#dnd reader

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

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.

Not…

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 didn’t flinch at the wind. Didn’t 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.

“Bird’s got a death wish,” Jason muttered, eyes narrowing behind the red lenses of his helmet.

Crook cooed, slow and nonchalant — like he agreed but wasn’t 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 — short, shaky, and very, very close.

Oh — and your tail?

It was wrapped around his ankle.

At first, he hadn’t noticed. Then he tried shifting his foot and nearly drove into a mailbox.

“What the—?!” 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.

“This is insane,” he muttered, jerking the bike onto a side street. “This is so far past insane.”

But the pièce de résistance?

Your horns.

They’d scraped against his helmet at least six times now.

At first it was subtle — 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 — maybe an apology, maybe a prayer.

“Okay,” he muttered to himself. “So I’ve 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.”

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, you’d had the guts to summon a literal bird to chat about the city.

Who was this woman?

Another bump — another horn tap.

Jason exhaled sharply.

“Lady,” he called over the engine, “I swear if you chip my helmet—”

“It is not my intention!” your voice called back, distressed. “I am very much holding on for my life!”

Another bump.

Scrape.

“…Yeah. I noticed.”

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 — a flinch maybe, when he hit a rough patch of road — 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 — and now it was all flattened firmly against his back armor. Jason clenched his jaw.

His grip on the throttle tightened.

Don’t you fucking think about it. 

The smooth curve of your body, the warmth of your chest molded against him, even through his suit—

“Focus on the road, Hood,” he growled to himself through gritted teeth. “Don’t die because of boobs. That’s not how you go out.”

You shifted again, clearly trying to stay stable — 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.

“Don’t judge me,” 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 — a little sigh, followed by a whispered, “Forgive me, warrior… I am most unpracticed in taming such violent beasts of iron and fire.”

Jason blinked. Violent beast of iron and—? Oh. The bike.

“It’s a motorcycle,” he said, loud enough for you to hear.

“My apologies… this ‘cycle’ doth snarl like a wyvern with a stone in its talon.”

Jason snorted before he could stop himself. “Wyvern. Right.”

You pressed even closer.

Jason stared straight ahead, absolutely not reacting.

“Are… are you alright?” 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.

“Peachy,” 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 Crook’s feathers.

You yelped and clung tighter.

Jason’s helmet knocked forward a bit. Scrape. Scrape.

“God—” He let out a breath like a volcano that needed therapy. “Almost there. Just hold on.”

You nodded against him, voice soft and a little dreamy: “I… I am grateful, kind knight.”

Jason’s 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 — 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 — which, thankfully, was broad and solid — 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 — oh gods, your body— You were far from composed.

Your bosom, ample and heavy from your kind’s generous form, had flattened firmly to the man’s 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 — at some point — latched fully to his sides.

“By the stars,” you whispered, “I shall never ride such a beast again…”

The man — Jason, you recalled — 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.

“Please, great warrior,” you choked out, “may this torment end swiftly…”

You felt him stiffen.

“...or I shall surely perish of dread and shattered dignity both.”

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.

“What manner of realm is this…?” 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 — and now lap — 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 him…

The world continued to blur.

Not through tears — though surely, you were not far from weeping — 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 city’s steel veins.

You were quite certain your soul had left your body at least twice already.

“By the antlers of the Elder Stag,” you whispered breathlessly, your voice lost to the roar of wind and machine, “by the moss-woven throne of the Forest Queen—if I survive this madness, I shall never step foot on another of these cursed wheeled demons.”

The man—Jason—said 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.

Jason—said 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. 

You felt your heart lurch. You felt your horns scrape lightly against the back of his helm.

Again.

Gods help you, again.

“Crook!” Jason suddenly barked, clearly not to you. “If you peck my damn jacket one more time—!”

You blinked in confusion—your eyes still closed—then 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.

“Stupid rat-with-wings… You got feathers in my damn visor. Know what I'm going to do, I'm gonna turn you into soup.”

You gasped. “He is only a humble creature of the sky!”

“Yeah? Well the humble creature of the sky just took a dump on my throttle hand!”

You would’ve laughed if you weren’t too busy contemplating death. As it stood, you merely let out a strained sound—half whimper, half broken prayer—and 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.

“Please,” you whispered, voice nearly lost to the rushing wind, “Oh 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 turn…”

Jason let out a sound—perhaps a grunt, perhaps a scoff—and shifted slightly beneath you. You took the movement as a terrible sign and braced harder.

“You know I can hear you, right?” he shouted over his shoulder, voice wry. “Mushrooms?”

You flushed, horror washing over you.

You had spoken aloud.

All of it.

Still clinging, you hissed through your clenched fangs, “You were not meant to hear my oaths! That was a sacred entreaty to the forces of nature!”

“Well tell the forces of nature,” Jason growled, swerving around something with expert precision, “that you’re squashing the circulation out of my ribs.”

You gasped and tried to loosen your grip. Immediately, the wind roared past your face harder, and you clamped down again.

Jason groaned. “Great. Back to koala mode.”

“I do not know what a ko-ah-la is,” you chattered, voice thin with panic, “but if it is a creature that clings in mortal terror to something it cannot understand, then yes. I am such a beast.”

Another irritated pigeon-squawk echoed faintly ahead, followed by Jason snapping, “Crook! I swear if you fucking shit on me again—!”

“I shall knit you a new tunic!” you cried over the wind, hoping to salvage peace between the man and bird. “One of woven vines and blessed moss!”

“Lady,” Jason shouted back, “unless it’s bulletproof, I don’t want it.”

You buried your face into his shoulder with a pitiful groan, your tail twitching as the monster-machine slowed.

At last—finally—the beast’s 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.

“We're here,” he said flatly.

You opened your eyes fully, blinking against the light of a distant flickering lantern.

“We… live?” you whispered in disbelief.

He snorted.

“Yeah. For now. You gonna let go, or you wanna stay glued to my spine the whole time?”

You felt it.

Air

Not the kind that rushed you and made you pray for safety.

 Real, unmoving, blessed calm air — 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. “Thy mistress hath endured a grave peril… but still she draws breath.”

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 seat—

And collapsed.

Crook let out little coos as he continued to stay perched on the red beast. 

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 wind’s screeching cry.

You were, to put it plainly… undone.

"Oh blessed Mother of the Moonlit Canopy…" you groaned as you pressed your forehead to the earth. "Oh Windfather… Root-Keeper… Flame-Watcher... or whate’er divine ears may hear me—thank 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. Just—just never again allow me upon such a cursed creature as that."

You heard a low scoff above you.

Then, flatly: “You done?”

You peeled open one eye. Jason stood beside the demon-borne steed — helmet still on, arms crossed, stance relaxed in that infuriating way of his. As though the tempest you’d 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."

“Good,” Jason muttered. “Because this is the part where normal people get up.”

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 you’d 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.

“…Are you serious right now?” he asked, somewhere between exasperated and tired.

You cringed and bowed your head.

“I… I beg thy pardon,” you murmured. “Mine legs… betray me. It seems the fear hath rooted itself deeper than I knew.”

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.

“You’re telling me you survived flying over Gotham’s skyline, clinging to me like a backpack, while the feathered menace, molested my visor and shit all over… and now you can’t walk?”

“…That is an accurate summation, aye,” you said, mortified. “I—I am grievously sorry for the trouble, sir knight.”

You flinched again as Jason sighed deeply. For a moment, he was quiet.

And then — with startling suddenness — 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 — 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 — not even in your youth, when your people saw such displays as indulgent. Yet now…

Now, this mortal warrior of leather and metal cradled you with ease.

“You were never gonna make it up the stairs,” he muttered, his voice low and irritated, though there was no heat behind it. “You weigh less than my gear bag, anyway.”

You were certain your face flushed violet.

