perch, usually your staffâ
Made something inside him loosen.
He could picture it clearly: A half-folded blanket youâd left on the couch, A mug with tea stains youâd forgotten to wash, Your leather satchel and the fruits and other knickknacks you had from your world on the kitchen counter or coffee table.
His home wasnât just his anymore.Â
And somehow, that made it harder to leave every night.
The thought pulled something uncomfortably human out of him, something that didnât belong in the same breath as the name Red Hood.
He vaulted another rooftop, the wind tearing past him. The moonlight glinted off the red of his helmet and the twin holsters at his sides.
The city stretched before himâsprawling, endless, broken, and alive.
He could already hear the whispers that would crawl through Gotham by morning. The rumors that would spread in the underground bars and dirty alleys, whispered between dealers and killers alike.
Red Hoodâs back.
Heâs cleaning house again.
Vargas is gone.
And with that, the fragile balance of power in the Narrows and East End would snap back into its placeâhis place.
He didnât smile.Â
Not really. But a faint exhale came through the helmetâs voice modulator, something close to satisfactionâor maybe resignation.
Because at the end of the day, it wasnât about ruling Gotham. It wasnât even about control.
It was about keeping the monsters that haunted the streetsâthe ones worse than himâafraid enough to stay quiet.
That was enough.
And as that thought went through his head Red Hood landed silently on the last rooftop, boots hitting the gravel with a muted thud.Â
His visor flickered as the tech zoomed in on the alley where his bike waited, a dark outline among the distant streetlights.
Every muscle ached.Â
His pulse thudded in his earsâsteady now, not from fear, but from the slow crash that always followed the chaos.Â
The nightâs adrenaline was bleeding out of him, replaced by the kind of exhaustion that settled deep in the bones.
He stopped before leaping to the next building, gaze dragging back toward the warehouse far behind him.
From here, Leon Vargas was no longer a manâjust a hanging shape swaying in the wind, painted in red and framed by the message splashed across the wall in his own blood.Â
The words glistened faintly under the flickering streetlight, each one a warning, raw and deliberate.
Jasonâs jaw tightened beneath the helmet. For a moment, silence pressed down around him, the city holding its breath.
âMessage sent,â he muttered under his breath.
And then he turned away.Â
No hesitation.Â
No second glance.
The Red Hood broke into a run, the cityâs skyline flashing by as he vaulted across rooftops, jacket catching in the cold wind. He didnât stop until the night swallowed him wholeâuntil the chaos, the blood, and the ghosts were behind him.
Only then did he let the thought surfaceâthe pull of something waiting, something softer than this endless war.
You.Â
And the quiet safety you and Crook gave him, hidden away from the rot of Gotham.
His boots hit the final ledge, and without another sound, Jason vanished into the dark, the night reclaiming its broken son as he made his way home.
Next Chapter 13
Chapter 4
Previous | Masterlist
Jason Todd POV
The clang of a wrench against metal echoed through the shop.
Jason leaned over the half-gutted motorcycle frame, oil smeared down his forearm, the sharp scent of grease and gasoline thick in the air. A fan whirred lazily overhead, failing to do anything about the heat, and the shop radio was stuck somewhere between static and an early 2000s grunge playlist.
Perfect goddamn mood for the morning after a fever dream.
He twisted the ratchet and muttered under his breath. "Brooding on a rooftop? Sure. Thatâs standard night shit."
The bolt creaked, groaning in protest before giving way.
"But thenâoh boy, because why the fuck not fate throws one flaming dog pile on me after another. Starting with number one: Random magic blue lady falls out of the fucking sky and lands on me."
He wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand and reached for a socket wrench. His jaw ticked, green eyes narrowing as he kept working. There was a thick layer of oil caked in the engine compartment, like whoever last owned the bike thought maintenance was a government conspiracy.
"Number two: Me pulling a gun on said ladyâbecause what the fuck else do you do when someone with horns, claws, and a glowing stick stumbles outta the night and bleeds all over your Kevlar?"
The wrench slipped. Metal scraped metal.
Jason cursed under his breath. "Number three: She turns into a goddamn mouse. A fucking mouse. Scurries away like this is Tom and Jerry."
He sat back on his heels, running a gloved hand through his hair. The white streak in his bangs fell low, sticking to the sweat on his forehead. He grabbed a rag, wiped his hands down, then glared at the half-assembled carburetor like it owed him money.
"Then she made that green glowing circle with her magic stickâor staff, or whatever the hell she calls it. Even with blood on her side and barely standing, she looked me dead in the face like she wasnât scared to die. Didnât even blink."
That part⌠that part stuck with him. The look in her eyes. Not defiant. Not suicidal. Just⌠accepting.
Like she'd seen worse.
And fuck, that did something to him. Broke something in him, maybe.
He cracked his neck and stood up, grabbing a sip of bitter coffee from the dented thermos on his workbench. It tasted like metal and burnt beans. Fitting.
"Number five," he muttered aloud. "Left her on the rooftop for two minutesâtwoâand came back to find her talking to a pigeon. A pigeon named Crook."
Jason huffed a sharp laugh under his breath, the kind that didnât touch his eyes.
"And then the little bastard jumped on my bike. Not even mad about it anymore. Just... Gotham."
He leaned over the bike again, using a flathead to adjust the wiring harness. It was delicate work, mind-numbing in its routine. Exactly what he needed.
Because if he stopped moving too long, heâd see her face again.
"Number six..." he gritted out, tugging on a connection until it snapped in. "Riding the bike with her behind me. Clinging like her life depended on it. And okay, yeahâshe was scared outta her damn mind. But the way she held onto me?"
He groaned and dropped the wrench on the bench with a sharp clatter. "And donât even get me started on those tits pressed against my back. I could feel every inch of her through that dress. Like a fucking fever dream wrapped in velvet and weird magic words."
Jason turned and sat on the stool by the bench, rolling his neck until it cracked.
His mechanic jacket hung open. Sweat clung to his collarbone. His undershirt had a faint smear of grease from where heâd wiped his hand earlier, but he didnât care. He pulled out a rag and started wiping his gloves down, slower now.
"Number seven..." he muttered. "Had to carry her bridal style into my place because she could barely walk after that ride. Youâd think she was made of feathers."
He sighed, long and deep, staring into the middle distance like the answers were hiding in the chipped paint on the garage wall.
"Number eight," he said more quietly. "She looked at me like I was some kinda miracle."
Jason leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled in front of his mouth.
"When I took off my helmet, she just... stared. Touched my face like it was holy. Like I was something worth seeing."
It hadnât felt creepy. Or invasive. It felt likeâŚ
He swallowed. His chest tightened.
It felt like someone seeing him and not flinching.
Not cataloguing every scar, every callus, every sin.
Just seeing him.
"And then the cherry on top," he muttered, pushing up to his feet again. He walked back to the bike and resumed fiddling with the tail pipe, needing somethingâanythingâto focus on.
"She refused to take the damn bed. Said she wouldnât have me sleep on the couch. Like she actually cared."
He shook his head, mouth twisting into a dry, humorless smile.
"So we shared it. And yeahâDid I sleep better than I have in years⌠Maybe. But was I thinking about her up next to me in my shirt, looking like she belonged thereâŚ
He paused for a few moments.Â
âAnd now here I am talking to myselfâŚâ
Jason ran a hand down his face. "Iâm so fucking doomed."
He finished reassembling the tail pipe, then leaned back, stretching his arms over his head with a groan. The shop buzzed around himâsomeone dropped a tray of tools two bays down, the sound of muffled yelling from somewhere near the break room.
But Jason was stuck.
Stuck in the memory of your hands brushing his. The way your voice sounded saying his full name. The way your eyes held no judgmentâjust curiosity and warmth.
The way you giggled, holding that annoying little pigeon, still shaking from the horror movie on the TV.
She was too soft for this place.
Too sweet for a city like Gotham.Â
Too good for someone like him.
And yetâŚ
He couldnât get the image out of his head. You perched on his kitchen island, Crook in your hands, still trembling but trying to be brave.Â
Your laughter like wind chimes in a hurricane. Your eyes holding nothing but warmth and trust.
It didnât make any sense.
Nothing about it did.
And that scared the shit out of him.
He tossed the rag onto the bench and grabbed another part to clean, eyes narrowing.
His forearms flexed as he worked the grime off, but his mind wasnât on the job. Not really.
Before Jason could spiral into his thoughts even more a voice calls out to him.Â
âYo, Jay! You done with that rebuild on the Valkyrie? Weâve got another job in bay three.â
Jason blinked once, grounding himself. He shook his head and grabbed a wrench. âYeah, yeah. Iâm on it.â
He stalked toward bay three, where a busted â94 Honda Shadow sat stripped of its dignity. The kind of rustbucket only a masochist would try to resurrect. Perfect.
He grabbed a socket wrench, slid onto the creeper, and rolled beneath the frame.
Only a few bolts in when suddenlyâ
 He froze.
A scent hit him before a voice didâcheap floral perfume clashing with cigarette smoke and synthetic vanilla.
âJay,â came the high, syrupy voice. âSeriously? You ghosted me again?â
Jason let his head fall back against the concrete with a dull thud and closed his eyes.
Fuck.
Sasha Vale.
He rolled out slowly, squinting up against the light.
She stood there, hands on her hips, long auburn hair pinned back into a messy bun that tried too hard to look effortless. Heavy eyeliner, red lipstick smudged just slightly from the heat, and a cropped leather jacket over a skintight tank top that left very little to the imagination.
Jason sat up, wiping his hands off with a rag, not bothering to hide the annoyance in his voice. âDidnât know I was under contract to answer your calls, Sasha.â
She huffed, pouting. âWe hooked up three times, Jay. Thatâs, like, a relationship in this century.â
He snorted. âNo, thatâs three bad decisions and an Uber ride home. Letâs not pretend it was more than it was.â
Her mouth dropped open slightly, then narrowed. âYouâre such an asshole.â
Jason shrugged, rising to full height, towering over her. His expression didnât shift. âNever said I wasnât.â
Sasha crossed her arms, stepping into his space. âYou said you liked me.â
âI said you were hot and that I was bored.â
âRude.â
âYouâll live.â He turned away, grabbing a torque wrench and focusing on the Shadow again. âNow if youâll fuck off, Iâm working.â
Sasha didnât move. âYou know, you act like you donât give a shit about anyone, but Iâve seen the way you look when you think no oneâs watching. You want someone to care. You're just too chickenshit to let it happen.â
Jasonâs jaw clenched. Hard.
He turned, his voice low and cold. âYou donât know me. You sure as hell donât know what I want.â
She scoffed. âYou think youâre so fucking mysterious, but youâre just another damaged bad boy with a savior complex and a horrible attitude.â
Jason stepped in, eyes sharp like broken glass. âGet the fuck out of my face, Sasha.â
The tension in the air crackled like static.
For a second, Sasha hesitatedâthen she scoffed, flipping her hair over her shoulder. âWhatever. Hope you enjoy jerking off to your attitude.â
She turned on her heel and stormed out of the garage, heels clacking against the concrete like gunshots.
Jason exhaled slowly and ran a hand through his dark hair. âJesus,â he muttered, returning to the Honda. âRemind me why I ever dipped my dick in that.â
The smell of her perfume still lingered, making his stomach turn. He reached for another rag, trying to scrub his hands harder than necessary.
Jason continued to scrub his hands like he could erase Sasha Vale from his skin when the mechanic to his rightâBriggsâsidled up with the subtlety of a dump truck.
Briggs was tall, broad-shouldered, with grease-stained overalls half-buttoned and a wrench tucked behind one ear like a cigarette.Â
His beard was patchy, his voice always too loud, and his habit of making every situation about sex had earned him the honor of being Jasonâs least favorite human within a five-mile radius.
At his job at least.
The moment Jason saw him approaching from the corner of his eye, he braced for impact. The scent of engine oil and cheap cologne preceded him.
âWell, damn, Jay,â Briggs drawled as he sauntered up, tossing a microfiber cloth over his shoulder like he was about to deliver a sermon. âThat Sasha chickâs got some serious fire in her. Loud, pissed off, smokinâ hot... just how I like âem.â
Jason didnât look up. He just scrubbed harder at the grease staining his palms, jaw clenched so tight it felt like his teeth might crack.
Briggs kept going, oblivious. Or maybe too stupid to care.
âI meanâshit, manâyou gonna let her storm off like that?â He nudged Jason with a meaty elbow. âShe lookinâ for rebound material or what? âCause I wouldnât mind takinâ her for a spin. You know what they say...â
He leaned in close, grinning, breath stinking of onion chips and monster energy drink. âThe hottest ones are always the craziest.â
Jasonâs hand stilled.
Briggs didnât notice. Mistaking silence for agreement, he took it as his cue to go lower. âDoes she scream? God, bet sheâs got those little scratch marks and a mouth thatââ
Jason moved.
Fast.
Deliberate.
The rag hit the workbench with a snap, and in one fluid motion, he peeled away from Briggsâ arm, turned, and stepped inâevery inch of his six-foot frame unfolding like a weapon unsheathed.
His eyes were sharp. Ice-cold. Predator cold.
Briggs froze.
Jason didnât need to yell. His presence said enough. The way his jaw set. The angle of his shoulders. The controlled, lethal tension that hummed through his body like a wire strung too tight.
âSay that again,â Jason said, low, calm,like a promise of violence dressed up in velvet.
Briggs blinked. His grin faltered. âWhoa, hey, man, I was justââ
Jason stepped closer.
Briggs immediately backpedaled.
âIf you ever talk about a woman like that again in front of me,â Jason continued, voice deadly quiet, âyouâll be spitting your own teeth into a drain.â
Briggs went pale.
Jasonâs eyes didnât waver. Didnât blink. His body language didnât shoutâit loomed.
It wasnât bravado. It was intent.
The kind that came from someone who didnât bluff. Someone who had broken bones, and taken lives, and knew exactly how many pounds of pressure it took to shatter a jaw.
Briggs laughed nervously, hands up. âHey, alright, manâjust joking. Jesus.â
Jason didnât move.
He just stared.
Long enough for Briggs to feel it down to his bones. Long enough to make him sweat. Long enough to make it crystal clearâ
Jason Todd didnât tolerate that kind of man. Didnât give a fuck if he âmeant it.â Didnât give a fuck if he was âjust joking.â
Disrespect was disrespect.
Plain and simple.
Briggs swallowed, turned heel, and all but bolted back toward his workstation. If he were a dog, his tail wouldâve been between his legs, ears pinned back, whining all the way to his crate.
Jason let out a breath through his nose and returned to his bench. He picked up the rag again and wiped his hands like nothing had happenedâlike he hadnât just mentally gutted a man with his stare alone.
But his hands trembled as he thought about Sasha.
Yeah, she drove him insane.
But she was still a person.
Not a joke.
Not a conquest.
Not a punchline in some assholeâs locker room monologue.
Jason ran a hand through his hair, the sting of her perfume still haunting the air like a ghost.
He wasnât a saint.
Hell, he wasnât even a good man most days.
But he sure as shit wasnât that guy.
He looked down at his handsâscarred, stained, twitchingâand sighed.
This whole âJay Smithâ thing?
Yeah, it was supposed to be a break. His outlight from beating and killing the scum of the city.
But old habits die hard.
He glanced toward the garage doors where Sasha had stormed out, then down at his hands again.
And somewhere beneath the fury and the guilt and the restless itch in his bones, your face surfaced.
Eyes full of confusion and magic.
A pigeon glaring at him with their beady eyes.
Your voice whispering, âThank you, Jason,â like it meant something.
He closed his eyes for a long moment.
âGet your shit together, Todd,â he muttered.
Then he grabbed the torque wrench and dove back into the Honda, trying not to think about how much youâd already gotten under his skin.
And failing.Â
Miserably.
Time Skip â Hours Later â 2:00 PM
The sun had shifted in the sky, casting the garage in warm gold that spilled through the cracked loading bay door.Â
The air was thick with oil and ozone, the clink of tools now sparse as most of the day crew filtered out for their own late lunches or smoke breaks. Only the rhythmic ticking of a cooling engine and the faint hum of a wall fan kept the quiet from going stale.
Jason sat on an overturned milk crate, his back leaned against the wall of the alley where he had his matte-black Yamaha he used for his day-to-day runsânot the one he kept for his more.. Bloody activities.Â
This one was a little scratched, a little dented, a little real. Much like him.
He unwrapped a sandwich with grease-smudged fingers, chewing mechanically, eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance. His muscles achedânot the good kind, not the "earned it" kind, but the dull, lingering soreness that came from too many hours spent chasing ghosts and dodging bullshit.
But then, mid-chew, you drifted back into his mind.
Not gracefully. Not slowly.
You hit him like a punch to the gut.
He blinked, mid-bite, and nearly dropped the sandwich.
Shit.
You, standing in the middle of his apartment. Hair mussed from sleep. Legs bare to the thigh. Draped in his faded shirt like it was some kind of oversized, half-sheer tunic. Youâd looked lost and curious and utterly lethal to his self-control.
His jaw clenched. He looked down at the half-eaten sandwich like it had offended him.
Why the fuck did he let you sleep in that shirt?
He could still see the soft stretch of the cotton against your chestâyour ridiculous bust making the neckline dip in a way that nearly gave him a coronary. The way the hem hit so high on your thighs that one good gust of wind andâ
He growled low in his throat, dragging a palm over his face.
âNope. Not doing this,â he muttered to himself.
But the damageâŚ
Already done.Â
His mind, the traitorous bastard it always was, had already picked the lock and kicked open the fucking door.
You, leaning over his kitchen counter to inspect something ridiculousâlike how maybe the fucking magnets on the fridge, and the back of that shirt riding up to reveal the full stretch of your thighs, tail lifted slightly, twitching as you concentrated. The curve of your hips framed by the shirt sliding just high enough to give him a glimpse ofâ
âSnap the Fuck out of it Todd.â Jason thinks to himself harshly.Â
You, draped across his couch, half on your stomach, long legs bent at the knee. One foot lazily bouncing in the air. Your tail laying on the armrest. And his shirt, damn that shirt, riding up enough that the base of your spine was visible, the edge of your ass just concealed, your bare skin catching the glow of the TV.Â
The curve of your waist. The way your body moved even when relaxedâlike a warning and a promise all at once.
Jason exhaled through his nose and pinched the bridge of it, hard.
He was going to die.
Again
No doubt about it.
Not from beating.
Not from a bullet.Â
From you.
From the sheer, torturous image of youâhalf-naked, barefoot, and oblivious to the slow-cracking fuse you were lighting in his head just by existing.Â
Fuck.Â
Jason needed to get you clothes, and fast.Â
Not just for your sake, but for his sanity.Â
With a sigh Jason looked down at the mangled remains of his sandwich, barely touched.
It mocked him. The mayo was already congealing. The bread soggy. The lettuce wilted like it had given up on life.
"Yeah. Me too," Jason muttered, and tossed the whole thing toward the alley behind the garage, where Gothamâs mutant sewer rats would no doubt appreciate the donation.
A plume of cigarette smoke wafted across the cracked pavement.
 Blake.Â
One of the other mechanics.Â
Maybe the only one in the shop Jason could tolerate for more than five minutes without wanting to beat the ever loving shit out of them.
She stood near the edge of the loading bay, one booted foot kicked up against the wall, a cigarette dangling from her lips as she checked something on her phone.
 Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, grease-streaked and tired but alert. Sharp eyes, smarter than she let on. Didnât ask too many questions. Didnât give a shit what anyone did off the clock.
Andâmost importantlyâshe was a woman who had functioning opinions about womenâs clothing.Â
Probably.
Jason rolled his shoulders, groaned under his breath, and headed over.
Blake looked up as he approached, squinting slightly through the smoke. âWell well,â she said, lips curling into a crooked grin. âIf it isnât Mr. Sunshine himself.â
Jason grunted. âNeed a word.â
âAlready using them, Smith,â she drawled, flicking ash off the end of her cigarette. âYou gonna ask me to prom or what?â
He ignored that. âYou know where to buy⌠clothes. For women.â
Blake blinked. Once.Â
Then again.
ââŚOkay, back up. What kind of clothes we talking here, Jay? Lingerie? Funeral wear? Cute sundress with little daisies on it?â
Jason scowled. âJust clothes. Normal ones.â
She tilted her head, amused. âThis for Sasha? You trying to fuck your way outta that mess?â
His jaw ticked.
Green eyes flashed.
Blake raised a brow, caught the edge of that heat and wisely lifted her hands in mock surrender. âAlright, alrightâeasy, tiger. Just asking. No need to chew my head off.â
Jason didnât answer. Just shoved his hands into the pockets of his coveralls and stared at the concrete like it had personally offended him.
Blake took a final drag of her cigarette before stubbing it out against the wall. She folded her arms across her chest and gave him a once-over.
ââŚAlright. You serious? You actually trying to buy clothes for a girl.â
Jasonâs voice came low. âYeah.â
ââŚLike, real clothes.. Not like, you know, a plastic bag or something.â
He rolled his eyes.âYes.âÂ
âGot it,â she said. âWhat size is she?â
Jason blinked.
Blake raised a brow. âDonât tell me you didnât check.â
âI wasnât exactly holding a measuring tape Blake, how the fuck should I know.â
âI donât know lets see⌠oh yeah you ask you dumb fuck.â
Jason merely narrowed his eyes at her.
âJesus,â she muttered running a hand down her face. âOkay. What can you tell me about whatever it is she has on now?â
Jason glanced away, jaw tight. âGave her a shirt. Real baggy. Hit her mid-thigh.â
âLike, big shirt baggy, or âyou could fit a family of four in thereâ baggy?â
Jason shrugged his shoulders. âBig. AndâŚ. sheâs⌠busty.â
Jason grimaced as he pictured your large bust again, his shirt doing nothing to cover your beautiful skin.Â
As Jason imagined this a slight red hue painted his cheeks.
Blake let out a bark of laughter watching the usually oh so cold, bad boy of the shop blush like a fucking middle school boy.
âOh my god. You poor fucker.â
He gave her a flat look. âYou done?â
âNope,â she said cheerfully. âBut Iâll help anyway, because this is the most human thing youâve done since you started working here.â
She reached into her back pocket and pulled out a pen, clicking it rapidly as she listed things off with her fingers.
âAlright. For basicsâgo to Savra & Sons, downtown. Sounds like a men's place, but theyâve got solid everyday stuff for women too. Hoodies, tanks, jeans with stretch. Especially good if sheâs got some hips and thighs on her. And from the way youâre grinding your teeth, Iâm gonna say she does.â
Jason said nothing, which was as good as a confirmation.
Blake smirked.
âUnderwearâgo to Arlineâs Boutique in Park Row. Yeah, I know. Fancy name, but the ladies there are chill. Theyâll help you figure out what to get without asking questions. Tell âem youâre shopping for a girl who canât try anything on and theyâll hook you up with stuff thatâs comfy and decent quality. Cotton, lace, no scratchy crap.â
Jason folded his arms.
âWhat about bras?â
Blake let out a long whistle. âBoy, youâre in it deep, huh?â
His glare darkened.
âRight, right. Okay. Same place. Arlineâs. Ask for Marcy. Middle-aged, pink streak in her hair, talks like your grandma but swears like a sailor. Sheâll find something. Just⌠be vague. Say âfull supportâ and whatever you do do not get anything that looks like itâs held together with string and hope.â
He made a mental note of it allâburning each name into memory like a target list.
âOh, and shoes,â Blake added. âGo to Rocket Sole. Itâs this boutique near the river. Good mix of sizes. Flats, sneakers, boots. Stylish stuff, but not like, runway idiocy. Bring one of her shoes if you can. If notâguess and pray.â
Jason grunted.
Blake wasnât done. âAccessories? Jewelry?â
He gave her a long, deadpan stare.
âYouâre buying her clothes, Smith. That means you gotta go all the way. Earrings, bracelets, maybe even a necklace that doesnât say âI got this at the gas station next to a Slim Jim rack.ââ
He blew out a slow breath. âWhere.â
âFlicker. Near Old Gotham. Real affordable, kind of artsy. Think street market vibes but with actual quality. Pretty stuff, simple chains, gemstone work. No hot-topic vampire chokers.â
Jason nodded. His eyes had lost the edge of pure panic nowâshifting into focus, into control.
Blake tilted her head. âSo. Whatâs the story with her?â
Jason didnât answer.
Not a word.
Not even a twitch.
Blake held up her hands again. âAlright. None of my business. Just donât show up with three shopping bags and forget the receipt, dumbass.â
Jason smirked slightlyâmore a twitch of the lips than a smileâbut it was something.