“I—I assure thee, I am stronger than I appear. I am simply… momentarily undone.”

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.

“Yeah,” Jason said dryly. “Undone. That’s the word for it.”

You pressed your hands awkwardly to your chest, trying to steady your hammering heart.

“I am deeply shamed to burden thee thus. I… I did not mean to become so feeble.”

Jason’s grip shifted slightly as he adjusted your weight, making the climb up the stairs without strain.

“Relax. Not like you’re the weirdest thing I’ve ever carried.”

You blinked. “I beg thy pardon?”

“Had to haul Killer Croc’s tail outta the East End once. You? You’re a pillow compared to that.”

“…Who is this Killer of Crocs?” you asked, eyes wide. “Did he offend thee with his garments?”

Jason gave a soft snort of laughter.

“Something like that.”

You, dizzy and flushed from warmth, fear, and shame, dared to rest your head gently against his chest.

“I vow,” you whispered softly, “that 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.”

Jason said nothing for a moment.

Then, with a shrug: “Sure. Just don’t put mushrooms in it.”

You give the red helmed man a gentle smile. 

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 — slitted and luminous in the darkness — 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.

“Oh—!” you breathed, ears flicking upright. “Wait, kind sir—my staff! I—I left it by the cursed beast!”

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.

“I’ll grab it when I come back down,” he said. “Right now, you and I need to get out of the streets.”

Your ears flattened with shame, and you gave a small, embarrassed nod.

“I… aye. I trust in thy word. Forgive me. The staff is precious to me — 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.”

Jason blinked once beneath his helmet, probably having understood only two of those words, then gave a grunt of reluctant acknowledgment.

“Yeah. Glen of Glitter-what-the-hell. Got it.”

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 — 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, “Yeah yeah, you’re so brave.”

Jason looks at your face for a moment before speaking once more. 

“Then again Crook wasn’t clinging to me and praying to mushrooms.”

You flushed and narrowed your eyes.

“I was not ‘praying’ to mushrooms, I merely prayed for safety to the spirits and deities of nature.”

“Uh-huh,” Jason said dryly, adjusting his grip on you without even breaking stride. “Sounded more like a whole lot like screaming and horn-bonking to me.”

“I wailed in accordance with ancient custom!” you said, indignant despite yourself. “To cry out is to honor the ancestors in times of dire peril!”

“You’re welcome, then. I gave ‘em a concert.”

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 he’d 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 — though gruff, sharp-edged — 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 crow’s perch. Beneath you, Gotham’s 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 — with one quiet step — 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 Jason’s arms, stared wide-eyed at it all.

"This… this is thy dwelling?” 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.

“For now,” he said simply. “It’s nothing fancy but it's something at least.”

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 — something real.

You looked up at him, blinking.

“…You have my thanks.”

He gave a grunt and stood back up.

“I’ll go grab your stick.”

“Staff,” you corrected faintly, already curling into the throw blanket Crook had now commandeered.

“Whatever.”

And with that, Jason was gone again — 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 POV 

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. “Should’ve just gone to the manor like Alfred asked. At least then I’d only be dealing with Bruce’s passive-aggressive silence and not—whatever the fuck this is.”

Jason groaned, scowling at his own words. “Don’t be that guy, Todd. She’s injured.... Might not even be into humans.”

Finally at the last step and rounding the corner and stepping into the alley where his bike rested, he finally spotted her staff — 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 who’d 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 — at least, he hoped was a crystal — pulsed faintly as it was warped by limbs of the bark, embedded like bruised stars in bark. 

Jason gave it a slow blink. “...The hell am I looking at?”

Jason cautiously reached out and picked the staff up. It was surprisingly light, yet warm to the touch — 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.

“Nope. Nope.” Jason pulled it back like it might bite him. “Okay. This thing’s alive. Great. Of course it is.”

He tilted it side to side, examining it closer. One side looked like the handle of a wizard’s 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 priest’s murder stick. It was... it was...

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “It’s like Gandalf and Poison Ivy had a baby. And that baby dropped acid.”

A spark of red flickered near the top, and Jason instinctively recoiled.

He pointed at it. “You do anything weird in my apartment, you’re going in the dumpster, you hear me?”

The staff didn’t respond.

Of course it didn’t.

It was a stick.

Sort of.

He twirled it slightly, testing its balance. “Light. Flexible. Could probably beat the shit out of someone with it. Guess that’s a plus.”

With a final glance down the alley to make sure he wasn’t 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 — 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.

“I’ve got a pigeon with an attitude problem, a blue girl who speaks like she’s been summoned from a damn Renaissance fair, and a sentient stick that probably judges my Spotify playlist. I hate tonight. I hate tonight.”

The wind picked up as he reached the balcony again, brushing through the crimson tufts on his helmet. Crook — that little traitorous bird — was nestled comfortably on the druid girl’s shoulder, chirping like he owned the place.

Jason scowled. “Great. You made yourself at home.”

Crook gave a low, unimpressed coo and turned his back.

Jason held up the staff. “You forgot your overgrown toothpick.”

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. “There. Now try not to pass out.”

The staff purred when it touched her fingers.

Jason took a step back.

“I need a drink.”

Y/N POV

Jason then sighed heavily as he turned toward the adjoining space he had named “the kitchen.”

You knew not what a “kitchen” 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 he’d called a “couch.” 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 it—your 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 lips—though your fangs ached from clenching them earlier—and 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 gem—the 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 rhythm—ancient, wild, and ineffably yours.

“My friend,” 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 staff’s roots. He gave an inquisitive chirrup, head tilting, then bent to tap his beak against the glowing gem.

“Tread gently, dear Crook,” you said, your voice still hoarse from pain but tinged now with fondness. “It is bound to me, however it’s power may yet startle thee.”

Crook puffed up his feathers indignantly, as if affronted by the suggestion he might be startled by anything. “I was just chekin it out doll,” he replied with an exaggerated fluff, his voice a soft whistle in your mind. “It’s hummin... Like a bee or somethin.. Is that normal.”

You chuckled, breath catching slightly at the motion, and placed a hand gently over your middle. “Aye. it sings again, now that it hath returned to my side.”

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.

“Gotta say, this nest is weird,” Crook commented. “Everything smells... stale, and burned.”

“‘Tis likely due to the fire-wrought lanterns,” you murmured. “The light here burns without wick nor flame. I know not how the mortals of this land have managed such feats, but they are resourceful—if mad.”

Crook let out a soft, amused warble, his beak clicking against the wood. “So... we stayin here with the Mr tin head?”

You sighed, allowing your head to tilt back against the couch. “Mayhap. 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 .”

Crook fluffed himself proudly. “ He's got issues... But I like his threads. Shiny. Reflects the sky… Still the dude seems weird.”

You smiled, eyes drifting closed for a moment. “Aye. 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.”

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 bones—just a trickle, but enough to ease your breathing and lift the fog behind your eyes.

“I pray this sanctuary is true,” you whispered to the staff, to the gem, to the unseen spirits who had guided you across realms. “Let me rest without blade or fire at my throat.”

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.

Jason’s voice echoed distantly from the kitchen—a curse, a clang of metal, and what sounded like a loud gulp. You suspected he was consuming one of the realm’s strange elixirs—perhaps from that cold, humming box.

Your ears twitch as you hear movements and you turn your face toward the sound. 

Jason. 

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.

“What is that?” you asked softly, voice still slightly hoarse from the pain and exertion of the evening. “It reeks of… potionless alchemy and strange salves.”

“It’s a first-aid kit,” Jason replied without looking up. His tone was dry but not unkind. “It’s got stuff for patching people up. Antibiotic ointment, gauze, antiseptics.”

Your brows knit. “Anti... biotic? That sounds as though it wars against life itself.”

“Close enough,” 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 sun—pale, but not sickly. Upon his brow and just between his dark brows rested a faint scar, like a mark from a story you’d 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 attention—a 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 white—strange and enchanting—fell 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 canopy—but 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 hadn’t even realized your hand had moved until it touched him.

Your claws—dulled, though still curved elegantly at your fingertips—curled 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:

“…Thou art… beautiful.”

There was a beat of silence. Crook made a surprised little noise, something between a squawk and a strange burp.

Jason blinked.

Your clawed fingers—careful, reverent—were 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.

“By the stars,” you murmured breathlessly, “I had not realized mortals in this realm could be wrought with such artistry.”

His eyebrows twitched upward, and for a moment Jason looked genuinely bewildered. Then his lip curled, the smirk slow and sardonic. “Is this how you greet everyone from where you’re from?” he asked, voice low and rough from the ride. “Grabbing their face and ogling them like a statue in a museum?”

You blinked, reality returning all at once. Your hands shot away from his face like you’d touched a coal. “Oh! I—pray forgive mine overfamiliarity!” you said, ears drooping in shame. “I did not mean to transgress thy person. I was… thou art… exceedingly comely, and I was momentarily bewitched.”

Jason laughed. Not a harsh one, but low and genuinely amused, the sound rasping from his chest like gravel shifting underfoot.

“‘Bewitched,’ huh?” He shook his head, bemused. “You’re a weird one.”

“I am a Tiefling,” you replied earnestly, “we are oft called worse.”

He only gave a faint snort at that, opening the small white box—some strange Gothamian contraption—and 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.

“What is that?” you asked, eyes narrowing warily. “It doth smell like the bile of a wyvern…”

“It’s just the antiseptic,” he said, already pulling a piece of cloth from the box and soaking it. “Disinfectant. Gonna clean you up a bit. You’ve still got blood dried along your side.”

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.

“You touchin’ the pretty boy now, huh?” the pigeon snickered. “He's one’s got a nice face, I’ll give ya that. Can’t blame ya.”

You eye the pigeon on your staff. 

“Crook the way of your tongue is very strange.” 

Crook let out a soft coo as his thoughts flood yours. “Born and raised in Gotham, baby,” Crook replied with a puff of his feathers. “We all talk too much. Even the rats curse you out when you step too close.”

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.

“This the worst of it?” he asked.

“Aye,” you said, voice quieter now. “Before 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.”

Jason’s eyes flicked to yours. “Your magic can.. Do that ?”

“I am a druid,” you said, lifting your chin slightly with pride. “Though my powers are diminished slightly with my wounds, my bond with the earth and it's rhythms remains.”

Jason let out a slow breath and began to dab gently at the drying blood on your side. “Well… Not the strangest thing as far as Gotham goes.”

“Truly?”

“Nope.” Jason was quiet for a moment, his fingers surprisingly gentle as he cleaned the wound.

You watched him through half-lidded eyes. “Forgive me for asking but… dost thou always carry such items in thine home?” You nodded to the med kit. “Art thou a healer of some sort?”

Jason scoffed. “Not even close. Just… been in enough fights to know what to have on hand.”

Crook flapped his wings briefly and muttered in your mind, “By the way broddy acts, thats an understatement of the year.”

You looked at the strange little box with a thoughtful hum. “Mayhap I should replenish my satchel… If I am to endure more of these Gothamian perils.”

Jason arched an eyebrow. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

Your tail flicks behind you as you reply to him.

“I shall endeavor to stay out of harm’s path,” you replied solemnly. “Though harm seems determined to find me regardless.”

Jason didn’t argue with that. His eyes flicked to your face again—drawn, 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.

“You’ll be alright,” he said. “Just… don’t go passing out.”

“I make no promises,” you said wryly. “Your strange realm yet turns my stomach and rends my senses. ‘Tis like being struck repeatedly with invisible hammers.”

Jason gave a snort of something between sympathy and amusement.

“I’ll be back. Stay there.”

You nodded. “I am not keen to rise again anyway.”

As he stood and walked toward the hall, Crook fluffed himself up on your staff and muttered, “You gonna kiss him next time?”

Your cheeks flushed violet. “Silence, Crook!”

“I’m just sayin Doll... You gotta admit, 'Thou are beautiful' sounds like a kiss watin to happen.” 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. 

He had no idea what time it was anymore—late, 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 wouldn’t 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 find—gray, thick, freshly washed—and then hesitated. 

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 “goddess emerging from a sexy fantasy game” and more “I won’t catch a chill in this freezing apartment.”

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 shirts—well, 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. 

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. 

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 kitchen—probably 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 arms—and nearly dropped the whole damn thing.

There she was, exactly where he’d 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 it— 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 pain—but she smiled when she saw him.

“Sir Jason” She called out cheerily. 

He tried not to look directly at her chest as he spoke. “Brought you a shirt,” he said, holding it out like it might bite him. “Thought maybe you’d want something less… uh, ancient temple chic.”

She blinked at it, gently taking the offering in clawed hands, turning it over curiously. “’Tis… not a tunic?” she asked, lifting it like it was some strange fabric riddle. “Soft… but strange of cut.”

“It’s just a shirt. You can wear it to sleep or whatever. It’ll be long on you, but… yeah.”

She nodded solemnly and folded it over her arm like it was sacred. “I shall treasure it.”

God, he hoped she didn’t mean that literally. It was just cotton. Like, Target clearance bin level stuff.

Jason rubbed the back of his neck. “I, uh… I’ll give you a minute if you wanna change.”

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, ‘You gonna watch’.

Jason narrowed his eyes at the bird. “I’m leaving.” He turned and walked toward the kitchen again, letting Y/N have the space. 

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.

“She’s gonna be the death of me,” he muttered.

From the living room, he heard her soft voice: “Sir Jason?”

“Yeah?”

“I believe… I have successfully don’d the cotton tunic of thine people.”

Jason shakes his head and sighs and takes a slow sip of the water. 

He puts the water down and when he turns he nearly spits the water out of his mouth at the sight of you. 

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 wasn’t the part that threw him—he 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, and—Jason dragged his eyes away—the generous curve of your cleavage where the shirt hung low. 

The hem nearly reaching your knees, but the way it clung to your body, the fabric pulled slightly over your hips from how you sat—hell, he felt like he’d walked onto the cover shoot of some medieval fantasy pin-up calendar.

He cleared his throat—sharply—and made a beeline for the coffee table, tossing the folded blanket onto it. “Alright, Sleeping Beauty,” he muttered, avoiding your eyes. “You look like you’re about to pass out. Time for bed.”

You tilted your head at him, blinking slowly, a soft yawn escaping you as you rubbed your eyes. “Bed…?” you echoed sleepily.

Jason nodded. “Yep... Your taking my room, it's just down the hall, You need real rest and couch of yours truly sucks.”

"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. “Thou wouldst have me sleep within thy chamber?”

"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.

“Nay… I could not ask thee to forfeit thine own resting place upon mine account. I shall sleep here.”

Jason paused.

Counted to three.

Then spoke.

“I’m sorry but you seem to be confused here. I’m not asking. I’m telling you. Couch. Sucks. You’re not sleeping on it, end of story.”

You straightened, blinking at him. “But thou hast suffered a great many wounds to thine own pride and body this eve. Surely—”

“I’ve had worse,” Jason cut in, throwing up a hand. “And I’ve crashed on worse. I slept on a concrete slab in a warehouse in Jakarta once. This? This is fine.”

Your eyes narrowed, indignant. “If thou thinkest me some fragile blossom to be coddled—”

“Oh my god,” Jason muttered, running a hand down his face. “It’s not about coddling—it’s about logic. You’re the one who got yeeted by a portal and landed on me bleeding to death.”