âThanks.â
Blake gave him a mock salute and walked off, fishing for another cigarette.
Jason stood there a moment longer.
He could do this.
Heâd bought explosives in bulk, survived League assassins, and once spent twelve hours bleeding in a sewer with a broken rib and tetanus.
He could buy a damn bra.
And shoes.
And probably a pair of pants that didnât make his blood pressure spike.
As he walked back to his bike, he started making a planâmentally mapping out the city and figuring which stops he could make in one trip. Heâd head out after his shift.
If he could survive without images of you in his shirt anymore.Â
Y/N POV
The screen flickered on, its pale light painting the dim apartment in soft blue hues. Creatures of fur and fang wandered across the televisionâa quiet pack of hyenas, tails swishing, eyes gleaming under the sun-split savanna. The narrator's voice was calm and measured, but you paid it little mind.
You had not touched the remote.
Why?Â
The reason quite simple.Â
You did not want to chance the TV putting another horrid screeching movie picture.Â
Once was enough.Â
It has been quite a few hours since Jason left, how many, you knew not, but the home was quiet, without the presence of the gruff man.
You now sat cross-legged upon his couch, arms around your knees, the strange comfort of Jasonâs shirt brushing your bare thighs like a stolen tunic from a sleeping giant. It smelled of leather, steel, and smoke. Of him.
You blinked, slowly, the lingering sting in your ribs reminding you why you still needed time.
ââŚRight,â you whispered, finally exhaling. âTo the task at hand.â
With gentle reverence, you drew your staff from where it had rested propped against the arm of the couch. The wood thrummed faintly beneath your fingersâancient, gnarled, marked by years of wandering, of shaping the world rather than forcing it. The green crystal nestled at its crown pulsed faintly, reacting to your touch.
âCrook,â you murmured aloud, not needing to raise your voice. âI sense thy watchful gaze.â
The pigeon, perched with disdain upon the window frame like a tiny gargoyle, ruffled his feathers. Mental communication was preferable to speech, but he rarely observed propriety.
âYâknow, for someone who talks like a forest ghost, you sure like dramatic silences.â
You tilted your head, unoffended. âSilence oft reveals more than sound, dearest feathered one.â
Crook gave a low coo and hopped from the sill to a nearby lamp. âYeah, well, yer magicâs makinâ the room smell like wet moss and peppermints. Not complaininââjust sayin dollâ.â
You lifted your hand, palm glowing faintly green, and placed it over your side. Soft warmth flared, your skin glowing beneath the thin fabric, knitting any lingering pain from your ribs, gently persuading bruises to vanish like morning dew.
It was the second time today youâd used your magic.
The first being when you shape changed.Â
Crook cocked his head, squinting at the glow. âThat how ya do it, huh? No weird chants, no weird plant? Just touch it and boom, fixed?â
âNay,â you said softly. âThere is always cost. The Grove taught me balance. Life given must come from somewhere. Even should I pull from within. But yes⌠the touch helps. Connection matters.â
The crystal on your staff flashed once more, brighter this time. Crook hopped closer to the couch and blinked up at you, head tilted.
âYou really are from a different damn world.â
You smiled gently and extended a finger toward him. âYet here I remain. In Gotham, your realm of tall towers of glass and crystal. 'Tis a strange fate, to be healed and housed by a brooding man in leather and a helm of crimson.â
Crook cooed again. âHeh. Broodingâs one word for that guy. Yâknow he growls in his sleep.Â
You chuckled softly. âYes.. I too heard it last night⌠It was oddly comforting.â
A beat of silence passed, broken only by the TV narrating a zebra migration. Your spaded tail swayed gently behind you, curling over the armrest with slow, contented rhythm. You kept your staff close, fingers absently tracing the carvings in its bark. Each notch held a memory. A vow. A scar.
You whispered the words of your peopleânot spells, but a soft incantation of focus and thanks. A prayer to the old spirits of bark and stream. As your magic flowed, you took comfort in the ritual, the structure, the grounding it offered in this foreign metal city.
And still, Crook watched.
âSo, what now? You gonna keep sittinâ here, watchinâ lions and fixinâ yourself up while lover boyâs out playin?â
You pressed a clawed hand to your chest and looked toward the door.
âYou missinâ him or somethinâ? You got that look. The one birds get when their mateâs out scavenginâ too long.â
You hesitated. âHe⌠is strange to me. Rough-hewn. Like a blade forged too hot. But kind, beneath the soot. I owe him my shelter. AndâŚâ
You looked down at the fabric of his shirt, the way it rested against your skin. Too large, too soft, too⌠him.
Jason Todd POV
Time Skip â Hours Later â 4:20 PM
4:20 PM. The shop bell had barely finished its final pathetic ding before Jason was gone.
The sky above Gotham was the color of tarnished silverâone of those murky, humid afternoons where the clouds hung low and restless like the city was holding its breath.
He swung a leg over the leather seat of his bike and exhaled once, slow.
The engine hadnât even turned over yet, and already, his brain was moving.
Mission time.
And that mission⌠was clothes.
For you.
It still sounded absurd in his head, even as he reviewed the mental checklist Blake had helped him build. Clothes. Comfortable ones. Not armor. Not gear. Not tools. Just soft, mundane, normal-ass clothes for a stranger from another fucking dimension who wore his shirt like it was the last safe harbor in a storm.
Jason exhaled slowly.Â
His hands twitched as he held the handlebars.Â
He closed his green eyes and imagined you.Â
Your bright smile and warm (e/c) eyes and looking at him grateful.Â
your strange and pointed fanged smile stared back at him.Â
He imagines you still on the couch still watching animal planet and awaiting his return.Â
And so with a clenched jaw and steeled eyes, Jason kicked his bike into gear, gunning the engine, and started down the route heâd made with the precision of a battlefield map.
First Stop: Savra & Sons â Downtown
The shop looked like an old barbershop from the outsideâsmoky glass, a dingy awning, and a carved wood sign half-hidden by pigeon droppings. But inside, it was quiet, neat, and warm.
Muted jazz hummed from an old speaker. Shelves of folded flannels and tanks lined the walls beside hanging racks of denim, cotton, and soft jersey in every imaginable cut and shade. A stocky woman behind the counter glanced up and gave a polite nod as Jason stepped in, still in his oil-smeared coveralls.
He moved with quiet focus, methodical. Grabbing armfuls of essentials in every damn color and variation he could find.
Loose tanks. Fitted tanks. V-necks, scoop necks. Long-sleeved thermals and soft oversized hoodies that reminded him of the kind youâd wrap yourself in beside a campfire. Jeans with stretch, high-waisted ones he remembered Blake mentioning, and a few pairs of joggers for good measure.
He didnât know your favorite color.
So he picked them all.
Forest green. Burgundy. Sky blue. A weird shade of mustard yellow. Even a tie-dyed one that made him scowl at himself but throw it into the basket anyway.
Somewhere in his head he could already hear your voiceâcurious, unsure, delighted. âOh, this one⌠the color reminds me of the bee-flowers from the whispering glade. Have you ever seen bees sleep, Jason?â
He shook the image off with a grunt and made for the register.
The clerk didnât comment. Just rang him up, bagged the pile neatly, and sent him on his way with a faint, amused, âGood luck, man.â
Second Stop: Flicker â Old Gotham
Flicker was easy to miss if you didnât know what to look for. Its entrance was tucked between a wine bar and a shuttered bookstore, the sign overhead a rusted, hand-painted thing strung with old fairy lights.
Inside, it smelled like sandalwood and copper polish.
Jewelry cases glimmered beneath dim lights. Wire-wrapped gemstones, hand-beaded necklaces, rings carved with moon phases and vines. It reminded him, almost painfully, of something otherworldly.Â
Not Gotham.
Not Earth.
The kind of place you might actually pause to touch every stone and ask what plant the beading twine came from.
Jason moved slow through the space, fingers ghosting over displays as he took stock. He avoided anything too flashy. Too cheap. Too obviously fake. He picked a simple silver chain firstâsturdy, small polished charm at the center shaped like a leaf.
Then a pair of earrings: twisted bronze loops with green stones set like droplets.
Finally, a cuff bracelet made of hammered copper, etched with whorls that reminded him faintly of vines curling along old stone.
They werenât expensive. But they felt... right. Like pieces youâd choose, not because they sparkled, but because they hummed with some quiet weight.
The clerk, a pale man with a shaved head and long painted nails, smiled faintly as he bagged the purchases. âYouâve got good taste,â he said, voice soft. âLucky girl.â
Jason didnât reply.
He just paid. Nodded once. And walked out into the dying light of Gotham, the bags heavy in one hand.
Final Stop â Arlineâs Boutique, Park Row
By the time Jason pulled into Park Row, his bike was riding a little lower from the weight strapped to it.
The rear compartment and panniers were crammed with bagsâflannel and denim from Savra & Sons, a jewelry box or two from Flicker, and enough loose tops, soft hoodies, and joggers to clothe a small militia.
Miraculously, none of it had fallen off during the ride.
That fact alone felt like a minor Gotham miracle.
He parked a little down the street from the boutique, half because the curb was crowded, half because he wanted an extra thirty seconds to steel himself before he walked in.Â
Killing gang members? Fine.
Going toe-to-toe with Slade Wilson? Bring it.
Going toe to toe with the dark night? That's just another night for Jason.
 But stepping into a womanâs boutique to buy bras and pantiesâaloneâwas a whole other kind of battlefield.
He cut the engine, the bike settling into silence.
 The street noise took overâtraffic hum, a siren in the distance, footsteps on the cracked pavement.
Jason reached up, cracked his neck, exhaled sharply through his nose.
âAlright,â he muttered to himself. âLetâs fucking go.â
And slowly Jason made his way over.Â
The boutiqueâs window gleamed like it had been scrubbed with rosewater and elbow grease.
Soft pink lettering curled across the glass: Arlineâs: Everything a Girl Deserves. In the display, a headless mannequin wore a silk slip the color of champagne, flanked by neat pyramids of pastel bras folded like origami.
There were lace gloves on a little ceramic hand, a ribbon-bound box with a bow so perfectly tied Jason suspected witchcraft.
He could see his reflection in the glassâbroad-shouldered, helmet tucked under his arm, scuffed boots, and a face set in the same grim determination he usually wore to stakeouts.
A few teenagers loitered half a block down, passing a vape pen between them.
On the opposite corner, a uniformed cop leaned against a lamppost, coffee in hand, scanning the street without looking like he cared about anything on it.
Jason ignored them both.
He took one last breath, squared his shoulders, and walked in like he was storming a safehouse.
The smell hit him first.
It wasnât overpoweringâjust a subtle layering of rosewater, lavender sachets, and the faint must of old books, like someoneâs grandmother had taught them how to keep a shopâs soul intact.
The air was warmer in here, softer somehow, with a kind of stillness that pressed in close.
Every surface was part of some calculated display.
Silk and lace hung in carefully spaced racks, color-coded from the softest blush pinks to midnight blues.
Delicate ribbons fluttered in a slow turn from the ceiling fans.
Somewhere deeper in the store, a hushed voice laughed, followed by the rustle of fabric.
Jason immediately felt like a bull in a glass shop.
He was aware of every step he took, the subtle creak of the wooden floor under his boots.
He kept his hands close to his sides, like touching anything without permission would trigger an alarm and a SWAT team made entirely of elderly ladies with sharp knitting needles.
From behind a counter at the far end, a short, round woman with hair streaked pink looked up over her glasses.
This must be the woman Blake told him about.Â
Her hair was twisted into a knot, held in place by a pair of hairsticks tipped with tiny beads. Her gaze flicked over himâtaking in the biker build, the tired green eyes, the helmet tucked under one armâand one corner of her mouth quirked upward.
âCan I Help you, sweetheart?â
Jason set the helmet down on the nearest counter with deliberate care.âLooking for⌠underclothes,â he started. âFor a woman⌠Sheâs not hereâŚ. Canât try anything on.â
He felt like a fucking idiot with how many pauses he was taking.Â
The womanâs brows rose, but she didnât laugh.Â
Didnât even smirk.Â
She studied him for a heartbeat, then stepped out from behind the counter with the measured calm of someone about to guide a lost soul through uncharted waters.
âWell, bless your heart for trying anyway. Iâm Marcy. Letâs get to work.â
Jason gave a short nod. âJason.â
No need to use his alias.Â
Work was over afterall.Â
She waved him along, weaving between racks like a seasoned tour guide. âAlright, Jason, talk to me. Whatâre we working with?â
He gave her the facts, stripped down and tactical: Tall-ish. Broad hips. Big bust. Likes to move.Â
Probably doesn't like anything scratchy.
Probably wonât know what a zipper is.
Marcy didnât miss a beat. âShirt size?â
He answered best he could.Â
She nodded like sheâd just unlocked a cipher, then plucked a few bras from a rack and held them against her own torso for reference. âSoâsheâs at least a double D. Weâre gonna go full support. Soft band, wide straps, no underwire unless you want her to murder you.â
Jason grunted. âNoted.â
They moved like tacticians preparing for war.
First came the neutralsâblack, cream, soft grey. Marcy explained why each was practical, why some were better under light shirts, others under dark. Jason listened, nodding, committing the details to memory as if heâd need to brief someone on the operation later.
Then came what Marcy called the âmorale boostersââpieces with lace trim, leaf-like embroidery, or colors richer than anything in the neutral palette. âGirl like that,â she said, sliding a wine-red bra into the basket, âsheâs gonna like feeling pretty, even if she donât admit it.â
Jason didnât argue.
In fact, in a moment of pure stubbornness, he reached past her and tossed in a deep forestÂ
green one.
He had no idea why.
 It just⌠felt right.
And after a few seconds Jason paused and realized what came next.Â
Panties.Â
Marcy led him through a wall display that looked like a color-coded filing system for every possible cut of underwear in existence.
Jason stood there for a long moment, just staring, before muttering, âJesus Christ.â
Marcy chuckled. âItâs not that bad. These are your workhorsesâcotton briefs. These are your fun daysâboyshorts. And theseâŚâ she picked up a silky high-waisted pair with vintage stitching, ââŚare your date-night specials.â
Jason didnât ask what counted as a âdate nightâ in this context.
He just loaded the basketâmatching tones, complementary tones, and a couple that didnât match anything else because why the hell not.
By the time they reached the counter again, Jason felt like heâd run an entire recon op in enemy territory without backup.
Marcy rang up the haul with a speed that made him suspect sheâd done this dance for a lot of bewildered men before him.
When the last bag was filled, she reached under the counter and pulled out a small wrapped package.
âFree sample soaps,â she said. âHoney and lavender. Figured she might need a little kindness.â
Jason hesitated.
Not because he didnât want to take it, but because the word kindness landed in his chest like a quiet punch.
He gave her a tight nod. ââŚThanks.â
Marcy just smiled, sliding the bag across. âYouâre welcome, sweetheart. And good luck.â
The bell over the door jingled as he stepped out into the Gotham evening, the weight of the bags tugging at his fingers.
The sky above the rooftops had gone from gold to deep violet, the first pricks of starlight barely visible through the haze.Â
Somewhere nearby, a car alarm blared briefly before cutting off. A breeze off the river stirred the edges of the paper bags, carrying with it a faint trace of rosewater from inside the shop.
Jason walked back to the bike, the bags balanced in one arm, helmet in the other.
 It felt like a small victoryânot the kind you celebrated with champagne, but the kind that kept the wheels turning.
He had done it.
Every stop on Blakeâs list, except the shoesâthose would wait until he knew your exact size. He wasnât about to risk buying the wrong pair and have you look at him like heâd just brought home shackles.
As he loaded the bags into the compartments and bungeed the rest, he muttered under his breath. âThis felt like a fucking final boss.âÂ
But even he knewâheâd just survived a battlefield of silk, lace, and rosewater.
But for you.
Heâd do it again.
Next Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Previous | Masterlist
Jason Todd POVÂ
Jason crouched on the ledge, boots planted against cold brick, the Gotham air biting damp against his armor.Â
Below, the night churned in its usual symphonyâdistant sirens, the low thrum of traffic, an argument echoing between two drunks a block over. But his focus cut sharper than any blade.
Movement.
He tracked it instantlyâone figure stumbling fast down the cracked sidewalk, heels snapping against concrete, breath carrying in sharp, panicked bursts.Â
A woman. Her purse slammed against her hip as she ran, clutching it tight like it might shield her.
And behind her, three shadows.
âFigures,â Jason muttered inside the helmet, voice flat as he leaned forward. âThree assholes against one.â
The HUD flickered red around their heat signatures, tagging them automatically as they pursued. They shouted thingsâugly things. Their words carried up the alley walls, carried on Gothamâs stale wind.
Jasonâs jaw flexed.
The woman skidded on her heel as she tried to cut down a narrow alleyway, thinking sheâd lose them there......
She didnât.
The three men simply followed.
Snarling with laughter.Â
Rats cornering prey.
Jason shifted forward, ready, every instinct screaming not tonight.
The womanâs back hit the brick wall at the alleyâs end. Nowhere to run.
One of the bastardsâbroad, sloppy in his stance but cockyâlunged forward, pawing at her.
Jason didnât wait any longer.
He dropped.
Boots slammed against the pavement with a crack that thundered through the narrow alley. The woman screamed once, startled, before realizing the figure before her wasnât another attacker but something worseâsomething that made even predators hesitate.
The Red Hood rose to full height, guns holstered but heavy at his side, his helmet gleaming faintly under the weak streetlight.
The three men froze.
Jason tilted his head slowly, the reflection of their own trembling bodies staring back at them from the crimson curve of his helmet.
His voice rasped low, sharp through the modulator. âScram.â
The woman didnât wait.
She bolted sideways, shoulder catching against brick as she scrambled past him, sobbing so hard her breath came out in jagged bursts. Her heels clattered until they faded into the noise of the city.
That left him and the three.
Jason chuckled.
A low, humorless thing.Â
âDonât you bastards have anything better to do than terrorize women in alleys? Or is that just the highlight of your sad little lives?â
One of them tried to bluff, stepping forward with a sneer, though his voice cracked. âTh-the hell are you supposed to be?â
Jasonâs HUD blinked alive, red outlines locking onto faces. The tech crawled through recognition algorithms, cross-checking police databases and public records. Names, rap sheets, last known addresses.
All of it pulled up, flickering across the inside of his visor like a dossier from hell.
The first manâs ID burned bright on screen. Jasonâs lips curved into something cruel beneath the mask. âOh, I know you.â
His voice echoed off the alley walls as he read the data aloud, each word a knife.
âMarcus Hale. Twenty-eight. Assault charges in â22. Six months served for breaking a womanâs jaw because she wouldnât give you her number. Out on parole. And here you are againâdidnât learn shit, did you?â
Marcusâs face paled. His two buddies shifted uneasily, eyes darting between each other.
Jason let the silence stretch for a beat before he barked a laugh. âChrist, I remember your mugshot on the news. You looked just as pathetic as you do now.â
He stepped closer, boots deliberate against the wet pavement. âTell me, Marcusâwhat was it like, huh? Did prison make you tougher? Or did you spend your nights squealing in the corner, hoping no one noticed you?â
Marcusâs fists clenched, rage flickering to cover fear. âFuck you.â
Jasonâs head tilted, the red glow of the helmet unrelenting. âAlready did. Society fucked you when they let you back out here.â
His hand shot forward, faster than Marcus could react.
Fingers closed around his collar and slammed him against the wall. The impact rattled bricks loose, dust drifting down. Marcus wheezed, clawing at the iron grip on his throat.
Jason leaned in close, voice dropping low enough to crawl under the bastardâs skin. âYou think cornering a woman makes you strong? Makes you a man? Newsflashâyouâre nothing. Just another Gotham parasite.â
He slammed him once more, head bouncing off stone.
Marcus groaned, knees buckling. Jason let him drop like garbage, stepping back and turning his helmet toward the other two.
The HUD scanned them cleanâidentities unfolding instantly.
Jason chuckled again, dark and low. âOh, this is rich.â
He jabbed a finger toward the second man.
âEddie Ramos. Twenty-four. Armed robbery, three counts. Shot a clerk in the leg during a liquor store hit. Two years in Blackgate. Out early for good behavior.â
He scoffed. âYeah, real model citizen. Good behavior my ass.â
Eddie tried to hold steady, but sweat slicked his temple. His bravado faltered as Jason rattled off his sins like scripture.
Then Jason shifted to the last. âAnd you. Thomas Briggs. Thirty-one. No convictions, huh? But plenty of complaints. Public indecency. Harassment. Workplace assaultâoh, yeah, I remember this one. You tried to force yourself on a coworker. She had to leave the city because your boss covered your shit up.... Ringing any bells?â
Briggs blanched. His jaw tightened. He stammered, âYouâyou donât know what the fuck youâre talking about.â
Jasonâs laugh was sharp as a blade. âDonât I? The mask doesnât lie, Briggs. My techâs better than GCPD ever dreamed of being. I know exactly who the fuck you are.â
He advanced a step, the alley shrinking around them. The two men huddled instinctively, like rats in a corner.
Jasonâs hand hovered near his holster, but he didnât draw.Â
Not yet.Â
He wanted them to feel it. Wanted their fear to steep until it curdled in their guts.
âYou know whatâs funny?â he said conversationally, tilting his head. âI could call the cops. Let them drag your sorry asses back to Blackgate. Let you rot in a cell.â
Hope flickered in Eddieâs eyes. âY-yeah. Do that. Weâweâll go quietly.â
Jasonâs helmet angled down, voice thick with mock sympathy.
âAw, you want the law to save you? After all the times you pissed on it? Nah. See, hereâs the difference between me and Batman.â
He leaned forward, visor glowing inches from Eddieâs pale face. âHe still thinks you can be scared straightâŚ..I donât.â
Jasonâs fist shot out, crunching into Eddieâs ribs with enough force to fold him in half. Eddie crumpled, gasping on the pavement.
Marcus scrambled to his knees, swearing.Â
Jasonâs boot lashed out, cracking into his jaw, sending him sprawling again.
Blood sprayed dark across the wall.
Briggs tried to bolt.Â
Wrong move.Â
Jasonâs arm snapped up, pistol drawn in a blur. The barrel barked once, deafening in the narrow alley. The bullet didnât hit himâit shattered the brick beside his head, spraying dust across his hair.
Briggs froze.Â
His legs shook visibly.
Jason twirled the pistol casually, re-holstering it before stepping close enough that Briggs could see his reflection in the blood-red dome.
âRun again, and the next oneâs between your fucking eyes.â
Briggs whimpered.
Jason let silence drag heavy, the only sound Eddieâs wheezing and Marcus groaning.Â
Then he spoke, voice low and lethal.
âYou three had your shot at life. You blew it. You hurt people, over and over and over.... Women, workers, strangersâdoesnât matter. You think Gothamâs a playground for your bullshit? You think you get to do this forever?â
He shook his head slowly. âNot on my watch.â
His guns clicked free again, both barrels leveled in a perfect aim.
Marcus raised a trembling hand. âWaitâwait, man, weâwe can changeââ
Jason barked a laugh, sharp as a gunshot. âOh, I love that one. âWe can change.â Heard it a thousand times. Never seen it once.â
The muzzles gleamed. His finger tightened.
Jasonâs voice dropped to a final growl. âYouâre done.â
The barrels bucked twice, the thunder of the gunfire punching against the alley walls and rattling Jasonâs bones.
Marcus dropped first, blood blooming across his chest as his body slammed flat into the asphalt. Eddie wheezed half a scream before the second shot cut him off for good, skull snapping back against the bricks.Â
Briggs never even made it to his kneesâone bullet through the throat, another through the skull when he flailed.
And all that remainedâ
Silence.Â
Jason lowered the pistols slowly, smoke curling from the barrels.Â
The stink of copper thickened in the air, hot and raw, mixing with the sewer reek that always lingered in Gothamâs veins.Â
He stared at the heap of them sprawled in the shadows, pathetic in death as they were in life.
A scoff scraped out of him, bitter and humorless. âShouldâve stayed home, assholes.â
He holstered his guns with practiced ease and turned on his heel, no hesitation, no second glance.Â
The job was done.Â
They didnât deserve the luxury of remorse or pity.
And by the time the police stumbled onto the scene, the alley would just be another page in Gothamâs endless ledger of violenceâthree men dead, no witnesses who were alive who would admit to seeing the Red Hood.