“Yeeted?” 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. “Point is—you’re the one with magic rib bruises. You need a bed.”

You stood up—well, rose gracefully like some kind of moon priestess with zero concept of personal space—and 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.

“Then let us barter, o armored one,” you declared, hands folded before you. “I propose we share the bed. Surely it must be large enough—”

Jason made a sound so offended it could’ve passed for a dying animal. “Absolutely not.”

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.

“I insist,” you said firmly, tail flicking. “This is thy abode. I am but a guest, lost and stranded within thine realm. I could not usurp thine comfort.”

Jason threw his arms up. “It’s not usurping!” he cried, and for a moment he truly felt like he was losing a court trial. “It’s called being a decent person! You’re hurt, I’m not! You take the bed!”

“Then let me repay thy kindness by allowing me the couch.”

“That’s not happ—”

“Then once more I offer the previous proposition!”

Jason groaned and gestured at the hallway. “Go. To. Bed.”

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. “Nay,” you said, chin lifted defiantly.

“Nay?” Jason echoed, baffled. “Did you seriously just ‘nay’ me?”

“I did, indeed.”

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 wasn’t 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. “...you’re doing that on purpose,” he muttered under his breath.

From behind him, your voice floated softly through the dark. “I do naught but rest. If my tail offends, take it up with the gods who made me thus.”

Jason’s eye twitched.

He glanced toward the nightstand. Crook was there, already asleep, head tucked under one wing, looking like the world’s most judgmental paperweight.

“Little bastard.” Jason grumbled.

You sighed, a soft, weary sound. “I do not comprehend how a mattress so grand may still feel as though it is carved of stone.”

Jason scoffed. “That’s probably just your ribs. You hit the roof like a wrecking ball.”

“And yet thou art the one who curses and fidgets like a man atop nails.”

“I’m not fidgeting,” Jason hissed. “You keep whipping me with your tail.”

“My tail is not under my control whilst I dream,” you huffed. “Blame thine proximity.”

Jason turned his head slightly—just enough to glare into the darkness. “Maybe if someone had let me take the couch like a reasonable person—”

“Silence you stubborn fool of a man and sleep.” 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 tail—traitorous, smug little thing—drifted again. Light as a whisper, it brushed against his side. His ribs jerked in surprise.

“Seriously?!” he hissed.

A long pause.

Then a sleepy murmur from your side. “Perchance the tail likes thee. It acts of its own will, oft led by instinct…”

Jason blinked at the ceiling, his face burning. “You’re telling me your tail has a mind of its own?”

You gave a drowsy hum. “Aye. Much like thine own pride, methinks…”

He glared into the dark again. “Was that an insult?”

“I am far too tired to insult thee properly,” 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 him—your strange scent like moss and moonlight, the way your body curved softly beneath his shirt—it was doing things to his brain.

Jason groaned and rolled back toward the wall. “I’m never going to sleep,” he muttered.

From behind him: “Then perhaps I shall cast a spell of slumber upon thee.”

Jason chuckled softly. “Is that a real thing?”

“‘Tis possible,” you said vaguely, already halfway to dreamland.

Jason sighed. 

The room quiet again.

Your tail had stilled.

Your breathing had deepened. 

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 wasn’t 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.

“…Hey,” he murmured quietly, not turning his head.

A pause, then your voice drifted up behind him, husky with the edge of sleep. “Mm?”

“How is it…” He hesitated. “How’s it comfortable? Sleeping. With horns.”

Another pause.

Then you exhaled slowly, voice soft and matter-of-fact.

“Mayhap thou shouldst ask thyself how it is comfortable to sleep without them.”

Jason blinked.

You continued, faintly amused, “For thee, ‘tis 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 me—as thine skull is to thee.”

Jason stared at the ceiling, lips twitching slightly. “…Fair point.”

“‘Tis no great mystery,” you added. “My kind rest easy in such forms. We do not jab ourselves with our own heads in the night.”

Jason tried not to chuckle. “Didn’t say you did.”

“Mmm.”

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.

“…Okay but—” he turned his head just slightly, voice thick with near-sleep, “how the hell did you get that shirt over your head?”

Behind him, a quiet beat.

Then:

“…Sleep now, mortal.”

Jason smirked into his pillow.

“Right.”

A soft flick of your tail brushed his calf.

He let out a long breath… and finally, finally let himself drift.

Jason Todd POV — Hours later

The quiet hum of the city bled faintly through the thin apartment walls. Somewhere below, a car alarm shrieked, then died. 

Gotham never slept—only 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. 

He’d already gone over his weapons twice—checked, cleaned, loaded, and reloaded—but habit demanded a third time. Ritual wasn’t just comfort; it was control. And control was something he didn’t get to have often.

The cool metal of the gun felt right in his palm—familiar, 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. 

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 he’d ever been at all.

The bed remained unmade, sheets tangled from last night’s chaos, as neither of you made the bed during the day. 

And as Jason looked at the messy sheet he could still picture it—

The moment he’d snapped out of it. 

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. 

And Jason clenches his fists and takes a breath not wanting to go down that path—

As he lets his breath out he looks around the small space that is his room. 

Really looked, taking in the space around him.

It wasn’t the same barren cell it used to be.

Yeah, the bones of it were still there—the cracked mirror leaning crooked against the wall, the scarred dresser, the faint smell of detergent mixed with dust—but his sparse corner of the world had begun to change in small, quiet ways. 

Subtle enough that if you didn’t live here, you’d miss them.

A thin shirt—yours— on the ground, the pale fabric catching what little light there was. 

A coil of soft fur clung to the rug near the bed. 

Claw and hoof marks, thin but there on the floor nonetheless showing marks of your other forms as you wandered his apartment. 

Thin scratches on the door handle and walls from your clawed fingers. 

All little signs that you were there….

And not just you. 

On the nightstand, right beside his battered copy of The Count of Monte Cristo, lay a feather.

Crook’s.

One of many that were scattered all over his home. 

Jason shakes his head and continues to look around. 

And his eyes narrowed as they focused on one thing. 

One very specific thing.

The mirror. 

The familiar photo that hung tucked on the side of the mirror that always seemed to mock Jason. 

A single, frayed image that somehow survived all his attempts to burn the past.

Back when things made sense. 

Back when he still believed he could be something. 

Before the grave. 

Before the crowbar. 

Before coming back wrong.

He stared for a long time, jaw tightening, something sharp and bitter coiling in his chest.

Until finally—

He turned away and strode out of the room roughly yanking the door open.

And as he walked through he didn’t slam the door.

He would take his anger out on the scum rather than his home. 

And as Jason continued to stride the anger under his skin bubbled and simmered.

The anger wasn’t loud—it was a quiet rage, heavy like a stone sinking in his gut. 

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. 

And finally when he made it to the end of the hall you stood by the sliding glass door.

Waiting. 

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 Jason’s arrival.

Jason stopped for a second in the doorway. 

He didn’t know why. 

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 didn’t 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. “Thy armor, ser,” you said softly, tone half teasing, half reverent.

Jason’s gaze met yours through the dim. He didn’t answer right away. His throat felt tight—he 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. “Thou art ready, then?”

“Always am,” 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 life—HUD 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 didn’t hesitate. Didn’t question. Didn’t 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. “Go then, and return whole. I shall keep thy hearth warm.”

Jason tilted his head slightly, visor gleaming. “Don’t stay up late,” he said. The words came out gruff but quiet. 

A ritual now. 

One he’d meant once, but you never followed.

Your fanged smile widened slightly. “I make no promises.”

He almost laughed…. Almost.

The corner of his helmet dipped in acknowledgment, and then he turned, sliding open the balcony door. 

The night air rushed in—cold, 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. 

The night swallowed him whole.

Below, his bike waited. 

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 channels—police chatter, emergency bands, the constant static heartbeat of Gotham’s chaos. He flicked them off with a sharp motion. Tonight, he wasn’t 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 engine’s 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 gone—cutting 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 Gotham’s veins—past 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. 

His.

And as the rain began to fall in thin silver lines, Jason’s thoughts flickered briefly—to 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 didn’t deserve any of it. Not the memory. Not the care.

But for now, he had purpose.

Red Hood didn’t need peace. 

Didn’t need forgiveness.

Just the job. 

The mission. 

The message.

And tonight’s message would be clear: Gotham belonged to him.

He gunned the throttle, and the bike roared beneath him like a living beast—low, 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 Gotham—smog, 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. “You there, Tim?”

A crackle of static, then a breathless voice answered, “Yeah, I’m here. En route now. Almost there.”

Jason’s jaw tightened. “You’d better be alone and on time, Drake. I mean it.”

He didn’t wait for the response. He cut the comm dead, his thumb jabbing the switch with finality. 

The line went silent, and for a moment all he could hear was the howl of the wind and the bike’s engine beneath him.

“Christ,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. “Im a fucking idiot.”

How many times had he said it?

How many times had he sworn—sworn—that he was done with this kind of shit? 

No more capes. 

No more Bat-family circus. 

No more being dragged into other people’s messes.

He’d built his own rules, his own territory, his own way of doing things. 

Gotham’s underworld was his—its filth, its chaos, its violence. He was the law here, the only one that mattered.

And yet… here he was.

Doing exactly what he’d promised himself he’d 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.

“Every damn time,” he growled, voice lost to the roar of the wind. “Every fucking time they pull me back in.”

Time Skip Few Moments Later 

Finally after a bit more speeding… Jason Arrived. 

He carefully pulled up to the mouth of the alley, engine purring low before he cut it entirely. 

He rolled the bike into the shadows and set it behind a half-collapsed fence, hidden from view. 

His boots hit the ground with a solid thud, and he scanned the street.

The alley off 43rd and Kingsley wasn’t much to look at—then again, most of his stomping grounds weren't. 

A cracked artery between the city’s 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 didn’t need witnesses.

Jason adjusted his jacket, checking the weight of his holsters—tight, loaded, ready. 

Then, without a word, he scaled a fire escape, the metal creaking faintly under his weight. 

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 was—and how small most people were inside it.

Jason smirked under his helmet, the sound low and humorless. “My shithole,” he muttered. “Every goddamn inch of it.”

The HUD in his visor flickered, scanning the streets, tagging movement, heat signatures, distant sound. He didn’t really need it, but it was habit now—like checking for knives before turning a corner. 

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 all—

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 wandered—to places he didn’t like. 

To memories that never stayed buried.

Then the clock flipped.

11:00 PM.

And As Jason huffed an annoyed breath his eyes caught something—

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. 

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. 

His suit was dark, armor fitted and light—sleeker than the old Robin design, more dramatic.

More than that….

It was more red. 

(what Tim wears as red robin) 

Jason’s 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 “Damn it, I rush and he isn't even here.”

Jason narrows his eyes and drops down from the roof without a sound, landing behind him in a crouch. 

The impact cracked the air with a dull thud.

Tim flinched, spinning around instantly.

“Jesus,” he gasped. “You—”

“You’re late,” Jason said flatly, voice filtered and metallic through the helmet.

Tim opened his mouth, fumbling for words. “Yeah, traffic was—”

Jason raised a hand, cutting him off. “Not interested.”

Tim shut his mouth.

Jason stepped in closer—too close—and before the kid could react, he grabbed him by the collar and spun him around, pressing him hard against the wall. 

His hands were rough but methodical, patting down Tim’s arms, sides, legs, waist.

“Hey—”

“Shut it.”

Jason’s voice was pure ice. His gloved fingers moved with precision—checking for wires, transmitters, trackers, anything that screamed Bat-tech interference.

Tim didn’t fight him, but Jason could feel the kid’s 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. “You done?”

Jason tilted his head slightly, the faint red glow from the helmet catching the edge of Tim’s face. “For now.”

The tension hung heavy in the air between them—thick, electric, sharp enough to cut. It filled the narrow space between brick walls and the distant hum of Gotham’s pulse, a rhythm Jason knew better than his own heartbeat.

He gave Tim one last glance—hard, calculating—and then turned away, the servos in his armor whispering faintly with every motion. 

His boots crunched on the gravel as he crouched and launched himself up, scaling back up the wall. 

Tim didn’t move.

Not at first.

Jason could hear him down below, still catching his breath. The kid was in over his head and knew it. 

Good. 

Maybe that’d keep him quiet for five goddamn minutes.

“DRAKE.”

The barked name echoed down the alleyway like a gunshot.

Tim startled—Jason could hear it, feel it even through the static of the comm link—and stammered, “S-sorry!”

Jason rolled his eyes behind the helmet. “Jesus, kid. If your gonna piss over everything then this is fucking pointless.”

Tapping his foot impatiently he waited for the boy.

Finally after a few seconds, Tim finally scrambled up after him.

Jason didn’t turn to help him. 

The kid could climb; Bruce made sure of that no doubt.

When Tim’s boots hit the edge of the roof, Jason spun around so fast it startled him.

Tim’s foot caught on the edge, and he nearly slipped backward. 

Jason’s 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. 

Not enough to kill someone… unless they landed wrong.

Jason leaned in close, the mirrored red of his visor inches from Tim’s wide, startled eyes.

“Rule time, bird boy.”

Tim stiffened. “…What?”

“You wanted my help, right? So here's the deal. You come crawling to Red Hood, you play by Red Hood’s rules.” 

Jason’s voice dropped low—gravel, steel, and venom all rolled into one. “You don’t like it, you can take your pretty gadgets and fly the fuck home.”

He gave the front of Tim’s suit a little shake, just to punctuate it. 

The kid looked ready to pass out.

“Rule number one.” Jason’s tone hardened. “You don’t 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 can’t put in the ground. I see scum, I clean house. That’s how it works. You don’t like it? Tough shit.”

Tim swallowed hard but didn’t answer.

Jason’s grip loosened slightly and Tim gasped a bit. “Rule number two—” He jabbed a gloved finger into Tim’s chestplate with his free hand. “You don’t play hero. I don’t need a sidekick tripping over his own damn cape. You can’t handle what’s coming, you step back. Simple as that.”

Tim’s jaw tightened. 

He wanted to say something, Jason could tell.

But he didn’t give him the chance.

“Rule number three,” he continued, voice sharp. “You don’t talk unless it’s mission-related. I don’t care about your feelings, your theories, or what Bruce might think. You got something useful to say? Fine. Otherwise, keep your mouth shut.”

He let that sit for a second, watching the frustration flicker behind Tim’s mask.

Then he went on, “Rule number four—no calls. You contact anyone else, this whole thing goes to hell. No Oracle, no Dick, no Bat-daddy checking in. We’re ghosts tonight, got it?”

Tim blinked. “…Got it.”

Jason gave a short, humorless snort. “Good. And rule number five…”

He leaned in close again, voice dropping to a low, dangerous murmur. “You don’t touch my shit. You don’t touch my bike, my gear, my guns, my comms—nothing. You breathe wrong near my stuff, and I’ll throw you off this goddamn roof myself.”

He waited a beat.

“Got that, Drake?”

And when Tim didn’t say anything Jason jostled him a bit as if to drop him.

Tim nodded quickly then. “Got it.”

Jason nodded and pulled the boy forward off the ledge.

“Great,” Jason said flatly. “Then let’s get started.”

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. 

He didn’t look back to see if Tim followed—he just moved. 

Always forward.

And right now forward is toward one particular person. 

Vargas.

That name burned through Jason’s thoughts like gasoline on wet pavement—spitting sparks, hissing heat. 