As Jason walks away he takes out his grappling gun and shoots it high into the dark towers of Gotham.Â
The gun hissed, cable streaking up with a metallic whine, the hook latching into corroded steel. Jason yanked the line taut, the motor hauling him skyward. Boots found the ledge, and in seconds he was runningâ
Rooftop to rooftop, his breath controlled, his body slipping into the rhythm he knew as well as his own heartbeat.
Boot to gravel. Leap to concrete. Line snapping onto yet another roof.
The city flowed below him, neon bleeding into puddles, shadows stretching long. The air reeked faintly of ozone and garbage, with the low growl of distant traffic humming under it all.
Up here, you felt like a ghostâa predator watching the living grind themselves to pieces beneath.
His focus stayed forward, always scanning.Â
Corners.Â
Rooftops.Â
Windows left too open, too bright.Â
Movement flickering in the periphery. The fighter in him didnât know how to stop.Â
Gotham never let him.
The HUD flickered green as his helmet synced to the police radio channels.Â
Static cracked, voices bleeding inâdispatchers, street cops, the kind of ragged stress in their tone only Gotham bred. He caught the tail end of a code broadcast: a disturbance downtown, escalating fast.
Jason adjusted the frequency, narrowing the feed until he caught the details.
ââŚreports confirm Joker spotted at Amusement Mile⌠repeat, Amusement Mile. Possible hostages inside the funhouse attraction. Units en route, proceed with caution. Multiple casualties reported.â
Jasonâs jaw locked and clenched.Â
Of all the pieces of shit that had to act up tonight it had to be him.Â
The Joker.
For a split second his body reacted before his mindâpulse spiking, teeth grinding, every nerve raw with memory.Â
The name was a match struck against oil-soaked rags.Â
Pain.Â
Laughter
Crowbars.
death.Â
His death.
Part of him wanted to pivot right then, head toward Amusement Mile.Â
Tear through the clownâs men, drag Joker into the street, put a bullet between those painted eyes and finally end it.
And before Jasonâs anger could overtake him the radio cut in through his helmet again.
âBatman and Red Robin are presumed to be en route.â
âOf fucking course they are.â Jason thinks to himself annoyed and clenching his fists.Â
No way in hell Bruce would not answer a Joker call.Â
And Jason knew the second he set foot on that ground, Bruce would stop fighting Joker just long enough to fight him instead.Â
Or Lecture him on his killing ways.Â
The arguments would start again, the one theyâd been waging for yearsâJasonâs bullet versus Bruceâs fucking code.
And while they argued, Joker would slip away.Â
Again.
Jasonâs breath came slow through the modulator.Â
He forced the tension down, the shaking in his hands easing only when he flexed them tight around his grappling gun.
âNot tonight,â he muttered. âNot my fight. Not like this.â
He cut the radio chatter and redirected, letting his HUD guide him back toward another target.
One he could actually do something about without having to worry about the great and mighty Batman getting in his way.Â
The Serrano crew.
Small-time gang trying to go big. Drugs, guns, extortionâusual bullshit.Â
Jason had been tracking them for weeks, circling their hideouts, gutting their runners one by one.Â
The trail had finally narrowed to a warehouse by the river, a supposed hub for smuggling crates out to their contacts in BlĂźdhaven.
He angled his path southeast, grappling from ledge to ledge, slower now, deliberate. He wanted to keep his blood from boiling over after hearing Jokerâs name.
And as Jason made his way through the skies of Gotham, his thoughts slid back to you.
He pictured you in his apartmentâthe only piece of his life that wasnât jagged or bloody.Â
You, with your horns, strange eyes, and even stranger tail, curled up on the couch earlier, giving bits of dinner to Crook like he wasnât a pigeon with an attitude problem.Â
Jason had sat there too, beside you, trying not to stare too long whenever your tail flicked against the cushions.
He hadnât realized until tonight just how much peace heâd forgotten.
Now, though, he figured youâd probably drifted off by now.Â
It was past midnight, later still.Â
You had to be stretched out in bed by now, tail curled, Crook probably settled on the small table by the bed again.
Jason landed on another rooftop, crouching low as he paused to watch the glow of the street below.Â
His chest tightened without permission.
For years, his nights ended with nothing but blood on his hands and an empty apartmentÂ
Waiting.Â
Now he had to shake the image of you there, asleep, waiting without even realizing you were waiting.
The idea of it scared him.
Donât get used to it, he told himself bitterly. It wonât last. Nothing ever does in this cursed fucking city.
Jason vaulted to another roof, gravel crunching beneath his boots. He kept moving, trying to outrun the creeping ache.
He didnât belong to peace.Â
He belonged to Gotham nights like thisâchasing, hunting, putting people in the ground. He couldnât imagine what it would be like if you ever saw this part of him, really saw it.Â
The alleyways painted red, the way he never flinched when the trigger squeezed.
Would you still sit with him on the couch? Would you still smile at him over dinner, tail flicking like it had earlier? Or would you look at him the same way everyone else did when they realized what he was?
Monster. Murderer. Mistake.
Jason grunted under his breath, forcing the thought down. It didnât matter.
Didnât matter because right now his job was the Serrano crew.Â
Didnât matter because keeping you safe meant keeping distance, keeping you away from this life.
But stillâfuckâhis mind wouldnât let it go.Â
The image of you in that apartment was the one thing that softened the edges of Gotham, and he hated how much he wanted to hold onto it.
Another leap, another line fired.Â
He crouched low as the Serrano warehouse came into view, crouched among the skeletal silhouettes of cranes and rusted shipping containers. Dim light glowed through high windows, voices carrying faintly even at this distance.
Jasonâs HUD zoomed in, catching sight of a few guards smoking out front.
He drew a long, steady breath through the filter of his mask.Â
This was where he belongedâin the hunt, in the violence. And maybe, if he could keep his head straight, youâd never have to know how much darker Gotham looked from behind this helmet.
He settled into the shadows, the city stretching wide behind him.
And just before he moved in, his thoughts flickered one last time.
You. Safe. Home. Tail curled.Â
You, maybe even waiting for him, even though he told you not to.Â
You, maybe wondering when heâd walk back through the door.
Jasonâs jaw tightened. His chest ached.
He shifted his pistols, checked the ammo, and melted into the dark toward the warehouse.
Moments Later
The metal catwalk groaned softly under his boots as Jason crouched low, staying deep in the shadows above. From up here, he had a clear view of the Serrano crew littered across the warehouse floor.
The place stank of stale beer, gun oil, and sweat. Crates stacked high lined the walls, each marked with spray-paint sigilsâcheap intimidation tactics, trying to look like they belonged to some bigger syndicate.Â
Floodlights hung overhead, buzzing faintly, casting everything in sickly yellow light that left long, jagged shadows across the concrete.
Jason counted bodies.Â
Fifteen, maybe twenty.Â
A mix of jumpy teenagers with pistols too big for their hands and older veterans with hard lines carved into their faces. The usual. The Serranos were sloppy.Â
They recruited anyone desperate enough to swing a bat for a free meal or stupid enough to think Gotham gangs meant power.
Half of them didnât even look like they cared.
On the far side, a pair leaned against a shipping crate, smoke curling around their heads, muttering about nothing.Â
Two more sat cross-legged on the floor, lines of powder spread across a phone screen, sniffing quick jolts before laughing too loud. A few more slouched against the walls, eyes glazed, fingers twitching around rifles they werenât even holding properly.
Others were louderâbarking orders, pacing like they thought yelling made them leaders.
âCut the shit, alright? You think Batmanâs gonna give us time to sit around?â one snapped, voice sharp with nerves.
Another, young and wiry, scoffed back, âAs if the Bat gives a shit about us. Heâs out there playing tag with Joker or some other freak. If anyoneâs gonna showââ
Jason smirked under the helmet when he heard his name.
ââitâs that Red Hood fucker we should be worried about.â
Murmurs rippled. Some laughed, trying to brush it off. Others looked uneasy, shifting their grips on their weapons.
Another man, older, spat on the floor. âRed Hoodâs just one asshole. And half of what they sayâs bullshit anyway. Nobody moves that fast, nobody clears out crews like that without backup. Itâs a ghost story, man, stop being such a fucking pussy.â
Jasonâs gloved fingers curled loosely around the railing.Â
A ghost story.
He could live with that.
Closer to the middle, two were arguing.
âThis is bullshit. Serranoâs got us sitting here guarding crates nobodyâs gonna touch. Waste of a fucking night.â
âShut your Goddamn mouth. You wanna be the one telling him you skipped out? You know what heâllââ
Jason tuned them out. Their words didnât matter. Their fear would.
He let the scene soak into him, cataloguing every voice, every careless gesture, every exposed neck and vulnerable angle.
Up here in the dark, crouched above them, he wasnât Jason Todd anymore. He wasnât the kid who broke bread with Bruce Wayne or the one who laughed too hard at dumb jokes.
He was the Red Hood. And the Red Hood didnât waste time.
A small cylinder rolled between his fingers, cold metal clicking softly against his palm. Jason pulled the pin with a precise twist and let it drop.Â
Then another.Â
Then three more.
The smoke bombs hit the concrete floor one by one, clattering sharp.Â
For a heartbeat, no one reactedâjust glances down, confusion flickering across tired faces.
Then the smoke hissed, white plumes curling fast and thick, rolling out in all directions like a tide.
The first coughs started.Â
Then curses.Â
Thenâ
panic.
âWhat theâshitââ âEyes! Canât seeââ âFuck, whatâs happeningâ?â
Weapons clicked up wildly, muzzles swinging in blind arcs. In the chaos, somebody fired.
The muzzle flash ripped through the smokeâand the bullet punched through another manâs arm. Screams tore out, muffled by the growing haze, followed by more gunfire, louder, frantic.
They werenât hitting him.Â
They were hitting each other.
Jason waited, crouched above, listening.Â
The symphony of panic never got old.Â
The coughs.Â
The cries.Â
The desperate, half-choked prayers from men who thought theyâd walked into a ghost story and realized too late it was real.
His HUD cut through the haze, red outlines marking every figure. To them, the world was blind chaos. To him, it was a map of meat waiting to be butchered.
And as the chaos continuedâ-
Jason moved.
He dropped straight into the storm, leather jacket flaring like a blade of shadow, body crouched low as he hit the floor.
The first man didnât even know he was there before Jasonâs knife slit clean across his throat. Hot spray hit the smoke, metallic tang filling the air. Jason shoved him aside, silent, already on the next.
A rifle rose blindly toward him. Jason snapped the barrel away, jammed his pistol under the manâs chin, and pulled the trigger. The skull cracked open with a sharp, wet pop, body crumpling.
He pivoted, boots crunching on shell casings, and drove an elbow into anotherâs jaw. Bone cracked. Teeth scattered across the floor like dice.
Jason moved like water, each kill silent, efficient. He fired only when he had toâtwo shots to kneecaps, one to an eye socket.Â
The rest, he preferred personal. Knives. Hands. Brutality they could feel in their last seconds.
The smoke turned red as men dropped, choking on blood, clutching wounds, screaming for help that wasnât coming.
Some still fired, wild and blind. Jason ducked under a spray of bullets, sliding low before driving his blade up through a stomach. The man gasped wetly, eyes wide, before Jason ripped the knife free and shoved him down.
Another rushed him with a bat. Jason caught it, twisted hard, and used it to cave the manâs skull in. Bone shattered with each hit until the face wasnât recognizable anymore.
The floor was a killing ground. Bodies twitched in pools of red. Smoke curled over them like shrouds.
Jasonâs breathing stayed steady, measured. No wasted effort, no hesitation.Â
Every strike calculated.Â
Every kill necessary.
This wasnât vengeance. This wasnât rage. This was work.
Minutes passed before the chaos thinned.
The warehouse was quiet again, save for the hissing smoke and the low moans of the few left aliveâgurgling, choking, begging. Jason walked among them, boots slick with blood, eyes scanning for stragglers.
Most were already gone.
All but one.
An older guyâlate forties maybe, scraggly beard gone gray at the edges, gut straining against his bloodied shirtâscrambled upright.Â
He clutched his side, staggering toward the exit, legs quivering under his own weight. The wound wasnât Jasonâs. No. Jason never missed his shots. The bullet hole was sloppy, torn in at a bad angle. Probably one of the bastardâs own crew had clipped him in the blind panic.
Poetic.
Jason watched him lurch for the door, limping, leaving a jagged smear of red across the concrete. The man pushed it open with a shoulder and disappeared into the night, leaving the warehouse behind like a tomb.
Jason didnât follow.
Not yet.
He stood there in the smoke-stained silence, boots planted, chest rising slow under the Kevlar. He counted off in his head.Â
One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three. He let the bastard think he was free, let him get just far enough down the block for that fragile ember of hope to flicker in his chest.Â
Hope was fuelâand Jason liked tearing it away just when they thought they had it.
When the count hit twenty, he moved.
The Gotham air was damp, thick with rain-slick grime. Jason slipped into the shadows, following at a measured pace.Â
Slow, patient. Like a cat toying with its prey, he let the sound of boots on wet pavement fall into rhythm with the steady drip of blood hitting the street.
He didnât need eyes on the guy.Â
Not anymore. The trail was written in crimson, sloppy handprints smeared against brick walls, streaks painted down the alley mouth where the bastard had stumbled.
Jasonâs HUD tracked the splatter patterns, every droplet tagged and traced, glowing faint red outlines against the darkness. He couldâve followed it blindfolded if he had to.
The guyâs breathing echoed faintly ahead, ragged and wet, hitching with every step. A dying manâs soundtrack. Jason kept his own steady, closing distance only when he wanted to, keeping the leash tight.
He turned a cornerâand froze.
The bastard had stopped moving. The trail ended in a collapsed heap against a chain-link fence, chest heaving shallow, one arm draped over the steel like heâd tried to climb it before his body finally gave out. Blood was pooling beneath him, thick and slow.Â
The end of the line.
Jason let out a tired, sharp sigh inside the helmet, fogging his visor for half a second.
âFucking perfect.â
Because standing over the barely-breathing man, was one of the last people Jason wanted to see tonight.
The Blue of his suit shinning, escrima twirling, cocky stanceâoh, Jason knew that silhouette.
He knew it too fucking well.
Nightwing.
Or, as Jasonâs brain put it: âgreat, itâs fucking Dick.â
Jason stalked closer, boots hitting puddles with heavy splashes.
His voice came out rough, distorted through the helmetâs modulator, low enough to cut through the alley hum.
âShouldnât you be with your little fucking boy band right now?â His arms spread in mock-innocence as he closed the gap. âWhat happened, pretty boy? Did Princess Tangerine kick you out of the clubhouse?â
Dick didnât flinch, didnât stop twirling his escrima. His tone came back smooth as always, clipped with that faint smile Jason always wanted to break off his face.
âFirst offâitâs Teen Titans,â Dick corrected, stepping aside so Jason could see the bleeding thug slumped against the fence. âSecond, her nameâs Kory. And I'll have you know she's back at out place waiting for me.â He flashed the smallest grin. ââthank you very much.â
Jason rolled his eyes so hard it felt like it scraped bone.
âOh, my bad. Forgive me for not keeping track of your soap opera of a life.â
His boots squelched on the blood trail as he got closer, tone thick with mockery. âNext time Iâll remember to send flowers to your fucking space girlfriend, yeah?â
Dick didnât rise to it.Â
He just looked at him, calm and infuriatingly steady, as though Jason was still fifteen years old throwing tantrums in the cave.
Jason stopped a few feet away, crossing his arms, weight set in his hip like he owned the space. The thug on the fence groaned low, gurgling blood, but neither of them moved to help him. He wasnât the focus.
âYou planning on finishing him?â Dick asked finally, casual, like they were just catching up.
Jason tilted his helmeted head. âWhat, you gonna stop me if I say yes?â
There was a pause. A subtle shift in Dickâs stance. The smile never fully left, but Jason saw the jaw tighten beneath it.
âMaybe,â Dick said.
Jason chuckledâsharp, bitter, mirthless. âSee, thatâs what I love about you, Bird Boy. You always gotta leave that door open. Canât just say âyeahâ or âno.â Always gotta be Mister Diplomatic. Like this city needs that shit.â
Dick sighed through his nose. âYou donât make it easy, Jason.â
Jason spread his arms again, exaggerated, almost theatrical. âIâm not here to make it fucking easy. Thatâs your job, remember? You get to smile for the cameras. I get to mop the floor with scum.â
He jabbed a finger toward the thug slumped on the fence, voice dropping lower, darker. âAnd that piece of shit right there? Heâs got information I need. You gonna stand in my way of that, or are you gonna keep lecturing me like big brother of the year?â
Dick shifted, escrima clicking together once before separating again. His eyes narrowed just slightlyâmeasuring Jason, weighing the choices.
âDepends,â Dick said slowly. âWhat are you gonna do to him after you get your information?â
Jason tilted his head, silent for a moment. Then his voice came out flat, cold.
âWhat do you think Greyson?â
The silence stretched, broken only by the gutter drip and the wheeze of the half-dead thug trying to crawl.
Jasonâs grip twitched against his thigh, itching for steel, itching for action. But under it allâunder the blood, the bravado, the armorâwas something heavier.Â
The ache of knowing it was Dick.
That it was always Dick who showed up in the goddamn worst places, one of the few face's he could never scrub out of his mind no matter how hard he tried.
For a long, tense stretch, the two men stood there posturing. Blue and red.
Night and blood. Dickâs escrima twirling idly, his jaw tight but his stance deceptively relaxed. Jason standing solid, his gun hand loose but ready, weight set in his hip like he dared him to make the first move.
Neither spoke. The groaning thug filled the silence, clutching his side and whimpering against the chain-link fence.
Finally, Jason turned, boots crunching on gravel, and loomed over the man.Â
With a sharp, careless shove of his boot, he knocked the wounded bastard flat to the ground. The man yelped, curling in on himself, eyes wild with terror as blood seeped thick between his fingers.
âPâplease,â the thug stammered, voice high and broken. âDonât kill me. I didnât want to do thisâI swear. IâI got a family. Kids. Pleaseââ
Jason crouched low, his helmet tilting down at the man, the modulated growl of his voice cutting like razors.
âSave your fucking breath.â He scoffed, the sound sharp and humorless. âYour familyâll be better without you in it. Thatâs a fact.â
The thug whimpered, but Jasonâs HUD was already working. A quiet flicker of data ran across his visor, his helmet scanning the manâs face, pulling criminal records, police reports, gang affiliations. A neat little file unfolded before him in seconds.
Jasonâs lips curled into a grin behind the mask.
âWell, well, look at that.â His voice dripped with venom. âA loyal little son of a bitch, arenât you? Extortion, trafficking, assaultâhell, you even took a rap for your boss once. Real soldier material. That why he keeps you around? Or just because youâre too much of a dumb fuck to quit?â
The thugâs pleas spilled out faster now, tears cutting muddy lines down his grimy face. âPlease, IâI didnât have a choiceââ
Jasonâs patience snapped. His boot came down hard, pinning the manâs shoulder to the ground with a wet crunch. The thug screamed, body jerking.
âAlright. Nowâs listening time,â Jason growled. He leaned closer, voice sharp, deliberate, every word cutting through the night.
âHereâs what I know. Youâve been running with the Kings long enough to know the setup. Protection rackets on the east docks. Arms smuggled through Burnley. Kickbacks funneled up to your boss like clockwork. I know all of it.â
He pressed harder, eliciting another scream, then barked, âNow, whereâs your fucking boss?â
âIâI donât know!â the man sobbed, face streaked with snot and tears. âPlease, I swear to God, I donât know where he isââ
Jason tilted his head. âWrong answer.â
The gun barked once, sharp and deafening in the alley. A bullet tore through the manâs thigh, flesh shredding open. The thug screamed, high and guttural, thrashing against the pavement.
Jason silenced him with a vicious backhand, the modulator making his snarl almost inhuman. âShut the fuck up. Next one goes through your kneecaps. You donât want that.â
âJason,â Dickâs voice cut in, low, warning.
Jason didnât even look at him. He snapped, âShut the fuck up. You donât like how I run things? Fuck off.â
Dickâs eyes narrowed under his domino mask, his jaw tight, but he didnât move.
Jason turned back to the thug, his boot pressing heavier against the manâs chest now. âOne more time, you motherfucker. Where the FUCK is he?â
The thug sobbed, shaking, blood pooling beneath him. His words tumbled out frantic and broken. âH-heâll kill me if I tell youââ
Another shot cracked the night. This one went straight into the kneecap. Bone splintered, the scream that followed raw enough to tear the manâs throat apart.
He writhed, clutching at his ruined leg, sobbing so hard his voice cracked into hiccups.
Jason leaned close, helmet reflecting the streetlamp above. His voice was low, lethal. âYouâre afraid to die? Trust me. Iâll do much worse.â
The man cried, begged, but Jason didnât move, didnât relent. The only sound was his ragged sobs, echoing off the brick.
Finally, in a voice shrill with terror, the thug broke. âO-okay! Okay! Heâheâs meeting with the lieutenants. All of them. Big sit-down, I donât know where exactly, but itâs about the shipments. Merchandise.â
Jason narrowed his eyes behind the visor. âWhat kind of merchandise?â
The thug shook his head violently, lips trembling. âIâI canâtââ
Jasonâs boot slammed into his stomach, pressing down hard enough to drive the air from his lungs. âAnswer the question.â
âGâgirls!â the thug screamed, the word ripped from his throat. âItâs girls! TraffickingâyoungâChrist, please stopââ
Jasonâs grip on the pistol tightened. His vision tunneled.
Heat rose in his chest, fury clawing up his throat. âYou sick fucks.â His voice was low, shaking with rage. âThatâs what passes for business now? Selling kids like goddamn cattle?â
The thug sobbed, nodding frantically. âThatâs all I know! I swear to God, thatâs all I know!â
Jason stared down at him for a long beat, chest heaving, visor hiding the storm in his eyes. Then, slowly, he eased his boot back.
âSure,â Jason said flatly. âThatâs all you know.â
The man blinked up at him, hope flickering in his tear-swollen eyes.
Jason raised his gun.
Dickâs voice cut in, sharp. âJason, donâtââ
The shot cracked like thunder.
The thugâs head snapped back, body falling limp into the spreading pool of his own blood. Silence swallowed the alley.
Jason tilted his helmet toward Dick, voice dry as ash. âOops.â
The word still hung in the air when Dickâs voice ripped through it, raw and furious.
âWhat the hell is wrong with you?!â
Jason didnât even flinch, simply slid his pistol into the holster, motion casual, almost lazy, as though the body cooling in the gutter wasnât even worth acknowledgment.
âWell,â Jason drawled, turning slightly to leave, âIâm done for the night. See you around, Dickie.â
Heâd barely taken two steps when a hand clamped down on his shoulder. Hard.Â
In an instant, he was yanked back, slammed against the cold brick wall with enough force to rattle his teeth.
Jason let out a low, mocking chuckle, tilting his helmeted head. âKinky. Whatâs the matter, not getting enough from Princess Short Skirt?â
The barb landed like a blade.Â
Dickâs jaw locked, his eyes burning under the mask. âDonât you dare,â he snapped, voice shaking with fury. âDonât you dare turn this into one of your jokes. You crossed the line again, Jason! You always do!â
Jason stayed pinned, but only because he allowed it.Â
His body radiated coiled violence, every muscle straining against the hold.
His silence only fueled Dickâs anger, the words spilling out sharp and relentlessâthe same sermon theyâd both heard a thousand times, drilled into them since they first wore the mask.
âThe second you pull that trigger, youâre no better than them! Thatâs what separates us from the bastards of Gotham. Thatâs what Bruceââ
Jason snapped, shoving Dick off with brutal force.Â
His older brother stumbled a step back, breath ragged with fury.
âYou done?â Jasonâs voice was low, venomous, the modulator grinding it into a growl.
He didnât wait for an answer.Â
He pushed off the wall, turning as though the conversation were already over.
But Dickâs hand clamped down again, tighter, dragging him back with a force born from desperation more than strength. âDonât walk away from me!â
Jasonâs fist flew before the words finished leaving Dickâs mouth.
The punch cracked across his jaw with a sickening thud, sending Nightwing sprawling across the alley. He hit the pavement hard, one hand clutching his face, breath hissing through clenched teeth.
Jason loomed over him, chest heaving, rage boiling over. âYou wanna talk about lines, Dick? You wanna preach at me like some goddamn priest?â His voice roared, echoing down the empty alley.
Dick spat blood, his glare unwavering.