The sound of it alone brought up memories he’d rather have buried. Sweat-slick alleys. Deals gone sideways. Nights when he’d stood just close enough to smell Vargas’s fear, to see the man’s greasy hands shaking around a pack of smokes as he swore he’d go clean.

“But the bastard never did.” 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.

“Keep up, Drake.”

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 firing—Tim’s—just 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. 

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 woman’s laugh that broke too sharp.

The living pulse of the city he both hated and couldn’t 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. 

Roof to roof. Shadow to shadow. 

The two of them—one ghost and one ghost’s replacement—cut across Gotham’s spine like twin bullets.

Halfway across the next building, Jason’s voice came through the comm, roughened by static and the rasp of wind.

“You learn anything else since this morning?”

There was a short pause. Tim’s breath hitched in his mic as he vaulted a gap. “Nothing concrete. I’ve been monitoring police bands and encrypted chatter from the Narrows, but there’s radio silence. The Arpías went dark around dusk—like someone pulled the plug. No traffic, no movement, no sightings.”

Jason grunted. “So they’re not as dumb as I thought.”

Tim adjusted his pace to keep up, cape snapping behind him. “Or someone smarter is calling the shots now.”

Jason didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. They both knew what that meant.

Vargas.

The son of a bitch might’ve finally found himself bait worth biting into.

The rooftops ahead started to slope downward, narrowing toward the industrial edges of the Narrows—rusted warehouses, broken cranes, and the skeletal remains of what had once been a shipping empire before the mob chewed it to bone.

Jason’s boots hit the last ledge hard. He paused there, crouched, the city spread beneath him like an open wound.

He scanned the streets below—vacant 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 didn’t look his way.

He was thinking about Vargas.

The man was a parasite. 

A leech. Crawled his way through Gotham’s gutters for years, selling scraps of intel to whoever would pay—Penguin, the Triad, even Black Mask at one point. 

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. 

More times than he cared to count.

Vargas was like a sewer rat that somehow always knew when the flood was coming.

And Jason—reluctantly, bitterly—had learned to listen.

The bastard always knew something.

Tim’s voice broke into his thoughts. “There are plenty of people who could’ve been used for something like this. So why Vargas? Why would the Arpías want a bottom-feeder like him running point on an operation this big?”

Jason’s lips twisted beneath the helmet. “Same reason I used him.”

Tim turned slightly toward him. “Which is?”

“He’s a fucking leech,” Jason said flatly. “He’s got dirt on everyone worth knowing in this city, and he’s damn good at keeping himself alive long enough to trade it. Doesn’t matter who’s paying. Penguin, Maroni, me—whoever. He always makes himself useful enough to survive another week.”

Tim frowned. “So they trust him?”

Jason let out a humorless laugh. “No. They use him. Big difference. The Arpías don’t run with anyone outside their bloodline, that's most gangs though. Even if Vargas’s info is gold, he’s still a corpse waiting to happen. When he stops being useful, they’ll toss him in a ditch and call it a night easier and less messy.”

The kid was quiet for a while after that. 

His eyes—widened behind his domino mask—shifted toward the streets below. “Is that really how it is down here? In your part of the city? Away from Bruce’s rogues, away from the Joker and all the theatrics?”

Jason’s laugh was low, bitter, and rough. “You think the crazy stops where the masks do, Drake? That just because you’re not facing down clowns with acid pies, the people here are any less fucked?” 

He turned his head, the red glow of his visor cutting through the dark. “You can’t even imagine the shit I’ve seen down here. What people do to survive. What they do for a taste of power.”

Tim’s jaw tightened but he didn’t respond.

Jason scoffed and kept moving.

He vaulted to the next roof, gravel scattering under his boots, his voice crackling through the comm again. 

“Down here, there’s 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 don’t wear shit costumes and have bad makeup, kid—they wear faces you’d pass on the goddamn street.”

He stopped on the edge of a roof overlooking the waterline, where the Narrows met the docks. 

The place was half-dead—rusted cargo containers, collapsed fences, lights buzzing in and out like dying fireflies.

He could see it now—the faint glow of a warehouse down the block, its doors cracked open just enough to leak a strip of yellow light onto the pavement.

Jason’s hand went instinctively to his sidearm. “That’s one of Vargas’s spots.”

Tim followed his gaze. “You’re sure?”

Jason’s laugh was quiet, dangerous. “I know my rats. That’s him.”

The younger hero crouched beside him, scanning the perimeter through the lenses of his cowl. “No visible sentries. No movement.”

Jason tilted his head, studying. “No movement means they’re inside. Rats don’t leave the cheese out for free.”

Tim frowned, opening his wrist console. “I could send a drone—”

“No.”

Jason’s voice cracked like a whip, sharp and cold enough to make Tim freeze.

The older man’s tone softened only slightly. “You 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.”

Tim nodded reluctantly. “Got it.”

Jason’s hand tightened on the grip of his pistol. He didn’t move yet. 

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. “Alright. We do this quiet. You keep behind me. If things go south, don’t try to play hero. I don’t care what Bruce drilled into that shiny head of yours—if I say run, you run. Got that?”

Tim’s chin lifted. “Understood.”

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 Jason’s weight, boots landing soft against the rusted steps. 

Tim followed carefully, lighter, more measured.

At the bottom, Jason raised a fist—halt.

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. 

At least three sets.

And the faint metallic tang of gun oil and smoke into the air.

He murmured low. “They’re here.”

Tim leaned in slightly. “What’s the plan?”

Jason’s answer was almost a growl. “We knock.”

And scowling behind his mask Jason walked to the door.

Until finally he was only inches from it, and raising his leg—

Jason drove his foot into the steel-framed warehouse door. 

The impact reverberated through the structure like a cannon shot. 

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 someone’s 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. 

“Evenin’, boys,” he said, his voice gravelly, low, the kind of tone that could cut through concrete.

Tim followed, slightly behind, his bō 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. 

Three were leaning against crates, hands twitching, eyes darting between each other. 

The fourth sat lazily on a folding chair near the center, a half-burned cigarette dangling from his mouth, ash threatening to fall. 

At the sight of Jason and the sudden, unnatural silence that seemed to follow him, they froze mid-motion.

Jason’s eyes narrowed beneath the red helmet, scanning, calculating. 

Every detail: the sweat beading on foreheads, the subtle shift in weight as if they were all coiled springs ready to snap—or break.

The first man, eyes wide and voice trembling, tried to speak. “We—we’re all paid up, man! Nothin’—”

Another chimed in over him, the words tumbling in a nervous torrent. “We follow your rules! Ain’t sellin’ to kids! Ain’t recruitin’ no minors! We—we do what you say!”

A third barked, almost desperately, as if throwing words fast enough could shield him from what he knew was coming. “Yeah! We stick to the streets we know! We don’t step out of line! You—you know we respect—”

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. “Shut up! Just—just keep calm! He’s—he’s always like this! It’s—”

Jason’s finger twitched on the trigger of his pistol. 

Did he need to shoot a guy’s 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. 

He let out a shriek, blood blossoming red against the pale skin, and stumbled back.

Jason stepped forward, boots clanging against the floor. 

His movements methodical… predatory. 

“Boys. Boys. Do me a favor…” His voice deepened, edged with an authority that brooked no argument. “…Shut. The Fuck. Up.” 

Immediately, the room fell silent, the kind of silence that presses down on the chest, heavy with fear. 

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.

Jason’s head tilted slightly, the faint red glow of his helmet catching the sweat on their faces. Nodding, slow, deliberate, he murmured almost casually, “Good.”

He turned slightly, glancing at Tim. 

The kid was standing with the tense stiffness of a soldier, staff clutched tight, eyes trained on Jason, waiting for instruction. Jason’s tone sharpened again, rough, as he addressed both the men and his charge of the night.