Jason jabbed a finger at him, shaking with fury. âYou think that code of yours means shit to the people who are already six feet under? Huh? You think Bruceâs precious little rule brings comfort to the mothers who find their kids in alleys with bullet holes in their heads? To the women dragged into vans and never seen again? To the families torn apart because some piece of shit thought a gun made him king of the world?â
Each word was sharper, heavier, as though the rage had carved itself into his bones. His voice cracked under it, not from weakness, but from the raw weight of all he carried.
âYour code? Bruceâs code?â Jason snarled, fists clenching so tight his gloves creaked. âItâs fucking great on paper. Looks real pretty in the dark, when he can fly home to that mansion, pour himself a drink, and pat himself on the back for not pulling the trigger.â
His helmet tilted down, visor catching the faint streetlight as he glared. âBut you tell that shit to the mothers of Gotham. To the ones who bury their kids because you and Bruce couldnât stomach doing what needed to be done.â
Dickâs breath was ragged, his hands still balled into fists, but he stayed silent.
For once.
The argument he always had ready wasnât there. Or maybe Jasonâs words had punched harder than his fist.
Jasonâs chest rose and fell, the rage simmering into something heavier, darker.
âStay the fuck away from me.â he said finally, voice cold as steel.
And then he was gone.Â
Grappling line hissing as it fired, pulling him up into the night sky. The shadow of his cape snapped against the wind before he vanished across the rooftops.
The city swallowed him whole.
Jason POV â Apartment
The ride back was a blur.
The bike thundered beneath him, red tail-lights streaking through Gothamâs sleeping streets.Â
Wind screamed against his helmet, but it couldnât drown the words rattling inside his skullâthe same fight on repeat, the same wounds torn open again and again.
Dickâs voice. His own.Â
The sound of gunfire. The sound of begging. The sound of silence after the begging stopped.
Jason blew out a breath through gritted teeth as the apartment building came into view.Â
The cracked brick and crooked fire escape greeted him like the face of an old friend who kept too many secrets. He turned sharply into the narrow alley he used to stash his bike, the tires growling against the asphalt before cutting off into silence.
The night felt heavier than usual.Â
Gotham breathed like a beast all around himâsirens wailing far off, the muffled shouts of some argument three blocks away, the low growl of a dog.Â
Jason ignored it all. He slid the bike into its usual shadow, locked the front, and made his way up the side of the building.
The climb was automatic.Â
His muscles ached, but the movements were as natural as breathing
Boots catching the stairs until he hauled himself over the railing and landed soundlessly on his balcony.Â
The sliding door gave way with a soft clack when he unlocked it, and Jason stepped into the dim interior of his apartment.
He wasnât expecting anything except silence. Maybe the ratâs restless claws against wood, maybe your steady breathing from the bedroom. What he got instead made him stop dead in his tracks.
You.
Perched on the kitchen counter, legs swinging idly, ears twitching every so often. Your tail swayed lazily like a metronome, brushing against the side of the cabinets. Crook, the spunky pigeon with the bad attitude, was nestled in your hands, his feathers puffed in sleep.
But it wasnât Crookâor even the tail twitchâthat widened Jasonâs eyes.
It was you.
You had changed.Â
Gone was the lilac top and pleated skirt from earlier, something Jason still hadnât managed to get out of his damn head. In its place was something⌠softer.
Red pajama shorts, loose and comfortable, patterned with little hearts and bears.Â
A button-up short sleeve top with a lapel collar that hung just loose enough to tease without meaning to. The set was simple, but on you it was differentâit wasnât trying, it wasnât dressed for the world. It was just for you. And somehow, that hit harder than the skirt ever had.
(What you wear)
âThank god,â Jason muttered under his breath, relief loosening his chest even as heat crawled up the back of his neck.Â
Still sexyâof course youâd manage thatâbut at least not in a way that made his brain want to short-circuit.
You spotted him instantly.Â
A tired smile tugged at your lips, warm despite the weariness in your eyes.Â
Carefully, you set Crook down beside you on the counter. The pigeon stirred with a disgruntled coo but didnât wake fully, only fluffing his feathers before tucking his beak back under his wing.
And then you slid off the counter, bare feet padding across the floor toward him.
Jason barely got a word out. âWhat are you doing up? I told you not to wait up for meââ
You ignored him completely.Â
Your hands rose, brushing against his jacket, pressing lightly against his chest as you began to inspect him. You looked him over with a care that was quiet but fierce, as if checking for damage he might be too stubborn to admit.
âHey, Iâm serious,â Jason kept talking, trying to pull your focus with his words even as your fingers ghosted over the seams of his armor. âItâs late. You shouldnât beââ
You didnât hear him. Or rather, you chose not to. Your hands stilled for only a moment before glowing faintly green, the light spilling across the bruises and cuts heâd tried to ignore all night.
Jasonâs breath caught. He reached out, gently catching your wrist.
Your eyes snapped up to his, glowing hands paused mid-motion.
âIâm fine,â Jason said, voice steady, almost soft. âDonât.â
You frowned, the glow pulsing faintly against his grip. âYouâre not fine. Youâreââ
âSave your strength,â he cut you off firmly. âYouâre still hurt. Donât waste it on me.â
âButââ
âNo.â
The word was flat, final. His helmet tilted, visor reflecting your stubborn face back at you.
You pouted slightly, lips pulling down, ears flicking back in frustration.Â
With visible reluctance, you let the glow fade, slipping your hand from his and stepping back. Jason didnât miss the disappointment in your eyes, the way you wanted to argue but swallowed it down anyway.
He shook his head, exhaling through his nose as he set his helmet down on the counter with a muted clunk.
His shoulders rolled, vertebrae popping as he stretched out the tension of the night. Then he made his way to the sink, filling a glass with water. The sound of rushing tap filled the silence until he tipped the glass back, draining it in a few gulps.
When he set it down, your voice broke the quiet.
âHow did your night fare?â
Jason leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. He could feel your eyes on him, patient, waiting.
He considered it for a long moment. The truth was too jagged, too raw to hand over. So he smoothed it down, shaved off the edges.
âMessy,â he said finally. âBut⌠handled.â
No mention of his brother.Â
No mention of codes or corpses.Â
Just that.
You studied him, then gave a small nod, ears dipping slightly as you stifled a yawn.
Jason found himself mimicking it a second later, jaw cracking wide before he grunted and rubbed the side of his neck.
âAlright,â he said, pushing off the counter. âTime to hit the sack.â
You blinked, tilting your head in confusion. âWhy would one wish to strike a sack?â
Jason barked a short laugh, shaking his head. âIt means time to sleep.â
âAh.â You considered this, tail flicking idly.Â
Then you smiled.
Jason smirked back, the edges of his mouth quirking up with tired amusement. âSo. You gonna let me take the couch tonight?â
Your smile then turned into a glare that could have frozen lava. âNot in all the nine realms of hell.â
Jason snorted.
And with a shake of his head he spoke up again. âWell then,â Jason started, voice dry, âguess weâre sharing again, Princess.â
You gave a small nod of agreement, already turning toward the hallway. Jasonâs eyes followed the sway of your tail before his smirk widened.
âHopefully you keep your hands to yourself this time.â
Jason hears a small squeak and what sounds like a foot getting caught on the floor.
Jasonâs smirk spread into a full grin and he shakes his head.Â
Eventually he pushed off the sink, grabbing his helmet and tucking it under one arm, and made his way after you.
Before heading down the hall, he reached for Crook.Â
The pigeon ruffled his feathers irritably, cooing with something between annoyance and threat as Jason scooped him up.
âYeah, yeah,â Jason muttered, voice wry. âSorry, your highness.â
Crook pecked lightly at his glove, still half-asleep.
Jason shook his head, exhaustion settling deep in his bones as he carried the pigeon toward the bedroom, following the faint sound of your tail swishing against the blankets as you settled in.
The night had been blood and fire, brother against brother, screams echoing in alleyways. But hereâin the dim apartment, with a pigeon in his hands and you waiting in the bedâthere was something else. Something he hadnât had in a long, long time.
Something like peace.
And for tonight, that was enough.
Next Chapter 7

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Chapter 3
Previous | Masterlist
Y/N POV
A thin silver stream crept between the slats of the window, brushing across your closed eyes like a soft kiss. Somewhere beyond the glass, the city murmured its eternal songâlow rumbles, far-off horns, the occasional cry of a gull disturbed by Crookâs cousins. But within these four walls, all was still.
You stirred.
Your eyes blinked openâslitted, catching the morning light like cut amber. For a moment, you knew not where you were, only that the bed beneath you was warm, and the scent in the air was not earth and bark and leafâbut leather, metal, sweat, and soap. Mortal scent.Â
Jasonâs scent.
You drew a soft, startled breath.
You had expected to see his backâbroad and strong, turned politely away, as it had been the night before.
But it was not so.
He faced you.
And worse stillâso did you.
And worse than thatâ
Your hands⌠were touching.
Not held. Not grasping.
But laid there, face-down. His large, calloused hand resting lightly atop your own clawed one, as though it had drifted there by some quiet instinct in the dark. His fingers curled slightly around your knuckles, as if seeking warmth.
 A mortal man.
A cursed creature.
Your breath hitched and you dared not move.
Your tail, traitorous thing that it was, gave a sharp flick behind you, betraying the sudden rush of feeling that bloomed in your chest.
You flushedâa deep purple blooming across the soft blue of your cheeks and nose.
âBy the roots of the World TreeâŚâ you whispered in your thoughts, too awestruck to move. You swallowed hard, your throat dry as your eyes greedily drank in the sight of him.
You drank him in slowly, your eyes tracing his face now that morning light had changed the canvas.
Jason.Â
Mortal man.Â
Unreasonably handsome.
His black hair, tousled now with sleep, fell in sharp contrast against the pale of his skin. That strange white streakâlike a comet through inkâhad slipped down again, brushing against his forehead in a manner both unruly and unfairly endearing.
You studied his mouth. Relaxed. Lips slightly parted. He was lost in slumber, brow unknitted, the angles of his jaw softer now, younger somehow without the strain of wakefulness. Without his helm or scowl or sarcasm.
And those lashesâlong, darkâfanned against his skin like crow feathers.
You knew not if it was lawful, or right, or wise to admire a man so. But you could not stop.
Your clawed thumb twitched beneath his palm. You marveled at how warm his skin was.
You did not even know when it had happenedâthat shift in the night. You had fallen asleep with a space between you, had you not? Back to back, like strangers with a truce.
And yet now⌠you were facing him. So near you could feel the soft rise and fall of his breath.
Was it your tail that betrayed you once more? Had it tugged you closer in the dark like a vine reaching toward heat? Or had he turned to you, seeking the same warmth?
You swallowed hard.
He is so beautiful.
No longer a warrior wrapped in leather and steel. No longer a hunter of the dark. But a manâflesh and scar and soul.
There was a faint nick at his browâsome old wound that had not healed clean. A thin line beneath one eye. Faint bruising at the jaw mayhaps from last night's ordeal. His lips were cracked just barely.
And still⌠he was beautiful.
âCease thy foolish flutterings,â you chastised yourself silently, willing your tail to stop betraying you with every flick. âThou art no blushing maiden.â
And yet⌠you squeaked. Actually squeaked.
The contact of your hands, so soft yet unbearably intimate, was too much. Slowly, carefully, you began to ease your body from the bed. You did not want to wake himânot now, not with your face a raging shade of purple and your heart galloping like a spooked deer.
His fingers slipped from yours as you retreated, and you winced at the loss.
Barefoot and clad in his oversized shirtâyou padded softly from the room, careful not to let the door creak as you closed it behind you.
The moment it clicked shut, you bolted to the couch, your steps as silent as a catâs despite the turmoil brewing inside you.
You landed on the cushions and immediately curled into yourself, both clawed hands slapping over your burning face as you let out a helpless, high-pitched squeal of girlish delight, tail whipping once behind you like an exclamation point. A deep, soulful purple continued to bleed across your cheeks and spread to the tips of your ears, your heart doing somersaults in your chest.
You were not a stranger to intimacy.Â
In fact, your people did not fear it the way humans did. You had known pleasures of the flesh, had shared them with reverence. But this⌠this feeling⌠It was altogether different.
No oneâno oneâhad ever made your heart stutter like Jason. No one had looked like a carved statue of war and poetry combined. No one had touched you in sleep and made it feel like the universe had stopped spinning just to accommodate that simple contact.
You let out a deep breath and flopped onto your back, tail curling beside you on the couch.
Your staff still stood where you had left it, propped gently against the armrest, the ancient wood smooth and warm in the golden light. The curling roots that capped the top of it gleamed faintly, and the green gem nestled between them pulsed in rhythm with your breathâcalm now, but still quickened with the aftershocks of your morning revelation.
Eventually you pulled yourself from your embarrassed state.Â
The tangled emotions within your chest steadied enough that curiosity took hold.
 You rose from the couch, careful of the still-tender wounds on your arms and side. Though the worst had healed overnightâthanks in no small part to your druidic magic and Jasonâs unspoken careâyou moved with the deliberate slowness of one who knew pain was never far off.
You wandered softly through the strange den, claws clicking lightly on the floor. Jason's lair was unlike any place you had ever known. Stone and steel, glass and strange devices.Â
The first place your wanderings took you was the kitchen.
You recognized it vaguely from last nightâJason had come here to fetch his strange box for healingâbut now, in the quiet morning, it looked entirely different. You padded softly across the tile floor, admiring the clean, cool surfaces. Strange black and silver objects lined the countersâsome squat and boxy, others with glass windows or red glowing lights.
But the object that drew your attention most was the tall, silver box tucked in one corner. It hummed with a low energy. Curious, you reached out and gently tugged on its handle.
A woosh of cold air greeted you, curling around your face and making you gasp softly. Inside, neatly stacked and cluttered in strange order, were items both familiar and unknown. Bottles of milk and orange liquid sat side by side with jars of dark red sauce and strange sealed containers with vivid images printed on them. One box held eggsâeggs!âbut these were perfectly shaped, all matching in size and color, unlike the varied, speckled ones from your forest home.
You touched one of the glass jars carefully, noting the label: Pickles. The word made no sense to you, though the briny smell was oddly familiar. You trailed your fingers across bottles and boxes, breathing in faint notes of sweetness, salt, and sourness, each mingling with the faint chemical coldness.
Then something caught your eye on the floorâsmall, odd metal casings, scattered near the threshold between the kitchen and hall. You bent and picked one up delicately between your claws. The casing was smooth, copper-colored, and faintly warm from the lingering heat of the apartment.
It reminded you of the remnants of fire-blossom seeds back home, the way they ejected shells after blooming. But theseâthere were so many. Some long and slender, others stubbier, heavier. You found more trailing toward the hallway, and a few beneath the little counter where Jason had rested his hips the night before. You tilted one toward your nose and inhaled. It smelled of oil and smoke and a whisper of blood.
You stared at the pieces for a while, quietly understanding something primal: these were tools of war.
And yet they littered his home like stones on a forest path.
Shivering faintlyâthough not from coldâyou left the kitchen behind and followed your feet into the hallway where you found another room.
A washroom of sorts.
It was small, but clean, and the mirror caught your attention first. You peered at your reflection, tilting your head slowly. Your horns, curved, tall, and proud, glinted faintly. Your skin, still tinged blue-violet from your earlier flush, had calmed slightly but still held a residual warmth. You noticed a faint mark near your templeâa smudge, likely from the pillow.
The room had strange scentsâsandalwood, mint, something that reminded you of a stormy forest. You opened a cabinet and found small tubes and bottles of mysterious potionsâgel, balm, aftershaveâand closed it with reverence. A folded towel hung nearby, thick and fluffy like the pelts of sky wolves.
After stepping out again, you wandered toward the glass doors that led to the balcony.
You didnât open themâyou didnât dare.Â
But you stood there, eyes wide, taking in the strange realm beyond. Gotham stretched out in smudged layers of metal, stone, and sky.Â
Towering monoliths rose in all directions, some glittering with glass, others dark and bruised with age and soot. The air shimmered with distant motionâtiny dots of flying machines, flocks of birds, and blurs of light from faraway vehicles.
You placed a hand on the cold glass. âHow strange your world is,â you whispered.
And yet⌠how strangely beautiful, too.
Eventually, you returned to the main living room and found yourself standing before a curious object. The tall black mirror-like rectangle atop a console. A sigil glowing faintly on the bottom. It had not been glowing the night before.
"What manner of enchanted glass art is this?" you murmured aloud, pressing a single clawed fingertip to the surface.
It was cold.
You tilted your head and tapped again, more insistently. Nothing. Frowning, you squatted before it, your tail flicking, and explored the underside. Thereâtiny buttons. The glyphs meant nothing to you, but your curiosity demanded resolution.
You pressed one.
The world exploded.
Light and sound burst from the mirrorâno, the box! You yelped and fell backward, tail flaring. A horrible screech filled the air as the glowing window revealed a ghastly face drenched in blood. A roar of agony rang from the creature on the screen, and your eyes went wide, your claws dug into the floor.
A scream escaped youâa loud, undignified squeal of terror as you scrambled backward.
WIth your less than gracefall retreat you changed.
Your form shimmered and contracted, bones twisting with familiar magic until you were small, furred, and felineâa sleek (h/c) toned cat with (e/c) slit pupils stretched wide in fear.
You darted beneath the couch, your tail puffed and curled tight. From the shadows beneath, you watched the glowing horror in front of you, unable to tear your wide eyes away.
Your entire form trembled.
As you watched the horrible terrifying box you barely registered the sound of a door slamming open and with it a loud and familiar voice.Â
"What the fuck?!"
Jason's voice was a thunderclap, low and alert, edged with the kind of violence that could melt a battlefield. You heard the rushing of heavy feet and the sharp metallic snap of a weapon of some sort.
And in a few seconds Jason was in the living room.Â
Crook, half-asleep and disgruntled, gave a loud coo and was perched atop Jason's head.
Jason blinked and all but ignored the bird.
His eyes tracked the direction of the horrible screeching and turned toward the glowing screen.
He lowered the gun.
"Jesus Christ," he muttered, running a hand down his face. "Of course she found the TV."
Then he noticed the slight flick of fur and a trembling tail beneath the couch.
"You gotta be fucking kidding me," he said aloud, peering underneath.
There you were. Small. Cat-shaped. Shaking like a leaf.
WIth a huff he made his way over where he crouched slowly, voice shifting from sharp alarm to something softer. "Hey. You good under there?"
You meowed pitifully.
Jason sighed, reaching under the couch and gently scooping you up into his hands. Your claws dug into the fabric of his shirt but you didnât resist. Your eyes stared up at him, wide and mortified.
He cradled you awkwardly, your feline form pressed against his chest as the TV continued playing some grotesque murder scene behind him.
"So... let me guess," Jason said, dryly. "You hit the power button on the TV, then got a front-row seat to Freddy Krueger."
You meowed again.
"Right. Of course you did."
Crook fluffed up on Jason's head, let out a sleepy squawk, and then promptly dozed off again, balancing with expert ease.
Jason turned and used his foot to tap the power button on the remote, and the screen fell silent.
"You really are new to all this, huh?"
He placed you on top of the couch and waited.Â
After a moment, your cat body shimmered again, and you returned to your normal blue formânow sitting upright, hair disheveled, face flushed in dark purples of embarrassment, and Jasonâs shirt even more askew from the transformation.
You did not speak immediately. You wrapped your arms around your knees and looked down, mortified.
"Forgive me," you said finally. "I did not mean to disturb... whatever that was. I believed it to be an enchanted mirror."
Jason chuckled, slow and deep, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Yeah, it kind of is, you just got unlucky."
You gave him a withering look. "Unlucky? The demon on that box tried to eat mine eyes."
Jason smirked. "Next time, try cartoons."
You narrowed your eyes. "Are the creatures kinder?"
He laughed aloud at that, and you found yourself smiling despite the lingering adrenaline.
Crook shifted on his head again and peered down at you both, looking completely unbothered by the chaos.
Jason ruffled your hair once before stepping back toward the kitchen.
"C'mon, scaredy-cat. Let's get some coffee in you before you turn into a mouse again."
You huffed, cheeks still glowing, as you watched Jason turn away.
And after a few moments of calming your racing heart down you rose from the couch and followed.Â
As you make your way over you watch as Jason swats Crook off of his head.Â
âRudeâ You hear the thoughts of Crook as he flies to your shoulder.Â
Jason muttered again under his breath as he turned toward a strange small black box with a glass pitcher inside and began pouring something from a bag that smelled bitter and deep.
The giant stone island was cool to the touch as you hopped up lightly onto it, curling your legs beneath you in a loose cross-legged seat. The shirt shifted with the movement, and the air caressed your skin.
âThy home is a realm of metal and chaos,â you murmured, gaze drifting over the unfamiliar devices. âThis⌠lair of yours, it hums with strange life.â
Jason chuckled as he leaned against the counter across from you. The morning light cut through the blinds and dappled across his arms and chest â he still wore loose dark pants and a black tank that clung to the carved ridges of his torso like it had been born for him.
 His hair was tousled and rebellious, a single silver-white streak refusing all gravity, and his green eyes, still sleepy, glowed against the shadows of his lashes.
You look down into your lap and for a few seconds no one speaks. You feel the Crook shuffle against your collarbone and let out a coo, but this time, you sensed he was trying to soothe you. Your hands trembled a bit.
Your tail giving a way what your words donât.Â
The tip tapped on the counter every few seconds as if waiting for something.Â
Jason noticed.
âHey,â he said, his voice dropping, softening like the edge of dusk. âYou okay? Really.â
When you finally look up from your lap Jason pauses.Â
Your eyes, while unnatural, are beautiful, but behind them he sees something.Â
Something he knows all too well.Â
Fear.Â
The cold from the strange light-box still clung to your spine. That horrorâwhatever that blood-stained wailing on the screen had beenâwas something else entirely. You had seen demons, you had spoken to tree-spirits, but that?
â'Twas⌠unlike anything I have seen,â you said at last. âAnd I have witnessed battlefields. I have seen the madness of corrupted dryads, the withering of the sick moon. But thisâthis realmâs nightmare made flesh in a boxââ
âItâs fake,â Jason said quietly. âNone of itâs real. Just actors and red corn syrup and special effects.â
You frowned deeply. âI do not know what half of those words mean.â
âI know.â
You tilted your head again and stared at him for a long moment. His kindness was steady nowânot overwhelming, not loud, but real. Like a stone that would not shift no matter how hard the river rushed around it.
The only sound that broke the silence was the gentle hissing and sputtering of the strange black box upon the counter. It wheezed and clicked, a rhythmic gurgle echoing as it produced a bitter, acrid-smelling liquid that made your nose wrinkle slightly.
 Whatever this concoction was, it did not smell pleasant to you, though Jason seemed to lean toward it with faint anticipation. He rubbed at his eyes and ran a hand through his messy black hair, the white streak now sticking up more prominently in the front.
Crook, meanwhile, had relocated himself to your lap, his small, warm body pressed against your stomach as you sat on the cold stone surface of the kitchen island trying to will your tail to stop itâs anxious twitching.Â
Jason glanced your way as he poured himself a cup of the foul smelling liquid, and watched the way you stroked the pigeon.Â
You adjusted Crook gently and peered at Jason, who leaned one arm on the counter and took a sip of his bitter-smelling drink. Steam curled upward, veiling his face briefly, and the orange light spilling in from the high, narrow windows carved golden edges into the angles of his jaw and the white streak of his hair.
The silence stretched.
Then Jason glanced over, lips tugging at a half-smirk. âSo⌠you wanna ask me anything?â
You tilted your head again. âThou are offering?â
He shrugged. âFigured itâs only fair. You introduced yourself to me, bleeding out, and all.. I introduced myself with a gun and a bad attitude. Kinda one-sided.â
You considered this. âThou has a valid point.â
You lowered your gaze, brow furrowing faintly in thought. Crook gave a tiny sneeze and tucked himself under your elbow as you thought aloud.
ââŚI already know thy given name,â you said slowly. âJason. But not thy full name.â
Jason blinked, not expecting that as your first question. âOh. Uh⌠Jason Peter Todd.â
You repeated it under your breath, letting the sounds roll on your tongue like a sacred invocation. âJason⌠Peter⌠Todd.â
You said it again, slower, like a ritual. Jason shifted under your gaze.
ââŚWhy do you say it like youâre about to write it in blood under a full moon?â
You blinked innocently. âIt is customary among my people to memorize the full name of one we owe a life-debt to.â
Jason choked on his coffee.
You frowned. âArt thou well?â
He coughed into his sleeve, then wiped his mouth. âPeachy. Just wasnât expecting the whole life-debt thing before I finished my first cup.â
âWould you rather I not honor the sacred laws of my people?â
âIâm not gonna tell you what to do,â he muttered. âIâm just not used to being someoneâs âsacred protectorâ or whatever.â
You blinked. âYou did aid me and bear me to thy den, heal me, and share thy bed.â
Jason froze. âOkay, first off, I didnât share my bed in that way.â
Your tail flicked in amusement. âI did not imply carnality.â
Jason muttered, âYouâre gonna be the death of me,â and took another long sip.
You let your legs dangle off the counter, bare feet swinging lightly. âWhat other questions am I allowed?â
He raised a brow. âAllowed?â
âWell, I would not wish to stumble into secrets,â you said earnestly. âI can tell thou fights, and fight well. You have scars, more than I have ever seen. And Crook likes you⌠begrudgingly so he says. This tells me more than you know.â
Crook ruffled indignantly. âI tolerate him at best, doll.â
Jason leaned on the counter again. âAsk what you want. Iâll deflect if itâs too personal.â
You gave a slow nod and tapped a claw against your chin thoughtfully.
ââŚWhy doth thou have white in thy hair? Is it a mark of age or of sorcery?â
Jason glanced up at the offending streak and shrugged. âGray from stress. Got it when I came back from the dead.â
You stared. âYou⌠what?â
Jason said nothing. Just took another sip, eyes on yours.
You waited.
He didnât elaborate.
You frowned. âThou cannot say something so cursed and then remain silent.â
Jasonâs lips tugged at the edge. âYou said nothing too personal. That oneâs definitely too personal.â
You huffed. âVery well. Another, then.â
You looked down at your hands, curling gently around Crookâs small frame.
ââŚWhy here? Why stay in such a place that scars the soul and poisons the air?â
Jason blinked slowly, caught off-guard by the shift in tone.
ââŚBecause it needs people who can fight,â he said finally. âAnd because I was born here. Canât shake it. Cityâs in my bones.â
You tilted your head again, watching him.
âYou do not fight for the city, do you?â you asked softly. âYou fight because no one else will fight the way you do.â
Jason didnât answer immediately. He looked out the kitchen window at the skyline of Gotham â gray, jagged, broken and alive.
âYeah,â he said finally. âThatâs pretty much it.â
The coffee machine gurgled its last breath. The silence wrapped around you again, but this time, it felt earned.
You looked around his home once more. The strange things scattered throughout â tiny casings of brass and dull copper. They reeked of smoke and oil. Weapons, you realized. Remnants of his battles. His den was not just a sanctuary â it was a place of preparation. A fortress made not of stone, but of will and grit and brokenness.
You slid down from the counter slowly, tail swaying behind you. You stepped toward him once, cautious, and laid one clawed hand over his wrist. He stiffened slightly but didnât pull away.
âYou carry much, Jason Peter Todd,â you murmured. âMore than most mortals could bear.â
His eyes met yours, green meeting silted and slightly glowing (e/c) ones.Â
And for a moment.Â
Time ceased to exist.Â
Jason Todd POVÂ
Jason had been shot.
 Stabbed.
 Blown up more times than any normal person could or should be able to count.
 Stared into the hollow eyes of men whoâd slit throats for spare change, into the muzzle flashes of guns that barked with the weight of decades of blood and rot. And still, nothing had made his damn heart kick the inside of his ribs like the moment her clawed hand landed softly on his wrist and she saidâ
âYou carry much, Jason Peter Todd. More than most mortals could bear.â
Her voice had weight. Not volumeâno, she didnât need that. It had gravity. Like stone circles in the middle of ancient forests. Like moonlight filtering through ash.Â
Jasons was by no means a poet.
 He wasn't soft. But the way she said his nameâhis full nameâlike it was a psalm instead of a scar, made something old and bitter in you⌠twitch.
He didnât move. Not right away. Her hand was warm. The claws didnât scare youâthey were careful, reverent. Like she knew there was something fragile despite the armor he wore, the literal and the metaphorical.
Her eyesâthe slit-pupiled kind you only saw in beasts and nightmaresâlooked at you like you werenât a ghost. Like you werenât a walking grave. Like you hadnât died once already and dragged yourself out of the dirt.
Jason hated it.
And he couldnât fucking deal with it.
So he pulled backânot forcefully, not enough to hurt her. Just enough to shift the world back into something he could control. He muttered, âI should get ready,â and brushed past her with all the grace of a kicked alley cat.
He didnât look back, but he could feel her gaze as he headed to the hallway.
Y/N POV
You remained still in the kitchen, bathed in pale golden light as the morning continued its slow crawl across the realm's fractured skyline. The scent of the bitter brew still lingered, curling in strange ways through your nose. You blinked, long and slow, your clawed hand still lifted from where it had rested upon his wristâas if the ghost of the moment had lingered in your flesh.
Your ears twitched. Your tail swayed, unsettled.
The silence stretched again, but it was no longer stifling. It was heavy. Thick with something unspoken. A pressure that reminded you not of the crushing depths of the sea, but of something more sorrowful. Like fog curling through the bones of a dead forest.
You slowly turned your head.
Crook had settled atop the edge of the kitchen island, puffed up slightly and blinking with one eye squinted. His feathers looked mildly disheveledâlikely from being scared awake from your earlier screams of terror.Â
The little pigeon fluffed his wings, gave a dramatic huff, and muttered in your mind with a snort of psychic static:
âWhatâs up his butt?â
You blinked once. Twice. Then a soft, breathy sound escaped youâa sigh. Or something very near to one. Your ears gave a faint twitch, tail curling behind you as you turned to fully face your winged companion.
âI⌠cannot no for certain,â you murmured, your voice soft and formal, as though speaking in reverence before a sacred grove. âHis moods are like forest stormsâfleeting, sudden, and oft accompanied by thunder.â
Crook tilted his head to the side, beady eyes gleaming. âYeah, well, someoneâs got thunder wedged where the sun donât shine.â
Your lips parted again. This time, a laugh escaped you. A quiet trill that left your throat, clawed fingers resting against your lips. The laughter helped. It did not mend the ache in your chest, but it softened its edges.
You stepped back from the counter, gaze drifting once more toward the hallway Jason had vanished through. The shadows there remained undisturbed. Still. Silent.
Then, you said it aloud.
âJason Todd is a haunted soul⌠a creature of sharp edges and deep hollows.â Your voice wove like wind through tall grass. âWounded beyond what even time may fully mend. He walks through shadow with armor of wit and steel, but insideâŚâ
You hesitated, brow furrowing.
âThere is a boy who died and was reborn, still clutching the pieces of himself.â
Crook was quiet for a moment, feathers rustling as he adjusted his stance. Then, with surprising gentleness for a Gotham pigeon, he murmured:
âYeah. I figured that out when I watched as he held a gun to your face and didnât shoot. Thatâs trauma-boy language right there.â
You gave a solemn nod, your expression strangely peaceful.
âI do not understand this place. This realm of metal and noise. But I know pain when I see it. I know the weight of grief. I know the shape of ghosts.â
You walked slowly back toward the couch, staff still gleaming faintly in the morning light. The green gem pulsed softly in rhythm with your breath once more. Calm. Measured. But beneath the stillness, your mind stirred like leaves before a coming storm.
You did not know what path the fates had placed you upon, nor why Jason Peter Todd stood at the center of it. But you knew this:
You would not turn away.
Not from the shadows that clung to him.
Not from the story written in his scars.
Not from the heat that bloomed in your chest every time he looked at you like he wasnât sure whether to fight you or shield you from the world.
Your tail flicked, curling loosely behind you.
You would not run. You were not prey.
You were a daughter of grove and storm.
And Jason Todd, haunted as he was, had caught your interest in a way no one ever had.
Jason Todd POV
Jason shut the bathroom door harder than necessary, just to break the silence.
Jason leaned over the bathroom sink and looked down, his hands clutching the ceramic so tightly it could shatter at any moment.Â
It wasnât her fault. He knew that.Â
She didnât know how raw everything was.
 She didnât know how fragile the glue holding him together had gotten in the last few years.
 And she sure as hell didnât know what it meant when someone touched him gently.
Violence, Jason could handle. Threats? Bring it on.Â
Heâd been sharpened by it all his life. Bullets, knives, fire. Whatever life threw at him he never went down without a fight.Â
And Jason always made a fight worthwhile.Â
He could flirt, seduce, fuck, maim, kill.Â
All these things are familiar, he knew the language of threats. The dance of gunfire. The hum of adrenaline coursing through fractured veins.
He could deal with bruised ribs and underground fights and gunfire echoing down alleyways.
But kindness? That word didn't even exist on his tongue anymore.
It just wasn't Jason's way.Â
Especially when it came from someone who looked as soft and as warm as Y/N did.Â
The way her strange eyes all but seem to haunt him.Â
He shut his eyes, trying to shut it out. The touch of her clawed fingers pressing gently on his wrist. The way her eyes looked at himâsoft, forgiving, curious.
That look said: you are worth more than you believe.
He clenched the sink harder, white-knuckled, and something deep in his gut burnedâanger, shame, fear. He pulled his hands back, rubbing them over his pants as though the friction could ground him to the earth again.
Jason turned away and stepped towards the shower.
The hot water roared to life when he turned the valve, scalding his skin as he leaned into the shower in a motion honed by muscle memory. He yanked off his shirt, the fibers clinging to bruises and old scars beneath.
A single white streak in his hairâthe souvenir from Lazarusâfell over his forehead like a cometâs tail. His reflection in the fogged mirror cracked for a moment. He didnât need to look closely to see how hollow the emerald of his eyes had grown.
He turned on the shower full blast and stepped beneath it, letting the heat burn away the residue of darkness.
Flashback
He was dead. He remembered that.
Or⌠something like it.
Death had a texture. It wasn't silenceâit was weightless noise. It was the hum of the world moving on without you. No breath, no pain. Just the taste of blood on your tongue, still lingering in memory. Cold stone beneath your back. A crow screaming above.
Then nothing.
Not peace.
Just absence.
But resurrectionâresurrection had teeth.
It hit him like a freight train made of fire and screams.
His lungs convulsed before they breathed. Like they'd forgotten what air even was and had to claw it back molecule by molecule. His eyes burst open underwater, saltless and green-lit, and everything around him was wrong. Too bright. Too hot. Too loud.
The Pit boiled like a witchâs brew around himâbubbling, churning, alive. It wasnât water. It was some twisted imitationâthick like blood, slick like oil, glowing from the inside like green fire.
And it hurt.
God, it hurt like being born inside out.
He gasped, not for oxygen but to scream, only no sound came. Just choking, bile, a guttural roar that shook the chamber. He thrashedâfists slamming against the rock walls slick with condensation. Every nerve in his body had been hooked to a lightning rod.
He was drowning in fire. Dying again, maybe. The Pit didnât healâit rewrote. And whatever soul he had left was getting pulled apart and stitched back together like a shredded page being taped into a new language.
Memories surged through him in shattered images:
His mother. Lying. Crying.
A crowbar.
Jokerâs grin. That awful, awful laugh.
The last look in Bruceâs eyes, that moment before everything exploded.
Silence.
Thenâ
BOOM.
His heart restarted like a thunderclap.
His body arched in the Pit, muscles spasming. His fingernails tore bloody grooves in the stone.
He tried to scream again. This time it came out inhumanâa howl, a snarl, an animal mourning its own rebirth.
He clawed his way from the pool, soaking wet and steaming like a corpse dragged from hellâs boiler room. His skin glowed faintly under the sick green light, veins pulsating as if the Lazarus itself still ran through them instead of blood.
He collapsed on the edge of the stone, retching, coughing, gagging. Naked. Shaking. His fingers dug into the earth like he didnât trust it to stay still beneath him. And his mindâhis mindâwas a shattered mirror. Too many pieces. Not enough glue.
Footsteps. Voices. None of them real.
He thought he saw Raâs. Or Talia. Maybe just shadows. All speaking in languages older than Gotham, talking about rebirth and purpose and vengeance.
He couldnât hear them.
All he could hear was that crowbar again.
Whack.
Whack.
WHACK.
He punched the stone floor until his knuckles split open. Until the rock cracked. Until he remembered his name.
Jason. Jason Peter Todd.
His voice, when it came, was broken glass in a hurricane.
âWhereâs⌠Bruce?â
Not âWhere am I?â
Not âWhat happened?â
âWhereâs Bruce?â
Because that was the only name that mattered.
The laughter in his skull didnât stop.
It echoed. A laugh heâd heard just before he died. Before bones broke and blood splattered the floor of that warehouse.
And it hadnât stopped since.
Jason dragged himself upright, dripping, burning, vibrating with a fury that wasnât entirely his own. Something in him howled for blood. For justice. Noânot justice.
Retribution.
His rebirth wasnât clean. It wasnât holy. It didnât make him whole again.
It made him a weapon.
When he looked in the mirror later, all he saw was greenâgreen in his eyes where blue used to live. Green in the veins. Green under the skin. And red in his mind.
The Pit hadnât saved him.
It had unleashed him.
Flashback Over
Back in the shower, he scrubbed violently at himself. Each stroke felt like a confession. Each bead of water washing away, but more of him stayed behind.
He shut the water off and stepped back, breathing hard. Steam wafted around him, hugging the bruised planes of his torso like a ghost that wouldnât fucking leave.
He toweled off slowly, like his skin had gone too tight to move quickly. The towel smelled like bleach, and something leather-soft underneathâthe same detergent he always used, the one he'd picked because it didnât smell like Wayne Manor. Heâd tested a dozen brands before settling on that one.
He didnât want to smell like that house.
Didnât want to smell like Bruce.
Didnât want to smell like a past he kept nailing shut like a coffin lid every fucking day.
With the towel wrapped around his waist, he stepped out into the hallway, steam still clinging to his frame. The apartment was dim in the morning light, shadows slanting through the blinds. Quiet. Too quiet, now that she wasnât in the kitchen anymore.
That womanâthe tiefling, or whatever magical term fit the blue-skinned, clawed and fanged mystery woman curled up in his spaceâshe had touched him.
And worse, sheâd meant it.
Jason exhaled, slow and rough, like it might push the memory out.
Her fingers had been soft where they curled around his wrist. Careful. Gentle. Not like a weapon. Not like she was testing his strength or trying to claim him.
Sheâd just⌠offered warmth.
And it had cracked something inside him.
Fucking hell.
He reached his bedroom, the towel damp and clinging to his hips.
His room, sparse and simple, had very little in it. And now with the light of day more could be seen. There were Weights in the corner, a battered dresser with a cracked vanity mirror next to it, a nightstand with a gun under the drawer and a bent dog-eared copy of The Count of Monte Cristo on top. The bed was still messy from when he heard your terrified screams and booked it to the living room.Â
Nothing in this room said anything of who he used to be.Â
Except one thing.
A single photo tucked in the frame of the mirror.
A family photo of the Waynes.Â
Bruce, in a suit as always, Alfred dapper and without a single hair out of place, Ace laying down, Dick and Jason shoulder to shoulder. Dick with a smile on his face, Jason with a scowl that simply radiated fuck off.
Back when things still made sense. When he still had a chance of becoming something other than this broken, angry, undead man walking around in a strangerâs skin.
Finally with a final glance to the photo Jason let the towel fall and stood in front of the mirror.
Pale tan skin. Faint scars running along his ribs, his jaw. Bullet hole over his heart. The mark of the crowbar still faint on his shoulder if he twisted just right.
His reflection didnât flinch.
 But he did.
âFuck,â he hissed under his breath and slammed the drawer open.
He dressed quickly, like if he moved fast enough, he could outpace the memory.
Underwear. Jeans, dark denim, stained with grease and motor oil from weeks of wear. His old grey Henleyâthe one that was soft from too many washes and clung to his chest just right. Socks, black. Bootsâcombat style, worn laces, steel-toed. Still had a scuff mark from when Crook had tried to divebomb him that one night on the fire escape.
He paused at the closet and grabbed the work jacket.
Black canvas. Slightly frayed at the edges. No logos, no bats. Just a simple name patch stitched in white:
âJay Smith.â
His alias.
His life.
The job didnât pay shit. The hours were crap. His boss was a grumpy ex-marine who hated everything newer than a â97 Chevy. But the shop smelled like coffee, grease, and freedom.
And most of all?
Nobody knew who the hell he was.
He wasnât the dead Robin. He wasnât Bruce Wayneâs wayward corpse. He wasnât the Red Hood, scourge of Gothamâs underbelly, feared by cartel, gang, and rogue alike.
He was Jay Smith. A quiet, sarcastic grease monkey who knew how to rebuild a carburetor blindfolded and flirted just enough to keep people guessing.
He didnât need the job.
He made more shaking down Gothamâs criminal elite than he'd ever make at the shop. Half the time, heâd find duffel bags of drug money just lying around, and he never felt bad about emptying them. Not like the bastards were gonna pay taxes.
And if things ever got really desperate, if Gotham turned to shit and the crime dried up and the safehouses were empty?
He could ask Bruce.
But he wouldnât.
Heâd rather die again.
His jaw clenched hard at the thought, and he tugged the zipper on his jacket too fast, catching the edge of the hem. He cursed and yanked it free.
No fucking way he was taking Bruceâs charity.
Not after everything.
Not after being left in the ground like rot while Bruce picked up a new Robin like Jason had been a goddamn temporary fix.
He grabbed his duffel bag off the floorâalready packed. Lunch in foil wrap. Gloves. Extra shirt. A Glock hidden in the side compartment, just in case. A burner phone in the inner pocket, and a cracked Walkman he hadnât been able to let go of since he was thirteen.
He paused at the bedroom door.
Took a breath.
You were probably curled up somewhere in the living room.
Jason recalls how youâd touched his wrist.
How you spoke so softly.
Told him he carried more than mortals could bear.
And somehow, instead of brushing it off, heâd let it settle. Let it breathe in his chest like it had a right to live there.
He shut his bedroom door with a dull thunk and scrubbed a hand through his still-damp hair, leaving it messy and pushed back. A few strands of the white streak fell forward again, as if defying any attempt at order.
The hallway felt quieter now, like the whole apartment was holding its breath. He adjusted the cuff of his jacket absently and started toward the living room, boots thudding gently on the hardwood.
The smell hit him firstâherbs and something floral, earthy, like a greenhouse and a spice shop had gotten into a drunken brawl and made peace over tea. It was coming from you.
You were curled on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, your horns catching the faint morning light that spilled through the sliding glass balcony door.Â
Your tail swayed gently, not the anxious flicks from earlier, but a slow, distracted rhythm. In your lap sat that worn, leather satchelâone he vaguely remembered from the rooftop when he came back from grabbing his bike and found you feeding the rat-with-wings.Â
Who was still in his home for some reason.Â
And speaking of.Â
Crook, the very pigeon from hell, sat perched like a smug gargoyle atop your fancy stick, which leaned against the couchâs armrest.
Jason stopped just before you noticed him.
You were staring into the open flap of the satchel, clawed fingers gently pulling aside layers of woven cloth and dried leaves. There were vials, stoppered and glowing faintly. Tiny leather pouches. Knotted roots. A few rings glinting silver in the folds of fabric, and a string of tiny polished bones.
It looked like some weird-ass potion vendorâs bag from one of those fantasy games someone had tried to drag him into years ago.
He cleared his throat softly, but youâd already sensed him.
Your eyes lifted, wide and lambent gold, like a deer catching sunlight between the trees.
Jason sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. âYou make a habit of carrying around a whole damn apothecary in that thing, or is this just a special occasion?â
You gave a soft smile and placed a corked vial back in its nest. âTis not unusual. In the Verdant Lands, one must always carry healing at their side⌠or at least enough to soothe a snake bite or a bruised heart.â
ââŚRight.â He crossed the room slowly, standing behind the other end of the couch. Crook gave a low, irritated coo, shifting his feathers like a grumpy old man.
Jason pointed a warning finger at the bird. âDonât start, You're lucky I let you stay the night.â
The bird simply lets out a coo and Jason watches as You choked back a giggle, covering your mouth quickly.
Jason narrowed his eyes. âHe said something, didnât he?â
You nodded, the amusement tugging at your lips. âAye. He claims thine very being here is rude.â
Jason let out a dry laugh, low and scratchy. âCarful rat, making you into soup is still an option.â
After your laugh settled the mood shifted awkwardly, and Jason glanced toward the door and then back to you. You were still watching him like he was something⌠safe.Â
That look made his skin itch.Â
âIâm headed out.â he said, scratching the side of his jaw. âWork.â
Your brow furrowed. âI see.â and tilted your head, horns catching the light. âAnd this⌠work. You must leave for many hours, one would assume?â
âYep. Iâll be gone most of the day. Should be back around five, maybe six if the new kid fucks something up again.â He hesitated. âThatâs⌠like when the sun starts to fall, okay?â
Your tail curled tightly at your side. âAnd thou⌠would leave me alone?â
Jason didnât miss the tension in your voice. The way your claws curled slightly against the satchelâs fabric.
âIâll only be a few blocks away,â he said gruffly. âYouâre safe here. No one knows youâre here. No oneâs coming for you.â
He shoved his hands in his jacket pockets, shoulders stiff. âBut yeah. I canât stick around all day. Gotta keep up appearances.â
You nodded once, slowly, clearly trying to understand the strange ritual of "work" in Gotham.
Jason shifted again, then blew out a sigh. âOkay, so... a few things.â
You perked up, listening intently.
âFirstâdonât open the door. At all. Doesnât matter who it is. You donât know âem, you donât answer. Got it?â
You nodded solemnly.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose. âSecond, donât touch any of the weapons. Some are loaded. Some arenât. Doesnât matter. Just donât.â
âUnderstood,â you said, voice steady.
âAnd last⌠just donât burn the place down or open a portal to hell or whatever it is druids do.â
You looked vaguely insulted. âI am a druid of the Grove, Jason Peter Todd. I heal and ask nature for aid.. I do not open portals.â
He raised his hands. âAlright, alright. My bad.â
Crook flapped his wings once, then resettled.
Jason scratched his neck again. âThereâs food in the fridgeâcold box in the kitchen. I think I saw some damn apples in there. Eat if youâre hungry. And waterâs from the sink, itâs fine.â
You gave him a small nod and Jason watched the tip of your tail sway from side to side and he watched as you turned your face to stare at the TV.Â
He rubbed at the back of his neck again.Â
Eventually he sighed and he moved.
His boots thudded lightly on the worn wood floors as he walked to the middle of the room where he picked up the remote.Â
You meanwhile still staring at the TV like it might come alive and lunge at you. Jason didnât blame you. As he was sure you were still traumatized from your earlier exploration. Â
Jason paused, thumb hovering over the power button.
âRelax. It wonât attack you,â he muttered. âItâs not like... that screen from earlier.â
You looked at the TV warily. âThou swear it?â
He exhaled through his nose, flicking the screen on with a dull click. Color flared to life. The screen came alive with swaying yellow grass, blue sky, and strange lithe creatures grazing in the open fields.
âThere. Animal Planet.â He dropped the remote into your lap. âItâs not some horror show. Just... weird Earth animals doing weird Earth animal things.â
You studied the screen as a herd of deer-like creatures bounded through the grasslands, their delicate legs barely touching the earth.Â
Your brows drew tight.
Jason watched your face as a lioness appeared on-screen, belly low to the dirt as she slunk through the brush. The camera zoomed in on her golden eyes, feral and focused.
âThat oneâs called a lion,â Jason added. âSheâs the boss out there. Queen of the plains. Kills what she eats, protects whatâs hers.â
Your eyes were glued to the screen now, entirely absorbed.
Jason let the silence hang for a few beats. He could almost feel the whirring in your headâthe slow knitting together of what you did understand and what still confused the hell out of you.
âAnd if this thingââ he pointed at the remote, ââstarts playing something else and you get spooked again, just press this.â He guided your fingers to the power button, firm but not unkind. âThis turns it off. Dead. Silent. No more... demons screaming.â
You nodded, biting your lip slightly. âA simple charm, then. Press to bind the spirit. Press again to banish it.â
Jason blinked. â...Yeah. Sure. Letâs go with that.â
Crook ruffled his feathers, looking as smug as ever.
Jason moved toward the door, grabbing his key ring from the wall hook. His jacket rustled with the motion, the name patchââJayââcatching the light.
You stood carefully as he reached for the handle.
âWill thouâŚreturn safely?â you asked softly.
Jason froze for a half second. The weight of that question was heavier than it shouldâve been. People didnât usually ask that. Or if they did, it wasnât like thatâlike you meant it.