“Here’s how it’s gonna go.” His boots scraped against the floor as he stepped closer, the men shrinking back. “Shoving rules aside for a second—boy 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.. I’ll put a goddamn hole in your head. Capiche?”

All the men nodded quickly, fear written plain across their faces. 

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. “All right,” he began, his voice steady but edged with that particular kind of Robin authority. “We’re looking for shipments—new ones. Weapons, drugs, anything coming in through Narrows or the East End docks this week.”

The men looked at one another, hesitant. Jason cocked his gun, and that sound alone made their tongues loosen.

“Two shipments,” one of them stammered. “One came in Tuesday night—just street-level stuff, pistols, ammo. But the next one’s bigger. Military-grade hardware, Vargas’ said it’s comin’ through Blackgate pier—dock six.”

Tim’s eyes narrowed. “Who’s running protection on it?”

“Not Vargas’ usual guys,” another man muttered quickly. “Some outsiders—Aripas muscle, you know? Big types, foreign accents, real quiet. They don’t talk much.”

Jason snorted behind his helmet. “Yeah, that tracks.”

Tim nodded, pressing. “Where’s the shipment now?”

“They got it stored in an old fish freezer by the pier—waitin’ for Vargas to give the word,” the man blurted.

Jason tilted his head slightly, letting the silence stretch before finally asking the one question that made the room feel smaller. “Whats Vargas supposed to be doing?”

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. 

But Jason’s patience ran on a fuse about an inch long.

“Well?”

“H-hes supposed to be at the docks!” the first man shouted, the words tumbling out of his mouth like they were on fire. “In two day.!”

Jason’s tone was cool, almost conversational. “Why?”

“He’s—he’s makin’ a deal,” the man said, voice cracking. “Something about a trade. Money for info—intel about your routes.”

That made Jason still for a beat. 

The corner of his mouth twitched beneath the helmet. “Cute.”

He took another step forward, gun dangling loosely at his side. “Now… one more thing, boys. Where’s Leon Vargas right now?”

All eyes darted upward—toward 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. 

The bastard had been watching the whole time.

Jason’s voice dropped into a growl. “Well, well…”

He looked back at the trembling men. “You’ve been real helpful.” He gave a short, mock nod to them. “So, in the spirit of appreciation—congratulations. You’re all free to go.”

The men didn’t move. 

They stared, confused, frozen like deer in headlights.

Jason gestured lazily with his gun. “What? You’d rather stay? ‘Cause I wouldn’t want to keep Vargas waiting too long. Time’s ticking.”

They still hesitated, so Jason shrugs. “Alright then you bastards have till the count of one……One—”

He smirked as they scrambled over each other, bolting for the exit. 

The sound of shuffling boots and panicked shouts echoed as the broken door slammed shut behind them.

Jason chuckled low under his breath. “See? Fast learners.”

Behind him, Tim exhaled through his nose. “You enjoy that way too much.”

Jason ignored him, smirking behind his helmet as he looked toward the narrow stairway leading up to Vargas’ office. “Come on, boy wonder.”

They started climbing, boots thudding against the metal steps. 

The air felt thicker up here—heavy with tension and the faint smell of cheap cigar smoke. 

Jason’s pace was steady, deliberate, like a predator closing in.

Tim followed close behind, already bracing himself. From what little he’d seen tonight, he knew Jason’s first instinct wouldn’t be diplomacy.

As they reached the landing, Tim spoke quietly. “Don’t kill him. We need to see what he knows.”

Jason stopped, hand resting on the handle of his pistol. He turned his head just enough for Tim to catch the gleam of his helmet’s lens. “What’s rule three?”

Tim sighed, already regretting speaking. 

But nonetheless, he recited it like a soldier repeating a drill. 

“Rule number three: I don't talk unless it’s mission-related. You don’t care about my feelings, my theories, or what Bruce might think. I have something useful to say? Speak. Otherwise, keep my mouth shut.”

Jason nodded once, satisfied. “Good.”

He faced forward toward the door again, slowly resuming the climb, gun in one hand. “You’ll get your answers, kid.”

And after a few more steps Jason stood on the last step. 

Then—

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 sound—wood splintering, hinges screeching, the frame cracking open under the sheer force.

Jason stepped through the wrecked doorway, smoke-like dust curling around his boots. 

Inside, the office was dim—only the flickering glow of an old desk lamp cutting through the haze. 

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. 

He was muttering something under his breath—prayers, curses, maybe both.

Jason raised a brow behind the helmet. “Really?”

Vargas froze.

Too late.

Jason crossed the room in a few strides, grabbed a fistful of the man’s jacket, and yanked him backward. 

Vargas hit the floor hard, a choked grunt leaving his mouth as he tried to scramble away. 

Jason wasn’t having it. 

He planted his boot on the man’s chest, pinning him down like a bug under glass.

“Leon,” Jason said, voice almost conversational, though the steel beneath it was unmistakable. “Hey, pal. How ya been? Haven’t seen you in a while—what’s that about?”

Vargas wheezed under the weight, eyes wild with panic. His hands clawed at Jason’s boot, but the Red Hood only pressed harder. 

The man coughed violently, gasping.

“P–please, Hood, buddy, I—I can explain,” Vargas stammered. “Things got… complicated, you know how it is. Rumors on the street here and there, Aripas wanted info, you were laying low, I—I didn’t think it’d—”

Jason pressed down harder, cutting him off with the sound of his ribs protesting. “Leon, buddy,” he drawled, the humor sharp as a knife. “Have some fuckin’ dignity, man. This begging and excuse-making bullshit? It’s embarrassing.”

Vargas tried again, words dissolving into a panicked babble—“It wasn’t me, I swear, they came to me, said it was business, said they’d kill me if I didn’t help—”

Jason tilted his head, voice flattening. “Cut the crap Vargas no one would force your dumb ass for anything.”

He pointed his gun—not at Vargas, but at Tim.

“Answer what he,” Jason said, gesturing with the barrel, “wants to know.”

Tim blinked, caught off guard by the gesture, hands instinctively raising in protest. “Hey—maybe don’t aim that at me.”

Jason ignored him.

The silent threat, the gleaming gunmetal, and the weight of the Red Hood’s boot were more than enough to make Vargas crumble. 

He started talking—fast.

“Okay, okay! I’ll tell you everything!” he sputtered, voice trembling. “The Aripas—they came to me weeks ago. They wanted distribution routes. Not for drugs—guns. Military tech, untraceable. Blackgate dock was a decoy; the real shipments go through Dock Twelve—south side, no records, no customs. They’ve got bribed dockhands running double shifts to hide the crates.”

Tim frowned, processing fast. “Who’s running the inside line? You said bribed dockhands—who’s paying them?”

“Not me!” Vargas insisted, flinching under Jason’s boot. “Some ex-military guy—calls himself Colt. Runs a private security outfit outta Blüdhaven, but he’s got Gotham roots. Works for whoever pays best. He’s the one handling pickups, drop-offs, transfers—the whole system.”

Jason’s head tilted slightly. “Never heard of him.”

Vargas nodded quickly, eager to please. “Yeah, yeah, that’s the point. Guy’s a ghost. Doesn’t stick around long enough to make enemies. But the Aripas—they want something else, too.”

Tim’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

Vargas swallowed hard. “Information. They’re building files. On vigilantes. On You, on Robin, on Nightwing, even on Batman. They’ve been watching, mapping out patrol patterns, safehouses—hell, they even got someone working on tracing some Tech shipments to draw you guys out.”

Tim stiffened. “That’s impossible. Those networks are locked down tighter than—”

Vargas cut in with a desperate shake of his head. “Not if someone’s leaking it! Someone’s feeding them data. I don’t know who, I swear, but they’re in deep. Way above street level.”