He turned halfway, green eyes catching yours again. âYeah,â he said. âI always do.â
He hesitated, then nodded to Crook. âKeep her company, you little feathered bastard.â
Crook puffed his chest proudly.
Jason opened the door. The cityâs noise filtered in faintlyâsirens, traffic, the buzz of Gotham being Gotham.
He paused for a moment and turned back to see you, still watching him as he stood in the doorway.Â
âHold down the fort till I come back, you hear.âÂ
You tilted your head, solemn. â I vow upon the Verdant Motherâs graceâno man, or beast shall lay harm upon your home.â
Jason blinked. â...Okay. That was⌠Dramatic, but I appreciate it.â
He didn't say anything else, just shook his head and muttered under his breath as he stepped into the hallway and locked the door behind him.
âGods, saints, hellâwhateverâs listening. Just let my apartment still be standing when I get back.â
And with those final words the day of Jay Smith begins.
Next Chapter 4
Chapter 1
Masterlist
Jason Todd POV
The city never slept, but it sure as hell screamed.
And most of all.... It bled.
That was just an ugly truth.
Below Jason, the streets tangled into a mess of flickering streetlights, honking horns, and the distant wail of sirens like ghosts howling through concrete veins. The wind carried the scent of oil, smoke, and something elseâsomething old. But maybe that was just his own thoughts rotting in his skull.
Jason crouched near the edge of a rooftopâtall, sharp-edged, industrial. A corporate tower, all ego and windows, the kind of building Gotham used to pretend meant progress. The glass below him shimmered like cracked crystal, reflecting the fractured stars above.
He wasn't watching the city. Not really.
He was watching his thoughts.
And unfortunately, they stared back.
"Master Jason, are you planning to spend the entire night sulking on rooftops again?"
The voice in his helmet was clipped, dry, and somehow still fond. Alfred Pennyworth. Jason sighed softly at the sound, the kind of sigh that sat in the bones. Always worried for him. Always reaching out, even when Jason didn't deserve it.
Probably the only person left he didn't hang up on immediately.
With a tired grunt, Jason pulled off his helmet. The cool air kissed his face, brushing through messy black hair. He let it hit him like a slapâreal, grounding. The white streak in his hair caught moonlight and trembled in the breeze.
"Technically, it's brooding," he muttered. "Sulking is... juvenile."
Alfred scoffs as he answers the young man. "Forgive me. I forgot you're the brooding adult with twin pistols and much unresolved trauma."
Jason cracks a dry smile as he answers once more. " I don't just have pistols Al you should know that better than anyone."
The old man on the other side simply sighs in exasperation as Jason huffed a laughâquiet, but real. He let the silence stretch again, his gaze drifting back to the city below. Lights danced like fireflies. A couple argued on a balcony. Somewhere nearby, a siren wailed.
It was peaceful.. For Gotham, anyway.
It's quiet for a few moments.
Before finally Alfred speaks once more. "Master Bruce is asking about you." Alfred says in a serious voice.
The words hit like a gut punch.
Jason's smile vanished, jaw tightening until his molars ached. He didn't speak. Didn't need to. The silence said enough.
"He's worried Master Jason." Alfred's voice holds a thread of grief. The kind that came from too many years of watching people destroy themselves.
Jason scoffed bitterly. "He's got a funny way of showing it."
"You know heâ"
"Please Al don't make excuses for him." Jason pauses for a moment and puts his helmet back on. "Listen Al... Thanks for checking in but I have work to do."
"Master Jason pleaâ."
Jason clicked the comm off.
Just like that, the world fell into silence again. A heavy, pressing kind. It wasn't peaceful anymoreâit was loud in the worst way. Like all the noise he'd pushed down was crawling back up his throat.
He stood slowly, pushing off the ledge, grappling gun in hand. The city below awaited himâcold, unforgiving, familiar.
The Red Hood didn't have time for sadness. Or apologies.
But just as he lifted his arm to fire the grappling hookâ
The sky cracked open.
A flash of sickly green light tore through the air like a jagged wound. A circular ripple shimmered into existence directly above him, glowing and spinning as if the fabric of the world had been sliced with a cosmic blade. It wasn't tech. It wasn't meta.
It was something else. Something wrong.
Jason staggered back, instincts screaming. His hand twitched toward his backup knife. His brain tried to rationalize it. Portal? Magic? Breach?
And then something fell through.
Noâsomeone.
A body came hurtling from the portal, limbs flailing, cloak trailing behind like a comet's tail. Jason barely had time to react before she slammed into him like a meteor.
"FUCKâ!"
They hit the rooftop hard. Jason's back crashed against cold concrete, breath crushed from his lungs. The world rang.
His vision blurredâbut the weight on his chest was very real. Someone was on top of him. Breathing. Groaning.
"Ugh... gods... my head..."
The voice was soft. Feminine. Rough with pain and confusion.
Jason blinked hard, groaning under his breath as he stared upâand froze.
The girl pinning him wasn't human.
She had blue skin, shiny silted (e/c) eyes and most of all..horns, long and curved like polished jewels. Her robes were torn and dirtied, her long clawed hands scraped, and she smelled faintly of pine needles and lavender. A long tail flicked anxiously behind her, and her sharp teeth flashed as she sucked in air.
Her eyes locked with his through the helmet lenses. Confused. Wary. Wild.
"...Thou... art no bandit," she murmured, blinking at him.
Jason stared.
Before finallyâ
His brain finally kicked back into gear.
Too close. Too unknown. Too dangerous.
With a growl, Jason flipped their positions in a blink, using his weight and training to reverse their bodies in one fluid, brutal motion.
The girl barely had time to react before she was slammed onto her back, arms pinned, wind knocked from her lungs.
She let out a sharp gasp, eyes wideânot from anger, but pain.
Wounded. She's hurt.
Didn't matter.
Jason's knee pinned her thigh. His hand locked around her wrist. And with the other, he drew his pistol in a blur of motion and jammed it under her chin, the cold steel pressing into the soft blue skin of her throat.
"Who the hell are you?" Jason snarled. "What the fuck are you doing in Gotham?"
She didn't answer immediately. She didn't even struggle. Just blinked, breath stuttering in her chest as her eyes searched his faceplate.
Then, carefully and somewhat scaredly, evenâshe whispered, "Please... I don't wish to fight thee. I have no knowledge of where I am. If you could just calâ"
Jason shoved the barrel harder under her jaw.
"Don't tell me to calm down. You fall out of a damn portal, land on me, and you want me to be calm?"
Her tail curled close to her side, tense and shaking.
"I was attackedâthere were banditsâand the magic, I didn'tâ"
"Magic." Jason spat the word like poison. "Of course it's magic. Just my goddamn luck."
She winced. Not from the gun. From the word. Her eyes softened again, and her voice came quieter nowâworn down by pain and confusion, not fear.
"I... I know not where I am," she repeated, almost like it was an apology.
Jason stared down at her.
Blue skin. Horns. A fucking tail. Eyes that glowed like dying stars. She looked like something out of a fever dream. Or a video game. Or a Lazarus Pit-induced psychosis.
But the blood running down her arm? That was real. The shallow cut on her cheek? Real. The way her heart raced beneath his arm as he pressed the gun aganist her?
Very real.
Still, his hand didn't move. The barrel didn't lower.
He'd been tricked before. Hurt before. Killed before.
And he wasn't above doing so now.
"You've got ten seconds," he growled. "To explain why I shouldn't drop your ass off the side of this roof.
Y/N POV
The world was made of noise.
Crude stone towers that scraped the heavens, glowing crystals embedded in their skin like frozen lightning. The sky tasted strange. Metal. Smoke. And the man above you?
He was no bandit.
He was worse.
A creature of rage, clad in hardened leather and blood-colored steel. His face was hidden beneath a red helm, and yet his gaze burned through it, searing into your soul with heat that no fire ever taught you. The cold bite of iron pressed against your throat. A weapon unlike any you had seen. No bowstring. No blade. Only thunder waiting to strike.
He demanded answers. Spat them like venom.
And stillâstillâyou tried to speak gently.
"I mean thee no harm," you managed, voice trembling as you winced beneath him. "I... I was cast from my realm. I know not whither I've landed, only that Iâ"
He shoved the metal closer.
The pain blooming in your stomach flared again. Sticky warmth dripped down your side. You were bleeding worse than you'd thought. Too much. Too deep. You wouldn't last long like this.
I cannot die here. Not like this.
You met his eyesâor where they should be behind that cursed helmâand whispered an apology you knew he would not hear.
Then, with a whispered breath, you shifted.
"Veritas naturae..."
The change overtook you in a heartbeat. Your form shrank, bones twisting, fur bristling along skin that moments ago had been blue. A mouse. With (h/c) fur, small and agile.
But bleeding... Fast.
You bolted from beneath him, claws scrabbling across stone, leaving behind a faint red trail as you darted across the rooftop.
"What theâ?!"
You heard the click. The hiss.
Gunfire.
A shot cracked beside your tail making you squeak in surprise and fear, blasting a chunk of rooftop free.
Anotherâcloser. Too close.
He's not aiming to kill.
But the warning was clear.
Still, you ran harder, fasterâtoward the thing that sang to you. The twisted shape of your staff, lying cast aside near the vent. Ancient wood, worn smooth by your hand, capped with curling roots and a green gem that pulsed in rhythm with your breath.
You leapt for it.
Your paws hit the staff just as your form shifted againâback, tall, horned, wounded.
You landed hard on one knee, body trembling from the toll. The pain in your abdomen screamed.
But your hand locked around the staff.
And with what strength you had left, you slammed it to the ground.
"Silvanus, shield me!" you cried, voice fierce through gritted teeth.
A shimmering ward burst upward around you like woven leaves and wind, forming a half-sphere of flickering emerald light. You knelt behind it, clutching your side, blood soaking into your robe. Breath shallow. Muscles weak. But your grip on your staff never faltered.
You looked up at the red-helmed man. Your voice, though weak, did not waver.
"I am no foe of thine," you rasped. "And if I die here... then let it be not by thy hand, stranger. I sought only to aid, not to be hunted."
You gritted your teeth, ears flicking at the sounds of this cold, alien city.
"...Where in the hells am I?"
The green light of your ward flickered, dancing in the night like the last breath of a candle and blood continued to seep through your fingersâwarm, sticky, and far too much. Each heartbeat echoed through your ribs like a war drum, and the air tasted like copper and smoke.
Normally you could hold this ward for far longer, however as it stands with your wound you will not last much longer. Across the ward, the masked man now held two of his strange metal weapons.
Both aimed straight at you.
"I won't ask again," he barked. "Who are you? What the hell are you? And how the fuck did you get here?"
You could feel his furyâradiating off of him like heat from a forge. No trust. No mercy. Not yet.
You knew well enough when a blade could not be answered with steel.
You swallowed hard, the taste of iron and ash thick on your tongue. The wound in your side pulsed with each beat of your heart, hot and sticky against your palm. It hurt to breathe but with a small grunt and fighting the tremble in your limbs, you lowered your staff just slightly. Not in surrenderâbut to show you did not raise it in threat.
And even with the threat of death... You did not flinch.
You had faced wolves and wraiths, storms and sickness.
You could face this man tooâeven if your knees shook doing it.
Lifting your chin slightly, your voice raspedâsteady despite the pain, steeped in your realm's cadence: "Thou shalt lower thy weapons not, I see... so be it."
A breath. A wince. Then, slowly, you spoke againâclearer, with reverence and weariness alike:
"I am Y/N, born of the Verdant Lands. A daughter of leaf and moon, of grove and storm." You nodded faintly toward the dying ward, still sparking weakly. "A druid of the Circle of the Moon, sworn to heal, to guide, to guard that which grows."
Your tail curled instinctively behind you, tight with pain and nerves. Still, you kept your voice calm, even as your vision blurred at the edges.
"My blood bears the stain of infernal ancestry... I am Tiefling, and like many of my kin I claim not the darkness. My path is not destruction but restoration."
You paused, blinking slowly at him. His fingers hadn't moved on the triggers. He was listeningâbut barely. Tense. Ready to kill.
And so you gave him what he wanted next, as plainly as you could:
"I hail from a realm far from thisâwhat didst thou call it? Gotham?" You coughed, the pain flaring again. Your hand pressed tighter to your side.
"I know not how I came to be upon thy strange stone towers. I was beset by brigandsâoutlaws of my own landâwho sought to take what they would. I stood to fight them, though I was outnumbered."
Your eyes flicked to the ground, remembering itâthe circle of blades, the sharp snap of fear in your chest, and then...
"...and in the midst of that, the ground beneath me tore open. A riftâno conjuration of mine own. A portal summoned by hands unknown."
You looked up again, locking eyes with the red mask.
"I fell through... and landed upon thee."
A short pause. Then, faintly:
"...for which I do offer my humblest apologies."
You were still kneeling, barely holding upright, your staff now a crutch more than a weapon. The ward finally collapsed fully with a soft rush of air, revealing you entirely to him. Exposed. Bleeding. Magic flickering weakly in your veins.
"I am not thy foe," you whispered. "But if thou wouldst make me one... I shall not beg for mercy. I've none left to spare."
With a pained huff you stoodâBarely.
Your legs trembled beneath your weight, and your left arm clutching your side tightly. The right clutched your staff like it was the only thing anchoring you to this strange, jagged world.
The pain in your side had grown sharper, biting with every movement and your robes clung to your skin, damp with blood that pulsed steadily through your fingers. It dripped onto the rooftop stone below like rain from a cracked chalice.
And still he watched you.
Both weapons raised. Eyes unseen.
The man had not moved. Not an inch. The wind tugged at his leather jacket, but his aim never faltered.
He was waiting for something.
Or daring you to try.
You drew a breathâshaky, shallowâand felt the air of this realm claw at your lungs. Dirty. Heavy. Nothing like home. Even the night here stung the senses.
Still, you met his gazeâor what lay behind it.
"I have spoken true," you rasped, your voice barely more than wind. "If it is not enough, then finish what fate began."
He said nothing.
A moment passed. Long. Excruciating. The weight of his silence pressed harder than the wound.
You panted through clenched teeth, leaning heavier on your staff. The wood beneath your fingers was warm. Familiar. Your only tether to what you were. Who you were.
You wanted to shift againâto flee as bird or beastâbut the magic... it wouldn't answer.
Your power was flickering, tired, like the rest of you.
Still, you stood your ground. Broken, bleeding, but unbowed.
"And If death is thy will," you said softly, "then pray be swift."
The man didn't speak.
Didn't shoot.
Only glared.
Only waited.
And in that long, stifling silence, a strange realization struck you through the haze of pain:
He was not hesitating out of mercy.
He was hesitating because he did not trust what he saw.
You weren't sure if that was better... or worse.
There was no speaking.
None.
The only sounds that could be heard were the loud unfamiliar sounds of this realm of glass and crystal and across, the man.
His strange weapons that shot fire and metal trained on your heart, a creature carved from rage and shadow. The wind howled softly between you â sharp, unclean, cold. Your legs buckled again, and your breath hitched in your throat.
Finallyâ
The man spoke.
Or rather.
Swore.
A harsh, guttural sound, laced with venom and something else... frustration? Anger? Reluctant pity?
It mattered not.
Because with a flick of his wrists, he lowered both weapons, arms tense and twitching before he slid them back into the holsters tucked beneath that brown leather coat.
You didn't dare move.
Not until you were sure.
Only when the sound of metal sliding home echoed through the stillness did your shoulders slump â just slightly â and your chest shuddered with a long, aching breath of relief.
Your grip on your staff loosened, then tightened again.
The pain did not fade with his mercy.
It only revealed itself, now that the threat had passed.
Your knees trembled like saplings in a stormwind. Your wound flared bright behind your ribs, and your teeth clenched down with a faint, involuntary growl â the sharp points of your canines pressing into your lower lip as you tried not to cry out.
You would not show weakness.
Not here.
Not to him.
Still... the world swayed just slightly at the edges. You forced your tail to remain still, though it twitched, betraying your struggle.
Your fingers ached around the wood of your staff.
"Thank thee..." you managed softly, voice frayed and uneven. "For sparing me..."
Another breath. Another spike of fire in your side.
"...though I fear... I've naught the strength to repay the kindness just yet."
Your vision flickered again. The rooftops bled into shadows. The stars above this strange world spun like coins tossed into a well.
You swayed â then caught yourself.
Barely.
A whisper escaped between your fanged teeth, low and cracked:
"...I must sit..."
Jason Todd POV
He hadn't meant to move.
But the second he saw the blue woman's knees buckle and her staff slip from her fingers â he was already running.
"Shitâ!"
She pitched forward.
The staff clattered to the rooftop, echoing across the concrete like a dropped sword. Her (e/c) eyes glazed over, and her lips parted, but no sound came. Just that expression. That lookâlike someone already halfway to death.
Jason sild and caught her before she could hit the ground.
She was lighter than she looked. Warm, and trembling. His arm hooked under her legs, the other bracing behind her back. Blood smeared across his gloves immediately â hot, sticky, and still flowing fast.
"Damn it, you're worse off than you looked," he muttered, lowering her to the rooftop gently, knees hitting stone. "What the hell did youâ?"
But before Jason could finish he watched her hand move.
Not to him.
To the wound.
She pressed her palm flat against her own ribs, teeth bared as a fresh jolt of pain wracked her entire body. Jason froze for a half-secondâunsure whether she was going to pass out or pukeâ
And then her hand glowed.
A soft, green shimmer pulsed beneath her fingers. Light trickled through the edges of her palm like morning sun leaking through forest leaves.
Jason stared.
"...What the hell..."
The glow thickened, brighter at the core, spilling warmth over her side â and where there was once torn flesh and crimson ruin, the bleeding began to slow. Her robes, still soaked, hung limp and heavy, but he could see the skin beneath start to knit together.
She was healing.
Herself.
"No way," he muttered, watching her brow furrow, sweat pooling at her temple. "You're using magic? Now? You can barely stay consciousâ"
Her shoulders shook.
A grunt escaped her lips â half snarl, half breath. Her tail, twitching faintly before, now lay limp. Her hand quivered against her side, fingers curling tighter with effort as the spell fought to stay active.
Jason didn't know how any of this worked â he didn't do magic.
Didn't trust it.
He already had enough of it when he was brought back.
But even he could tell it was draining her. Fast.
"You're burning out," he muttered under his breath. "Damn stubborn blue lady."
Still... he didn't stop you.
He just stayed there â supporting your weight, watching her glow in the dark like some wounded star that refused to go out.
Something in his chest twisted.
He didn't know what it was.
But it wasn't anger.
And that scared him more than the magic ever could.
The gentle glow continued for a few more minutes before finally slowly beginning to dim before finally no longer glowing. Not all at once, but like the last dying ember in a fire pitâslow, soft, reluctant to go. Her hand slipped away from her side, shaking and smeared with her own blood. The gash on her stomach... mostly closed now. Bruised, angry, but no longer gushing.
She was still alive.
Barely.
But she looked like hell.
Just watched her hand tremble as she moved it away from her side, her palm flickering with leftover magic. That warm green light had vanished now â replaced by cold Gotham night.
And then...
Her hand curled into the fabric of his jacket.
Not in fear. Not even in instinct.
Just pain.
"Thank thee," she whispered, voice like ash, "for... holding me."
Jason stared at her.
He wanted to say something â "Don't thank me," or "I almost shot you," or "You're lucky I didn't drop you off the side of the building."
But he didn't.
He just sighed. Deep. Frustrated. Exhausted.
And annoyed as hell that he now officially gave a damn.
"Goddammit," he muttered under his breath.
He shifted her gently, easing her against the nearest bit of rooftop cover â an old stone ledge half-collapsed with age and pigeon shit. He braced her upright with one arm, then crouched to retrieve the weird gnarled stick that had started all this â her staff â and set it by her side.
"Alright. Sit here. Don't move. Don't shift. Don't bleed out."
She blinked up at him, still dazed. "Thou... art leaving?"
"Just for a second," he grunted, adjusting the gun holsters under his jacket. "My bike's stashed in an alley a few blocks from here. I'll bring it around. Then I'm taking you somewhere warm before you pass out again and die on this rooftop."
She flinched, and her tail flicked weakly against the ledge. "I... I do not wish to trouble thee furtherâ"
Jason scoffed and stood.
"You already fell out of the sky and on top of me. Pretty sure that ship's sailed."
He glanced back down at her â bloodstained, barely conscious, draped in strange leaves and old-world robes. She looked completely out of place here.
And somehow...
He couldn't bring himself to walk away.
Not from this.
Not from her.
"Just sit tight," he muttered, already turning toward the fire escape. "Keep quiet. Keep breathing. And if some asshole in a black mask and cape shows up while I'm gone, do me a favor... set him on fire."
Then, under his breath, more to himself than to her:
"...What the hell am I even doing?"
And with that, he vanished into the shadows of the night.
Y/N POV
And just like that.
He was gone.
The man disappeared into the shadows like a phantom of war.
One moment he stood beside you â a growling sentinel made of anger and iron â and the next, he was leaping from the rooftop, leather coat snapping in the wind, vanishing into the night like smoke off a candle.
You were now alone, slumped back against the ledge with a pained grunt, pressing a shaky hand to your side once more. The worst of the wound had mended, but your body still ached from the magic's toll â the magic, the fall, and the man who'd held a death machine to your throat.
You closed your eyes and whispered, voice barely above the wind:
"Silvanus, guide me... I know not where I've fallen, but the land still lives beneath me."
You reached deep â into the pulse of your magic. Beneath the stone. Beneath the noise. Nature still breathed here. It was quieter... caged in concrete and steel... but it was still there.
And they were listening.
You extended your fingers toward the sky, and with a soft ripple of magic, you whispered:
"Come, child of feather and wind... I seek no harm. Only words."
The wind shifted.
A faint flutter.
And then â a soft weight settled gently upon the ledge beside you.
A pigeon.
Its feathers were mottled gray and white, one wing slightly crooked. Not beautiful by your homeland's standards, but alive, curious, and willing.
You smiled.
"Greetings, little sky-walker," you said warmly, voice hoarse but kind. "Thou art not the sparrow's I know... but still a welcome sight in this land of smoke."
The bird tilted its head, hopping once. It stared at you with beady, intelligent eyes.
"Canst thou speak with me?" you asked softly, extending your druidic aura. "Only if thou wouldst."
It bobbed its head. Once. Then twice.
Connection made.
In your mind â not words exactly, but the essence of understanding â came a burst of images and feelings: smoke, food scraps, flashing lights, danger, tall moving beasts (cars), towers that touched the sky, and humans that never looked up.
You offered a tired chuckle.
"Aye... 'tis a strange realm indeed."
From your satchel, you reached carefully â fingers fumbling â and drew out a small dried berry, enchanted and preserved. You placed it on the ledge.
"For thee. In thanks."
The pigeon cooed, pecked once at the berry, then nestled closer, no longer afraid.
With effort, you shifted the satchel more into your lap. Its contents clinked faintly â elixirs, salves, herbs, dried fruits... and the soft glint of jewelry wrapped in woven cloth.
You ran your fingers across one piece â a silver ring inlaid with a dull opal. When you touched the stone and closed your eyes, you could feel it stir â the glamour inside. The illusionary magic that could cloak your form in the guise of another race, should the need arise.
Not yet, you thought. Not needed for now.
But... perhaps it would have a later use.
You returned it carefully to it's pouch.
"Tell me, little friend," you said to the pigeon, voice lower now. "What realm is this? What call do these towers serve? Why do they howl when the moon shine's?"
The pigeon blinked. Then let out a long coo and you smiled as it began to tell you, in images and feelings, the story of Gotham â a city of predators and prey, of wind and fire and the man who walked with thunder in his hands and the light that reaches the sky in a strange shape.
As the pigeon spoke to you, pain still gnawed at your limbs like wolves at a carcass, but you welcomed the distraction. The kindness. The life. And with a slow exhale, you leaned your head against the rooftop ledge and winces as your horns scrambled the back of the ledge and you gently whispered to the creature, your voice warm, like wind rustling through old pines:
"Thou hast a tale most strange, little one. I thank thee for thy gift of knowledge."
The pigeon tilted its head once again. Then â with a flutter and a determined hop â it landed softly in your lap, nestling down as though it had always belonged there.
"Strange," it said â not in words, but in meaning.
Strange, but not frightening.
The bird blinked slowly at you. Then came a pulse of thought â clear and bright:
"Never seen a human like you."
You smiled wider, despite the ache in your side.
You chuckled â a low, tired sound, colored with true warmth. Your sharp teeth glinted faintly in the moonlight as your tail gave a weak flick behind you.
"Aye. I imagine I seem... much unlike the ones thou knowest." you wince a little but continue speaking. "I am not human," you said gently. "Though my heart may beat as one's might. I am Tiefling â a child of infernal blood, yes, but shaped by the wild places, the sacred groves. My soul bears no chains forged in hellfire."
You let your hand gently stroke the pigeon's side â slow and respectful, fingers glowing faintly with that druidic touch that all creatures recognized as peace.
"I was reared among the Circle of the Moon," you continued, voice growing softer as you told your truth. "Taught the language of bark and stone, of rivers and cloud and beast alike. It is by such bond I speak with thee now â not by trickery or spell, but kinship."
The bird ruffled slightly beneath your fingers. Content.
"Where I come from, thou wouldst be revered, little sky-walker," you whispered. "A sign of change, or hope, or warning. But always... listened to."
The pigeon cocked its head again. You could feel the emotions flickering through it â curiosity, contentment, a strange sense of wonder.
You laughed quietly.
"Aye. I speak with beasts, just as I mend the wounded and shift into fang or feather when need arises. 'Tis my calling â to heal, to guide... to listen."
You leaned your head back, looking at the foreign sky.
"So I listen now. To thee. To this realm. To the thunder-hearted man who holds too much pain behind that red helm."
The pigeon shifted on your lap, fluffing his feathers with a soft trill of contentment. You let your hand remain still beside him, fingers curled, your palm warm with magic still faintly thrumming through you.
For a while, the only sounds were the distant whine of sirens and the hum of the wind around the rooftops.
And then... a thought came.
Clear. Bright. Proud.
"Name is Crook."
You blinked, surprised.
"Crook?" you echoed softly, eyebrows raised.
The bird bobbed his head, perfectly serious.
You chuckled, a faint blush of guilt warming your cheeks. "Thou hast a name, and I was rude not to ask it sooner."
Crook gave a soft warble â neither offended nor bothered â but you bowed your head anyway in apology, fingers gently brushing his back mindful of your claws.
"Forgive me, Crook. I've been unmoored since falling into this strange realm, and my manners seem to have fallen with me."
The pigeon let out a soft, amused chirp. Beneath your hand, his feathers rippled slightly â and then, quite suddenly, they stilled.
He froze.
Head jerking toward the shadows, wings half-lifted in instinct.
You lifted your gaze just as footsteps echoed onto the rooftop.
And there â emerging from the edge of the dark, leather coat whipping behind him, red helmet glinting under the moonlight â
He was back.
The red-helmed man.
The mortal storm.
He paused mid-step, staring at you â or more precisely, at your lap.
There was a long silence.
Then:
"...Why the hell are you talking to a pigeon?"
You blinked at him. Then down at Crook. Then back at the masked man.
And offered a soft smile, voice melodic and calm:
"Because he is most enlightening company."
Jason stared.
You gently stroked Crook's head as you added, "His name is Crook, and he's gracious enough to share what he knows of this land. I speak with him, as I would any creature of the world â by way of druidic bond. Nature's tongue."
Jason tilted his head slightly. You could almost feel his disbelief through the helmet.
You gestured to the pigeon nestled in your lap.
"He told me thy streets are dangerous, thy sky heavy with smoke, and thy kind rarely stop to speak to winged things unless to swat them away."
Crook cooed again, as if in agreement.
Jason crossed his arms.
"So... talking animals. Magic... tree stick. Horns. Fangs. Fall-from-the-sky entrance. Healing yourself with green glow-hands. And now... you're having a conversation with one of Gotham's rats-with-wings?"
You tilted your head, smile softening.
"Aye."
Jason muttered something under his breath â something distinctly unholy â and waved a hand dismissively as he stalked over to grab your staff and hold it out to you.
"Well, come on, Forest Princess. You're still bleeding and I'm not playing field medic on a roof all night."
You reached for your staff slowly, carefully placing Crook on your shoulder where he clung comfortably.
"Where art we going?" you asked, wincing as you stood.
He gave a sharp sigh.
"To my place," he muttered. "Congratulations, you get the scenic tour of Gotham's worst alleys."
You gave a pained laugh and followed.
Behind you, Crook ruffled his feathers and whispered in your mind:
"I like him. He's grumpy."
You smiled."So I've noticed."
The man sighs low and sharp, like he was already regretting this entire series of life choices.
But still, he stepped beside you.
His hand came to your arm â steady, surprisingly gentle â as he guided you toward the edge of the rooftop, just above the alley's mouth. The wind shifted, colder here, sweeping your cloak like a dying breath.
Below, the city yawned open â stone rivers, strange machines rumbling past, walls dressed in lights that flickered like dying stars. And down there, somewhere out of sight, lay the two-wheeled metal beast he'd called a "bike."
You blinked at the drop, then turned your gaze toward him.
"And... how, pray tell, dost thou plan to bring us down?"
The man glanced at you sidelong, then â without ceremony â raised a strange device from his belt. It resembled no crossbow you'd ever seen, though the mechanism bore the soul of one. He aimed it at a building across the alley and, with a hiss of compressed tensionâ
FWWMP.
A hook shot out on a cord of thin steel, anchoring with a solid thunk into the stonework opposite.
You flinched slightly, startled by the noise. He gave a short, humorless grunt.
"Wrap your arms around me," he said, adjusting his stance as the line went taut.
You blinked again. "I beg thy pardon?"
"You heard me," he muttered, stepping closer. "Unless you've got wings I haven't seen yet, this is your only ride down."
You hesitated.
Then glanced to your shoulder.
Crook.
The pigeon fluffed his wings, watching both of you with bead-bright eyes.
"Fly on, dear friend," you whispered softly. "Find thy way to us below."
Crook gave a soft coo and took flight with a flutter of wings, vanishing into the darkness with a grace you envied. You watched him go, lips pressing into a faint smile â and then, with a sharp breath through your nose, you slid your staff onto your back, the enchanted clasp securing it between your shoulder blades.
It took effort. Too much effort.
Your body screamed in protest as you staggered forward the last step.
The man caught you again â firm hands steadying your waist.
"Easy."
Your cheeks warmed â from pain or proximity, you couldn't tell â and you slowly, awkwardly wrapped your arms around him, one shoulder pressed against the armored curve of his chest. Your horns brushed his helmet briefly. You felt the coarse heat of his jacket, the cold metal of his weapon rig against your side.
And your tail whipped behind you, unsettled by how close this felt.
You whispered, a bit breathless:
"I have never flown without wings before..."
The man simply muttered beneath his breath, low and dry:
"Yeah? Well... first time for everything."
And then â with a tight jerk on the line â you were both on the edge.
You look down and gulp at the drop.
You have flown great heights but never without your wings and as you continue to stare into the dark you feel the man's arm settled around your waist â solid, steady, warm even through layers of armor and leather. You stiffened slightly, but didn't pull away. The closeness was necessary, he had said. And truly, without his grip, you doubted you'd stay upright long enough to draw another breath.
Still... something nagged at the edges of your thoughts. A loose thread.
He threatened you
held you.
Saved you.
Carried you.
Spoke with sharp words, and quieter actions.
But you did not even know his name.
And as he adjusted the line on his strange grappling weapon, his fingers tightening with purpose and movement in mind, the question escaped your lips before you could stop it:
"...Thy name. I do not know it."
He paused â just slightly â his fingers halting mid-motion.
Then, a beat later, came the answer, short and low beneath the red helmet:
"...Jason."
Your eyes widened slightly.
And thenâ
He stepped off the ledge.
The wind howled around you â cold and furious, lifting your (h/c) hair like leaves caught in a storm â and your stomach dropped so violently you thought your soul might have been left behind on the rooftop.
Instinct roared.
With a startled cry, your arms clutched him tighter â but your legs, unbidden, wrapped firmly around his waist, locking at the ankles behind him.
"By the godsâ!"
Jason grunted as the two of you dropped fast, the line hissing behind you, his grip tight around your middle.
"Hang on, Forest Princess!" he shouted over the wind. "And maybe don't choke me in the process!"
You buried your face into his shoulder, horns narrowly missing his helmet, tail whipping behind you like a banner of panic.
"Th-this is not how druids travel!" you gasped.
"Welcome to Gotham," he muttered.
And below, the city opened its arms â cruel and cold and endless â as you hurtled toward the ground in the arms of a man you barely knew, and trusted more than you should.
The air continued to whip through your hair and you squeeze your eyes shut.
Until finallyâ
The world jerked to a stop.
Jason's boots hit the ground with a thud that echoed off the graffiti-stained alley walls. Somewhere above, the cable of his strange weapon hissed as it retracted, vanishing back into the device with mechanical finality. The shadows here were thick â littered with trash bins and the reek of oil and damp stone â but you barely noticed.
Because you were still clinging to him like your life depended on it.
Your legs wrapped tight around his waist, your arms locked around his shoulders, tail fluttering wildly behind you and legs still wrapped tightly around him.
Jason sighed.
"Alright. We're on the ground now," he muttered.
You didn't answer.
Your face was still half-buried in the crook of his shoulder, hair tangled across his back and armor, heart hammering in your chest like a war drum.
Jason shifted slightly beneath you. His arm was still wrapped protectively around your back â whether out of necessity or pity, you couldn't say.
"You can open your eyes," he added, slightly more amused now. "We're not skydiving anymore."
You inhaled sharply, then finally lifted your head, blinking open your eyes one at a time. The sky above was as dark as pitch, speckled with unnatural stars â cold and buzzing like insects trapped behind glass. The alley reeked of rot and steel and something acrid you couldn't name.
But you were alive.
And your feet â or at least his â were on solid ground.
"Bless the earth," you whispered, breath ragged, finally loosening your grip. You slid slowly down his frame, careful not to stumble as your boots touched the cracked concrete. Your legs trembled beneath you â part exhaustion, part leftover terror.
Jason muttered something like "koala druid" under his breath, but if it was meant to mock, it lacked the usual bite.
Then, from aboveâ
A flutter.
A soft whistle of wind.
And the sound of wings.
"Crook," you murmured.
With a fluttering grace, your companion returned â feathers gleaming faintly in the streetlight as he landed on your shoulder, talons gentle against the druidic fabric of your robes.
The moment he perched, he ruffled once and cooed proudly, like a soldier reporting for duty.
Jason glanced at the pigeon, blinking once. His helmet tilted slightly.
"...the bird coming too?"
You turned, blinking in genuine surprise at the question.
Crook looked at Jason.
Jason looked at Crook.
You turned your head to the bird beside you.
"Well?" you asked him softly. "Wouldst thou accompany me still?"
Crook gave a sharp nod and a short, almost smug chirp â the mental impression of "Obviously."
You smiled, brushing your fingers lightly along the bird's chest.
"He wishes to come."
Jason stared. Then exhaled slowly through his nose, rubbing the side of his helmet like this was not the strangest thing he'd seen this week.
"I was joking," he muttered. "But of course he does. Why not? Let's bring the magical sky-rat too."
You stifled a laugh. "Crook is not a rat. He is wise."
"He's a pigeon," Jason deadpanned, already turning toward the mouth of the alley.
You followed slowly â limping a little, your staff shifting lightly on your back, Crook nestled into the curve of your neck like a feathered sentinel. The shadows fell away as you turned the corner, revealing something unlike any beast you'd known:
It was monstrous and sleek â like a blood red serpent forged in metal, crouched low with wheels that gleamed like polished obsidian. The pipes curled like exposed ribs, and the light from its front eye cast a faint glow against the brick wall, like the stare of something ancient and cold.
You paused.
"...What manner of steed is this?"
Jason turned slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching behind the helmet.
"It's a bike," he said. "Or, in your fancy talk? My noble iron beast of fire and speed."
Your brow furrowed as you stepped closer, eyes wide with cautious reverence. "It... breathes not, yet hums with life."
"She's got more personality than half the people in this city," Jason muttered, straddling the seat and glancing over his shoulder. "Alright. Time to mount up, Princess. I'm not carrying you.. again."
You reached for the back grip, wincing slightly at your side as you raised a leg over the seat and slid in behind him â awkwardly at first, and carefully, mindful of your staff and the long fall you still hadn't emotionally recovered from.
Crook flapped once and settled on the front of the beast, head turned toward the road like he was ready for battle.
Jason looked down at the pigeon now seated in front of him. Then at you. Then forward again.
"...This is gonna be the weirdest night of my life."
You leaned forward slightly, arms slipping once more around his torso â not as tight as before, but firm enough to feel real.
"Aye," you said with a tired smile. "But thou did say 'first time for everything.'"
Jason just sighed, started the engine, and the beast beneath you roared to life.
And off you three go into the streets of this strange world.
Chapter 2
Chapter 11
Previous | Masterlist
Jason Toddâs POV
Peace.
Not the graveyard kind.Â
Not the brittle, suffocating kind that came after too much blood, when silence pressed down so hard it was louder than noise.Â
Noâthis was different.
It wasâŚâŚ
Soft.
Warm.
Caring.
The kind Jason didnât get.Â
The kind he wasnât supposed to get.
And for what felt like a long moment, Jason didnât stir.Â
His body was still, his mind too slow to realize it wasnât strapped down by chains of terror or the chokehold of a nightmare. He lay there, breathing, not gasping. Chest rising evenly, heart not racing out of his ribs, no phantom hands around his throat.Â
Just⌠breathing.
And weight.Â
There was weight on him.
He blinked, groggy, lids heavy.Â
The dim morning light bleeding through the curtains dragged him the rest of the way back into his body. He shifted, not much, just enough to feel itâthe distinct pull of something warm and solid across his chest.
Jason cracked his eyes open.
What he saw made his stomach clench and his brain trip over itself all at once.
Because nestled right against him, cheek pressed to his shirt, horns just barely grazing his collarbone, was none other then you.
Dead asleep.
Breathing slow, face loose with the kind of peace that only came in dreams untouched by Gotham.Â
Your handâclawed, sharp-tippedâwas resting over his chest, right above his heart.
Jason swore under his breath. âFor fuckâs sakeâŚâ
His head fell back against the floor with a dull thud.
This wasâChrist. He couldnât even begin to unpack this.
You, wrapped around him like this wasnât the worst idea in the goddamn world.Â
Like you didnât know what kind of man you were holding on to.Â
And as Jason continue to lay there he felt the your tail twitching every now and then like even in sleep, you couldnât hide what you were feeling.Â
Comfortable and at ease.
With him.
And it wouldâve beenâhell, Jason didnât want to admit it, but it wouldâve been nice.
Except.
Except when he dragged his gaze lower, the world reminded him it was Gotham, and peace wasnât allowed to last.
Because on his chestâhis chest, right above where your clawed hand rested like some poetic goddamn symbolâsat the pigeon.
Crook.
The bastard was puffed up in contentment, feathers ruffled, head tucked in, legs folded neatly under him like Jason was nothing but a mattress built for birds. The fucker was actually asleep.
Jasonâs eye twitched. He glared down the bridge of his nose at the smug little lump of feathers, muttering low through clenched teeth. âI really, really need to find recipes on what I can cook you into.â
The pigeon shifted, cooing faintly, as if mocking him.Â
Jason swore he felt the birdâs smugness radiating off its stupid tiny body.
Jason closed his eyes again and groaned, long and guttural, dragging a hand over his face. This was his life.Â
This was his actual life.
Former Robin.Â
Murdered by the Joker.Â
Dragged through hellâs green fire in a Lazarus Pit. Came back wrong, spent years carving Gotham open, and now⌠now he was a fucking pillow. For a magic plant growing animal shifting horned womanâŚ... And a pigeon.
âUnbelievable,â Jason muttered, words muffled against his palm. âAbsolutely unbelievable.â
He shouldâve moved. Shouldâve shoved both of you off him, gotten up, gone to do what he did bestâmove, run, fight. That was safer. Easier.
But he didnât.
His hand stayed at his face, covering the mess of his expression, but beneath it, his mouth twitched. Not into a smile, not fully, but something softened. Something dangerous. Because your weight on himâyour warmthâwasnât heavy like the nightmares. It was grounding.
He felt your slow breath through his shirt. The way your claws rested carefully, even in sleep, like you knew what you were touching. The brush of your horns, the faint, impossible glow of your eyes behind shut lids.
Your features, in sleep, were softer than heâd ever seen them. No guardedness. No strange, foreign tension of being stranded in Gotham.Â
Just⌠serenity. The kind Jason hadnât touched in years, maybe decades.
He let himself watch for longer than he should have. Long enough that it felt like a sin.
Then Crook shuffled again, dragging him back to earth. The pigeon opened one beady eye, looked at him, then promptly shut it again with a dismissive coo, as if telling Jason he was boring.
Jason grit his teeth. âOne of these days, bird. One of these days.â
The pigeon ignored him, feathers still fluffed.
Jason sighed, tilting his head back, staring at the cracks in the ceiling.
One. Two. Three.
He counted them, slow, dragging his gaze along the pale webbing that spread out across the plaster like veins. It was something to do. Something easy. Something still.
Four. Five. Six.
All was quiet.
No sirens screaming outside. No gunfire cracking down the block. No pounding of boots on rooftops or the echo of his own ragged voice chasing him out of sleep. Just stillness. Just breathingâthe slow drag of yours, the faint whistle of Crookâs tiny body, and his own chest rising beneath both of you.
It wasâŚ
Peaceful.
Jason wasnât used to this kind of peace.Â
Not anymore.Â
Peace usually came in the form of exhaustion so deep he didnât even notice it. The kind where his body shut down without asking permission. Or it came after violence, when everything was dead and silent and the only sound left was his own heart thudding in his ears.
But thisâthis wasnât like those. This was quiet because it was quiet. Because nothing hunted him in this exact moment.
It was almost unnerving.
Jason shifted slightly, subtle, eyes flicking down to the way your horns caught the light. Smooth, curved, like something carved with care. They fascinated him. Always had, though heâd never admit it out loud. Heâd seen plenty of monsters in his timeâthings with fangs and claws and eyes that glowed.Â
But your horns werenât monstrous.Â
They looked⌠regal. Beautiful, even.
That thought made his throat tighten, so he pushed it away fast, shoving it back where it belongedâbehind the wall heâd built to keep himself sane.
Still, his gaze caught on them again. On you. On how you were curled against him like it was natural. Like you werenât the strangest damn thing heâd ever stumbled across. Like he wasnât a man whoâd crawled out of a grave, broken and wrong, with more blood on his hands than he cared to count.
His arm twitched, half an instinct to move, to shift you off, to get free before it went too far. But he didnât follow through. Didnât shove. Didnât even nudge.
Instead, Jason let his head fall back. Let the weight of you stay. Let himself sink into the floor with the two of you piled on top of him.
For once, he wasnât carrying it all alone.
The thought made him laugh, soft, bitter. Carrying you and a pigeon wasnât much of a metaphor, but hell, it fit.
He shifted again, enough that his hand brushed against your arm. Your skin was warm, smooth where it showed beneath the sleeve. His fingers hovered there, uncertain, before curling into his palm again. He wasnât about to get caught petting you like some creep.
Not when youâd probably tease him for it until the end of time.
Jason let out another long breath, chest rising under your claws. His eyes slipped shut. For a second, he let himself pretend this was normal. That he wasnât lying on the floor in his crappy apartment with a pigeon and a tiefling draped over him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
That maybe, just maybe, this was what waking up could feel like.
Safe.
The word burned him the moment it crossed his mind.
Because nothing was safe. Not him. Not you. Not Gotham.
This moment wouldnât last. It couldnât. And when it broke, it would break hard. He knew that. Heâd lived long enough to understand how fleeting things like this were. How dangerous it was to get used to them.
But his body betrayed him. His hand lifted, hovered again, then slowlyâhesitantlyâhe brushed his fingers once through your hair, careful not to wake you.
It was soft.
Softer than heâd thought it would be.
Jason swallowed hard. His throat felt dry, tight. He let his hand fall back to the floor with a quiet thunk, palm flat, knuckles brushing against the worn wood.
âYouâre gonna get me killed,â he muttered, voice barely more than air.
Crook cooed, as if in agreement.
Jason scowled at the bird. âNot a word outta you.â
Silence pressed back in. Heavy, but not suffocating. He listened to it, counted the breaths, counted the cracks in the ceiling again just to keep his mind from spiraling. He reached twenty-seven before his eyes blurred.
And still, none of you moved.
You stayed against him, horns gleaming faint in the light, claws resting careful over his chest. Crook stayed nested, feathers warm and fluffy.
And JasonâJason stayed right there, staring at the ceiling, stuck between wanting to shove the world away and wanting to freeze this moment forever.
He didnât know which one scared him more.
Y/N POV
Warm.
That was the first thing you felt.Â
Not the chill of stone caverns, nor the damp bite of moss-soaked earth.Â
Not the biting winds that haunted the cliffs of home.Â
But warmth.
It cocooned you, soaked deep into your bones, as though the sun itself had curled around you. There was weight too, steady and solid beneath your cheek. Not soft like a featherbed, not yielding like moss or loam, but hard. Firm. Muscle beneath cloth, rising and falling in slow rhythm.
You shifted slightly, cheek brushing against it, breath catching faint upon skin heated through fabric.Â
And with that movement came scent.
Strange.Â
Arresting.Â
Familiar now, though you had no word for it in your tongue. Steel and smoke, but not of the forge-fires you once knew.Â
This smoke stung, sharp and acrid, burning faintly at the back of your throat like sulfur from a battlefieldâs scorch. Black-powder, though thinner, more bitter. It was the smell Jason always carried, woven into him as if it were as natural as sweat or skin.Â
Beneath it lingered leatherâaged, well-oiled, clinging faint like bark stripped from a tree. And still deeper, under that hardness, something living, warm.
Something you could only name as him.
Peace tugged at you. It was rare, this gentle waking. Rare enough you burrowed closer, let your claws flex faint against the fabric beneath you.
And thenâ
You stirred enough to open your (e/c) eyes.
Soft light touched the edges of your vision, pale morning filtering through thin curtains. And just beyond, mere inches from where your head rested, a small gray lump caught your sight.
Crook.
Curled, puffed, content as if he owned the space. His round body rose and fell, feathers twitching in some secret bird-dream. A smile curled your lips before you could stop it. âGood morrow, dear Crook,â you whispered, voice hushed, reverent for the momentâs stillness.
The pigeon stirred. One beady eye cracked open. Then his voiceânot aloud, never aloud, but sharp in your mind, that grating accent he bore like armorârang through you.
âWhatâs good, doll? Howâd we sleep?â
You blinked, startled, though youâd grown accustomed to his intrusion. Then your smile softened. âVery well indeed.â
The pigeon shifted, feathers rustling. You swore you felt the smirk in his tone. âIâll bet. Especially on pretty boy here.â
Everything in you froze.
The events of last night slammed back into you like a crashing tide. Jasonâs body shaking, his sweat slick against your skin. His voice wrecked, unraveling pieces of a nightmare too raw to name. The way you had shifted, fur and fang, pressing close until he held you tight, like a drowning man clutching driftwood.
And nowâŚ
Now you looked up.
Slowly.Â
Oh, so slowly, as if dragging your soul through quicksand.
And when your eyes found your markâ
You gasped.
Green eyes sharp, though softened by the haze of morning, framed by dark lashes and the faint smear of sleeplessness beneath. They bore into you with weight enough to halt your breath.
âComfortable, princess?â he rasped, voice thick, low from disuse.
Your mouth opened. Nothing emerged.
Closed. Opened again. Your fangs flashed briefly, lips partingâbut still no sound.
Words fled you. Entirely.
This was worseâfar worseâthan the mornings in his bed. When you both lay turned away from each other, yet woke up always facing, hands somehow twined together without memory of how.Â
That strangeness had unsettled you, yes, but thisâ
This was ruinous.
Heat flared across your skin, staining azure flesh deeper, hotter. Your tail lashed once, twice, betraying every tremor that struck you.
And still his eyes held you, unwavering.
ANd as you both continued to look into each otherâ
Something seized you.Â
Some reckless current, primal and undeniable, that surged through your veins before you could think. Your hand lifted, betraying you. Fingers trembled as they roseâslow, reverentâand cupped his face.
The rasp of his stubble scraped lightly against your palm. Warmth bled into your skin from his cheekbone, his jaw.
And you stared.
Stared into those eyes. Green and fathomless, scarred by things you could not name. And yet, within their depths, mirrored back faint, you saw yourself.
Not the healer. Not the wanderer. Not the druid lost through strange portals. But simply you.Â
Reflected.
Jason did not speak.
Nor did you.
Silence wrapped around you both, thick, fragile. A moment suspended on the edge of shattering.
And thenâ
âSo⌠you and broody gonna kiss or what?â
The voice sliced into your skull, crude and brash, dripping sarcasm. Crook.
ââCause lemme tell ya, doll, the suspense is killinâ me here.â
You jolted. Whipped your head to glare at the pigeon. âIâI was notâ! We wereâhe and Iâthere was no intent of suchââ
Your words tripped, tangled, collapsing over each other in flustered fragments.
Crookâs eye glinted wickedly, feathers puffed with smugness. âSure, doll. Whatever helps ya sleep at night⌠though it seems like broody helps with that.â
Your flush deepened to a shade that felt near unbearable, heat rushing from the tips of your ears down your throat. Your tail lashed harder, an uncontrollable whip-crack against the floor, like a banner of your mortification.
Jasonâs lips curvedâbarely, faintlyâbut curved all the same. It wasnât the mocking smirk he often wore to keep others at bay. No, this was smaller. Almost unguarded. As if amusement had snuck past the iron bars of his usual defenses and planted itself there without permission.
And so you both stayed thereâŚ.Neither of you spoke.Â
The silence stretched, heavy yet not unbearable. Suspended between you was something unnamed, fragile but undeniable, as steady as the warmth still clinging to your skin from where youâd been resting against him. You could feel your own pulse thrumming fast, betraying you, and his slower, calmer in comparison but no less present.
For a moment, you wished time would still itself entirely. That you could remain locked in that quiet, watching his face soften, feeling as though you had stumbled upon some truth you werenât meant to witness.
But thenâ
A sharp trill shattered the silence.
Jasonâs little box of wondersâhis phoneâscreeched to life atop the nightstand. Its vibration rattled faintly against the wood, shrill tone cutting through your moment like a blade.
Jason shut his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose in what could only be described as bone-deep irritation. His jaw ticked once. He turned his head, glaring at the thing, then sighed.
He looked back at you. âYou mind?â His voice wasnât sharp, not curtâsimply clarifying. Requesting space.
You startled, head shaking quickly. âNay! Not at all!â The words tumbled from you in a rush, awkward and far too loud. You scrambled upright, nearly tripping over your own tail in the haste of it. âForgive meâI⌠aye, of course.â
Your face burned as you pressed your palms against it, desperate to hide the glow radiating from your cheeks.Â
But no matter how you shielded yourself, you could not quell the acheâthe sudden hollownessâthat spread through your chest as you pulled away from his warmth. You would not admit it aloud, not even to yourself, but it felt as though something vital had been taken the instant you rose from his side.
Jason muttered something under his breath, indecipherable, before reaching for Crook. The little bird startled and fluttered hard against Jason's rough hold, indignant at being handled this way.Â
And Jason all but shoved him into your hands.
âNext time you sleep on me, bird,â Jason growled, glaring, âwatch what happens.â
Crook twisted his neck around, fixing Jason with a beady, unamused stare. Then his voice unfurled in your head, dripping with sass. âYeah? Try it, tough guy. See what happens.â
You stifled a laugh, pressing your lips together tightly as your tail gave the faintest twitch behind you. Jason and Crookâs mutual dislike was an eternal thing, and it almost comforted you in its constancy.
Jason, not breaking his stride muttered, and stalked toward the nightstand.Â
He snatched the phone, thumbed across the glowing surface, and lifted it to his ear with another weary sigh. âYeah,â he barked into it, already sounding irritated.
You glanced once, hesitated. And then, remembering the strange intimacy of moments past, you stepped lightly toward the door.
He deserved privacy.
Your hand was gentle on the knob, the door closing behind you with the softest of clicks as you stepped though.Â
The sound sealed away his voice, the faint static of the call, and left you in the hush of the hallway.
The home was still dim with morning gray.
And making your way down the hall you crossed to the couch and sank into it, shifting so your legs crossed gracefully.Â
 Crook, freed from your hands, waddled once in a circle before hopping squarely into your lap. He puffed himself up, feathers smoothing as if heâd meant to be there all along.
Your hand rose to stroke him absently, fingers combing through his plumage. The bird cooed softly, pleased.
But your thoughtsâŚ
Your thoughts did not settle.
The flush lingered on your skin, cheeks still warm with the memory of waking not merely beside Jason, but within his arms.Â
Protected.Â
Encircled.Â
It had been no bed of moss or cradle of leaves, yet it had felt safer than either. Safer than anything had in long months.
And that terrified you.
You would not speak it aloud. Would not even dare let Crook pry it loose. But still your chest ached, your mind replaying the weight of his embrace, the way his chest had risen beneath your cheek, the steady beat of his heart beneath the scars and the steel.
Yet memory was cruel. For when you reached toward that warmth, another image surged forward, harsh and merciless.
Last night.
Jasonâs eyes.
Emerald green, fever-bright, widened with horror. His hand trembling as it pressed steel beneath your chin. His body drenched in sweat, breath ragged, every line of him bent by something unseen.
You remembered the burn of fear in your throat, though not for yourself. For him.
The gun had been cold, unyielding, the weapon of this strange world. You had known in an instant that he hadnât seen you. He had still been in that nightmare, drowning in it. You were but a phantom he struck at, too lost in terror to know otherwise.
And yetâeven thenâyou had stayed. Not out of bravery, nor stubbornness. But because your heart refused to let him fall wholly into that abyss.
Your ears drooped faintly now, their tips lowering with your mood. Your tail flicked once behind you, restless, before curling low around your side.
Your hand stilled in Crookâs feathers, and you whispered it aloud before you could stop yourself.
âJust how wounded are you, Jason Peter Todd?â
The name tasted solemn in your mouth, weighted as any spell. You had seen wounds before, in flesh and bone, in sickness and scar. But his were something deeper. Something unseen, festering far beyond the reach of poultice or salve.
You traced a finger over Crookâs feathers, your voice soft, almost prayerful. âI know not how to mend thee. But if there be a way, I⌠aye. I would find it. I would.â
For you were druid. Healer. Guardian. You had sworn your life to tending woundsâof beast, of land, of spirit. And Jasonâs spirit bore gashes that bled deeper than most.
Silence filled the room again, heavy yet tender. Crook cooed faintly, shifting in your lap, as if even he knew better than to crack wise in this moment.
You sat back into the couch, gaze drifting toward the glass door and the sliver of sky beyond. Morning bled pale across the cityâs edge, light striking the steel and stone of Gothamâs towers. It was not the dawn of your homeland, where sunlight dappled through branches and painted moss in gold.Â
But it was dawn nonetheless.
And in it, you whispered a vowânot spell, not oath, but something quieter.
That no matter how deep his scars, no matter how jagged the nightmares, you would not abandon him to face them alone.
Jason Todd POV
Jason pressed the phone to his ear, already bracing himself for the sing-song cadence of Dickâs voice.Â
The Caller ID had flashed his older brotherâs name across the screen, and though Jason had nearly ignored it, some nagging instinct had made him swipe to answer.
He didnât even get a hello out beforeâ
âFinally! You picked upâgood. I wasnât sure you would, and honestly I figured I had maybe a twenty percent shot at this, because usually you let calls go to voicemail, and so that made it hard to see whose phone I should take to do this, I definitely know you wouldn't pick up Bruce's call, taking Alfred's phone definitely wasnât an option no matter how sleep deprived I am, so that only leftââ
And as the boy continued to ramble Jasonâs spine went rigid.
That wasnât Dick.
That wasnât even close to Dick.
It was the one voice he wouldâve sworn heâd rather chew glass than hear.
Tim. Fucking. Drake.
Jason clenched his teeth, the muscles in his jaw ticking hard.Â
Of all the bastards in Gotham, this was the last one he wanted to listen to atâwhat, seven in the damn morning? Eight? He wouldâve taken Bruceâs sanctimonious sermons over this smug little upstart any day.
The replacement.
The kid whoâd slid into his spot without hesitation. Who got to sit at Bruceâs table, wear the damn âR,â act like he belonged.Â
Like Jason hadnât bled and died for it first.
Meanwhile Tim just kept talking, words spilling out rapid-fire. ââso yeah, swiping Dickâs phone was probably my only option, but hey, at least it worked. Youâd have hung up if you saw my name, right? You definitely wouldâve. Or maybe youâd have blocked it, which would be fair, not that Iâm saying itâs actually fair, but you know what I meanââ
Jason pinched the bridge of his nose, patience already fraying.
Tim went on. âAnyway, look, the point is I needed to get a hold of you, and you werenât going to answer any of my calls, so I had to improvise. And improvisation is sort of a family trait at this point, right? Not that youâd agree, butââ
Jason snapped.
âWhat do you want?â he growled, voice low and lethal. His grip on the phone tightened until the plastic casing creaked. âMake it fast. I got things to do.â
Lies.Â
He didnât.Â
But hell if he was going to admit he was sitting in his apartment with nothing on the schedule except avoiding human contact.
There was a pause on the other end, the rapid chatter cutting off as if someone had just slapped a hand over Timâs mouth. Then, in a smaller voice:
âRight. Sorry.â
Jason rolled his eyes skyward, exhaling slow.
Tim cleared his throat, then shifted gears, the words slower but still edged with that irritating earnestness. âOkay. So. Thereâs a situation. One of the gangs down on the NarrowsâLos ArpĂasâyou know them?â
Jason grunted. âI know of them.â
âTheyâve been moving in heavy the last couple weeks. Guns, drugs, the usual. But this time theyâre running something bigger. Coordinated. Which isnât their style.âÂ
Timâs tone sharpened, clipped. âTheyâve got trucks moving shipments through the docks. Word is, itâs not just contrabandâitâs weapons stockpiles. Military grade. Enough to arm half the East End.â
Jason leaned back against the dresser, eyes narrowing. âSo what?â
âSo,â Tim pressed, âone of the guys tied up in itâthe one running point for the ArpĂasâis a name I think youâll care about. Leon Vargas. Ring a bell?â
Jasonâs grip tightened.
Vargas.
Yeah, he knew Vargas.
A gutter rat.
The kind of loser whoâd scrape the bottom of every barrel in Gotham until there was nothing left but splinters and rot. Jason had seen his type a thousand timesâsweaty palms, twitchy eyes, always looking for a bigger dog to hide behind.Â
Vargas wasnât clever, wasnât strong, wasnât even particularly loyal. But what he did have was a goddamn knack for being in the wrong place at the right time. Picking up whispers, watching the corners nobody else bothered with.
A mutt.Â
A bottom-feeder.
And somehow, every time Jason thought about putting a bullet in him, Vargas spat up something useful. Always just enough to buy another week, another month. Just enough to keep Jason from pulling the trigger.
Which meant, like it or not, Vargas was his.
Jason rubbed his temple as the voice on the line kept going.
Tim. Fucking Drake. Talking a mile a minute, stringing together details and theories like a kid building with Legos, stacking piece on piece until it almost looked impressive. Almost.
Jason didnât need to hear the whole damn PowerPoint presentation. He could already see where this was going.
He cut in, voice low and flat. âSo what youâre really saying is, you want me to make the bastard cough up what he knows.â
There was a pause on the other end, like Tim was half-surprised Jason had pieced it together before he finished his big reveal.
Then: âYes. Exactly.â
Jason exhaled hard through his nose, dragging a hand down his face. âChrist almighty.â His tone dropped into a growl, bitter and tired. âYouâre a real piece of work, you know that? Stealing Dickâs phone, running your mouth like a fucking podcast I never asked to tune into, just so you can get me to play interrogator for you.â
âJasonââ
âSave it.â Jason spat out pacing the floor, his steps heavy against the worn boards. âI donât have time for your Boy Wonder bullshit.â
The silence that followed was sharp. But Jason wasnât doneânot even close.
He started the list in his head, the mental math he always did when someone tried to drag him into their shit.
One. Why the fuck should he bother? Vargas wasnât family. Vargas wasnât a friend. Just a punk whoâd managed to weasel his way under Jasonâs temporary umbrella. And if the ArpĂas chewed him up and spat him out? Well, that was Gotham. City chewed everyone eventually.
Two. Why the hell should Jason lift a finger for Tim? Replacement-boy. The one who sat in the seat Jason died for. The one who got Bruceâs nod, Bruceâs training, Bruceâs fucking approval while Jason was six feet under. If anyone deserved to hear âfuck offâ and a dial tone, it was him.
Three. This wasnât his problem. Not really. He wasnât wearing a cape anymore. Wasnât Bruceâs soldier. He had his own rules, his own territory. He wasnât the goddamn babysitter for Gothamâs every two-bit gang with a death wish.
Jason pinched the bridge of his nose, jaw clenching tighter.
Because then came the other side of the list. The one he didnât want to admit, but it was there all the same.
If Vargasâhis Vargasâhad stepped out of line, then that meant something. Vargas was a coward, a rat. Rats didnât stick their heads above water unless they thought there was a lifeboat waiting. If he was standing with the ArpĂas, it meant they had something big enough, strong enough, to make even a bottom-feeder think he could swim.
And if one rat had crawled out of the gutter, others would follow.
Jason swore under his breath, pacing harder, boots pounding like gunshots.
âMotherfucker,â he muttered. âPiece of shit bastard canât just keep his head down, no. Has to go play errand boy for a cartel that couldnât organize their way out of a wet paper bag until someone handed them toys from Uncle Samâs black budget. Jesus Christ.â
He wanted to hang up. Wanted to throw the phone against the wall, let it shatter into plastic and circuits, and pretend heâd never answered in the first place.
But he couldnât shake it. That itch in the back of his skull. The one that whispered, If Vargas is moving weight with the ArpĂas, then the streets are about to light up. And when the streets light up, kids die. Women vanish. Families bleed.
The same old story. The same cycle.
Jason dragged a hand through his hair, growling low.
Jason dragged a hand through his hair, growling low, knuckles whitening in his tangled grip. He stood there, jaw locked, breath hissing between his teeth like a cornered dog ready to snap at whoever dared get close. But the longer he paced, the more the fight bled out of him, leaving only that sharp, hollow ache he knew too well.
âFine,â he finally muttered, voice low but edged with a promise sharp enough to cut steel. âTonight. Weâll look for the bastard.â
The silence on the line broke instantly. Timâs voiceâtoo quick, too sharpâcrackled through. âReally?â
Jason could hear itâreal surprise. Like the kid actually hadnât expected him to agree.
He narrowed his eyes, lips curling in a humorless smile. âDonât get excited, replacement. Iâm not doing this for you. Youâll meet me at eleven sharp. Alley off 43rd and Kingsley. And listen real close, âcause Iâm only saying this once.âÂ
His voice dropped, venom coiled in every word. âYou come alone. No Dick, no Bruce, no birds fluttering around in the goddamn shadows. If I even think youâre playing meâif I hear something I shouldnât, if I smell one of their aftershave brands, or hell, just because I feel like itâIâll blow Vargasâs brains out on the spot and leave you standing in the mess. Clear?â
The kidâs reply was quick, steady, and tight with effort. âGot it. Alone. Just me. No Dick, no Bruce. Understood.â
Jason could tell he wanted to say moreâmaybe thank him, maybe explain, maybe try to bridge that gap that had been festering between them since day one. But Jason wasnât having it. Not tonight.
He cut him off the only way he knew how.Â
By hanging up.
The phone clicked dead, and Jason nearly crushed it in his fist, his hand clenched so tight the casing creaked. He stood there, seething, the weight of it like a live grenade in his palm. Then, with a sharp exhale, he hurled it onto the bed, watching it bounce once, twice, before sliding to a stop in the rumpled sheets.
Silence again.
Jason swore under his breath, low and bitter, before shoving himself out of the bedroom.Â
Heavy footsteps carried him down the hallway, the walls pressing in, the apartment suddenly feeling too small, too empty, too loud with thoughts he didnât want to hear.
The bathroom door creaked open, hinges squealing like an accusation. He flicked on the light, harsh yellow spilling over white tile and peeling paint. The mirror stared back at him.
Or rather, he stared back.
Jason gripped the sink, leaning in, breath fogging the glass. His reflection was the same as alwaysâcrooked scar over his cheek, that goddamn white streak in his hair clinging damp to his forehead, the green eyes that never seemed to blink without carrying shadows with them.Â
But it still felt wrong.
It always did.
He studied himself the way a hunter studies a carcass, looking for weak points, flaws, rot spreading under the skin.
And behind it all, the thought gnawed at him.
Tim Drake.
His replacement.
The kid whoâd stepped into his boots, into his colors, into his place at Bruceâs side. The one Bruce had trained. Had accepted. Had actually called âRobin.â
Jasonâs grip on the sink tightened, the porcelain groaning under his hands.
He wanted to hate him.Â
Christ, he wanted to.Â
It would be easier if he did. Hatred was sharp, clean, it burned through you fast. But this? This was a mess. Because the truthâthe ugly truth Jason couldnât scrub out no matter how many times he looked in the mirrorâwas that it wasnât Timâs fault.
The kid hadnât asked for it.Â
Hadnât killed Jason to wear the mask. Hadnât stolen the mantle.Â
Heâd just⌠stepped in, because someone had to, because Gotham never stopped bleeding, and Bruce sure as hell couldnât stand to fight without a soldier at his side.
Jason knew that.
And still.
Still, every time he saw Timâs face, every time he heard that quick, steady voice on the comms, every time he even thought about the fact that Bruce looked at him and saw something worth savingâevery damn time it was like another knife in the ribs.
Because Jason had bled for that role. Heâd died for it. And when he clawed his way back from the grave, half-mad, burning with rage and Lazarus fire, heâd come home to find someone else sitting in his chair.Â
Someone else wearing his name.
âFuck.â
The word broke out of him ragged, half-growl, half-sob, swallowed by the tiny bathroom.
He closed his eyes, breathing hard, forcing air in through his nose, out through his mouth. Again. Again. Like maybe if he repeated it enough times, the acid boiling in his chest would drain away.
It didnât.
When he opened his eyes again, his reflection hadnât changed. Same scars. Same shadows. Same man who wasnât good enough for the Bat, not dead enough to stay buried, not alive enough to stop looking over his shoulder at the past.
Jason turned the faucet on, cold water sputtering before gushing full. He cupped his hands under it, splashing his face until the chill bit deep into his skin, dripping down his jaw, soaking into his shirt collar. He braced himself there, head bowed, water dripping off his chin into the sink.
For a long moment, he just stood. Silent. Listening to the steady rush of water.
Finally, he reached for a towel.Â
Rubbed at his face, rough and quick, like he could wipe away more than just the sweat and water. Like he could wipe away the thoughts, too.
When he looked back up, the man in the mirror was still him. Still Jason Todd. Still the replacement whoâd been replaced.
He let out a laughâshort, harsh, humorless.
âFan-fucking-tastic,â he muttered.
Then he hung the towel back, turned off the light, and walked out, already building the armor in his mind.
Tonight wasnât about Tim. Wasnât about Bruce. Wasnât even about Vargas.
It was about making sure nobody forgot that Red Hood ruled his streets.
And if he had to drag Tim Drake along to witness it, so be it.
With a sigh Jason walked out of the bathroom, the echo of water dripping down the pipes fading behind him, the weight of his reflection still clinging to his shoulders like chains.Â
The hallway stretched narrow and dim, lined with peeling paint and shadows that never seemed to leave no matter how many bulbs he replaced. His feet slowly carried him forward until finally, with a long, heavy exhale, he dropped onto the couch.
The cushions gave beneath him with a sigh, his body sinking in as though the whole damn world had been pressing down on him and this sagging old sofa was the only thing willing to take the weight.Â
He tilted his head back, staring once again at the cracked ceiling above.Â
Different location but same fucking view.
Fissures in plaster that spidered outward like veins in bone.
As Jason continued to stare above he nor you spoke.
For a long moment, thatâs all there was.Â
Quietânot the good kind, not the kind you get in the woods or in a safehouse buried in snow.Â
No, Gothamâs silence was never really silence.Â
It was the hum of neon beyond grimy windows. The muffled cry of sirens too far away to be urgent, too close to be ignored. The shuffle of a drunk stumbling down an alley, cursing under his breath.
And then there was Crook.Â
The little bastard perched somewhere near the armrest, cooing soft, almost musical notes that filled the empty spaces. Crookâs feathers rustled, a sound delicate and small, so at odds with everything else in this city.
Jason breathed.Â
Just breathed, letting it all wash around him.Â
For a second, it felt almost peaceful.
His eyes slid sideways, finding you where you sat close enough that the heat of you brushed against himâalways too damn warm, like your blood carried fire instead of iron.Â
Your horns caught the faint light, gleaming, smooth and curved, the kind of detail that still baffled him when he thought too long about it. He didnât.
Not yet.
He kept his head tipped back, eyes tracing cracks overhead, and then finally broke the silence. His voice was rough, but not sharp.
âSo,â he drawled, not looking at you yet. âHowâd you like the shithole I call home?â
He didnât exactly get to ask yesterday.
Couldnât.Â
Not when the words youâd spoken in the parkâstrange, haunting, foreignâwere still echoing in his head like a song he couldnât scrub out.
And Jason watched as your (e/c) eyes lit instantly, slit pupils narrowing in excitement, and Jason couldnât stop himself from finally turning his head just enough to catch it.
âAye,â you began, voice lilting, edged in that cadence heâd already memorized. âIâŚ, I cherished it greatly.â
And then you were off.
âThe scents!â Your hands moved slightly, as though to gather them from the air. âNever have I walked amidst such a tide of smells. The smoke of burning stone, sharp and stinging; the sweetness of roasted corn in paper wrappings; the oil of metal-beasts that roar and prowl. Each breath was a feast! Each turning of the wind, another tale carried to mine ears.â
Jason let out a breath that might have been a laugh, faint, but he didnât interrupt.
âAnd the sounds,â you went on, eyes bright as stars. âThe beating heart of this Gotham never slumbers. âTis a song of beasts! I heard the calls of hounds, sharp and joyous; the low grumble of alley-cats brawling over scraps; even the flutter of wingsâoh, how long it has been since mine ears were filled with the chorus of the small ones! To hear their voices again, high and quick, darting in the skyâit made mine own heart stir.â
Your head tilted, ears twitching ever so slightly, catching sounds Jason barely noticed anymore.
âAnd the beasts of metal!â you exclaimed, awe lacing your words. âThy cars, thy iron steeds, thy thundering cycles that roar like dragons and yet bear mortals upon their backs! At first I quailed, for their might is fearsome⌠yet now I look upon them and wonder if they too are kin of steel, with hearts of fire and bellies of smoke.â
Jason leaned forward just a little, bracing his chin against his hand, elbow propped against the armrest. His eyes softened in spite of himself, watching you describe the same damn traffic heâd cursed every day of his life like it was some epic wonder.
âAnd the Ice cream,â you said suddenly, voice dipping almost reverent. âThe chilled cream of many flavors⌠gods above, Jason, thou didst see how my eyes widened! Cold, smooth, sweet as moonlight poured upon the tongue. Each bite a new delight. I know not how thou mortals live without singing hymns of praise to this ice of cream!â
Jason huffed, lips tugging at the corner, but still didnât interrupt.
âAnd the green!â Your voice lifted again, bright, eager. âWith its winding paths and tall trees. I beheld the color of life once more. Green leaves, grass beneath my feet, the rustle of branches in the wind. To tread there was to recall the forests of mine own home. A fragment, ayeâbut enough to ease the ache of memory.â
You paused, chest rising with the weight of your words, and for a heartbeat you were quiet. Then your eyes shone once more, gaze fixed somewhere far away.
âJason,â you murmured, softer now. âThy Gotham is wondrous. Harsh perhaps as you say, aye⌠But alive. Fiercely alive. And to stand amidst its cacophony, its scents, its breathâI felt⌠not alone.â
The last words fell quieter than the rest, carried on the hush of Crookâs wings as the little bird shifted.
Jason sat there, his head resting against his fist, eyes on you. The corners of his mouth curved in the faintest smile, one he didnât even realize had formed. Small. Subtle. Gone if you blinked.
But it was there.
Because for once, the weight of Gotham wasnât crushing him.Â
For once, the noise didnât sound like chaosâit sounded like wonder, because thatâs how you painted it. For once, Jason Todd, the broken, bitter Red Hood, sat in silence not because he had nothing left to say, but because heâd found something worth listening to.
You.
And as you went on, words tumbling over each other, painting the city in colors heâd long since stopped seeing, Jason just let himself lean back, close his eyes halfway, and listen. The faint smile lingered.
Because in all the noise, in all the mess, you were the only thing that gave him peace.
Next Chapter 12