The words hung heavy in the air. Jason’s silence was darker than any threat.

Tim took a step back, the gears in his head already turning. “That’s… that’s everything?” he asked quietly.

Vargas nodded frantically. “That’s it, I swear, that’s all I know! I—”

Jason repeated it, softly. “That’s it?”

“Yes!” Vargas wheezed, still pinned. “That’s everything, I swear!”

Jason leaned in a little, pressing his boot harder into Vargas’ chest until the man’s breath came in shallow, broken gasps. “You sure?”

“Y-yeah,” Vargas rasped, voice cracking. “I’m sure—”

Jason nodded once, calm as a man checking off a list. “Great.”

The gunshot cracked like thunder in the small room.

Vargas screamed, clutching his shoulder, blood seeping fast through the fabric. 

The smell of gunpowder hit the air, sharp and acrid.

Tim jerked back, eyes wide. “Jason—what the hell?!”

Jason turned his helmeted head toward him, voice flat and unbothered. “All right, kid. You got my help. Now you’ve got a choice.”

He gestured lazily with the gun. “Stay and watch how I handle things… or piss off back to Bruce and tell him what you know. Because this—” his tone dropped lower, dangerous—“this won’t be pretty.”

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Tim’s hands turned to fist, so tight Jason could hear the gloves on his hands crinkle. 

And as the boy stood there seems he finally realized the Red Hood’s reputation wasn’t built on rumors; it was built on moments like this.

He swallowed hard, jaw tight. 

Then, with visible restraint, he turned toward the door.

And after a few steps–

Just past the threshold, he paused, half in shadow. “...Thank you, Jason.”

The words hit like a sucker punch.

Jason froze. 

For a second, he thought he’d misheard……

He’d gone out of his way to play the bastard tonight—bark orders, snarl, make the kid hate him.

It was better for everyone that way...

But that tone—earnest, quiet, undeserved—threw him off.

By the time he found words—

Tim was already gone, footsteps fading down the stairs until they disappeared completely.

Silence fell.

Only Vargas’ ragged whimpers filled the room, wet with pain. 

Blood dripped onto the cracked tile, slow and steady.

Jason stood there for a moment, staring at the door the kid had left through. 

A muscle ticked in his jaw. He hadn’t expected that. Hell, he didn’t want that.

He wasn’t the guy you thanked.

Not even before, when he still held the Boy Wonder mantle.

Finally, he exhaled—a low, rough sound—and turned his attention back to the bleeding man on the floor.

“Vargas,” he said softly, voice low but carrying weight. “Man, I thought we were close. You hurt me.”

Vargas tried to speak—some broken attempt at a plea—but Jason’s glare from behind his mask was enough to shut him up.

“You crossed me,” Jason said, stepping harder, his shadow cutting across the floor like a blade. “And if a parasite like you’s stepping out of line, then you’re not alone. Which means…”

And stepping off the crying man he crouched slightly, just enough to meet the man’s terrified eyes. 

The gleam of red from his helmet reflected in them like firelight.

“I guess I gotta send a message, don’t I?”

Vargas’ voice cracked. “P-please, Hood, don’t—please, I can fix it, I swear, I’ll—”

Jason tilted his head.

“Shhhh.”

The sound was almost gentle.

And Vargas whimpered as he watched as Jason—

The Red Hood moves his arm and with his pistol pointed to the light.

And then—

Darkness.

The only sounds heard were the city outside and the sound of water swaying. 

Few Moments Later

Gotham was loud…. 

It always was. 

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. 

From the cracked window, the body of Leon Vargas hung upside down. 

His ankles tied with heavy chains, his clothes soaked in blood that trailed down and dripped steadily onto the pavement below. 

His lifeless body swayed faintly in the night breeze, head lolling, his empty eyes reflecting the orange glow of the nearest streetlamp.

Painted—no, smeared—across the side of the warehouse wall in the same deep red, Vargas’s blood formed the jagged, violent scrawl of Jason’s warning.

“GOTHAM IS MINE.”

“STAY CLEAN OR GET DEAD.”

The letters dripped, thick and wet, trailing down the concrete like the city itself was bleeding. It wasn’t art. It wasn’t even a threat—it was a statement of ownership. A brutal, simple truth carved into the bones of the city’s 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. 

He didn’t move for a long time. 

Just stood there, arms crossed loosely over his chest, breathing in that moment of silence—one that was earned the hard way.

Vargas was a message.. 

A reminder to every dealer, every scumbag, every rat who thought the Red Hood was slipping—that his territory was still his.

And yet… standing there, high above it all, the victory didn’t taste sweet. 

It never did.

Jason’s hand rose, dragging the edge of his glove across the side of his helmet as if to wipe the sweat—or maybe the weight—from his face.

 He could almost feel the ache behind his eyes, the dull buzz of adrenaline fading out of his veins.

“Let’s see who’s got the balls to step out of line now,” he muttered, voice low, half a snarl and half a sigh.

His tone wasn’t triumphant—it was tired.

He stood there for a few more moments…

Until finally—

He turned away from the scene.

Behind him, the warehouse loomed like a tomb—its message glistening under the flicker of a dying streetlight, its occupant swaying slowly in the wind. Gotham’s 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 kid’s voice, small but steady—Thank you, Jason.

He clenched his jaw. 

That had hit deeper than it should’ve.

He didn’t need thanks. 

Didn’t deserve it either.

“Dumb kid,” he muttered under his breath.

The Red Hood raised his grappling gun and fired. 

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 fast—silent and steady, a blur of motion across Gotham’s 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 in—the 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 it—the 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 staff—

Made something inside him loosen.

He could picture it clearly: A half-folded blanket you’d left on the couch, A mug with tea stains you’d 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 wasn’t just his anymore. 

And somehow, that made it harder to leave every night.

The thought pulled something uncomfortably human out of him, something that didn’t 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 him—sprawling, 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 Hood’s back.

He’s 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 place—his place.

He didn’t smile. 

Not really. But a faint exhale came through the helmet’s voice modulator, something close to satisfaction—or maybe resignation.

Because at the end of the day, it wasn’t about ruling Gotham. It wasn’t even about control.

It was about keeping the monsters that haunted the streets—the ones worse than him—afraid 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. 

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. 

His pulse thudded in his ears—steady now, not from fear, but from the slow crash that always followed the chaos. 

The night’s 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 man—just a hanging shape swaying in the wind, painted in red and framed by the message splashed across the wall in his own blood. 

The words glistened faintly under the flickering streetlight, each one a warning, raw and deliberate.

Jason’s jaw tightened beneath the helmet. For a moment, silence pressed down around him, the city holding its breath.

“Message sent,” he muttered under his breath.

And then he turned away. 

No hesitation. 

No second glance.

The Red Hood broke into a run, the city’s skyline flashing by as he vaulted across rooftops, jacket catching in the cold wind. He didn’t stop until the night swallowed him whole—until the chaos, the blood, and the ghosts were behind him.

Only then did he let the thought surface—the pull of something waiting, something softer than this endless war.

You. 

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.

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. That’s standard night shit."

The bolt creaked, groaning in protest before giving way.

"But then—oh 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 lady—because 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 stick—or 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 wasn’t scared to die. Didn’t 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 minutes—two—and came back to find her talking to a pigeon. A pigeon named Crook."

Jason huffed a sharp laugh under his breath, the kind that didn’t 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, he’d 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, yeah—she 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 don’t 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 he’d wiped his hand earlier, but he didn’t 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. You’d 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 hadn’t felt creepy. Or invasive. It felt like…

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 something—anything—to focus on.

"She refused to take the damn bed. Said she wouldn’t 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 yeah—Did 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 there…

He paused for a few moments. 

“And now here I am talking to myself…”

Jason ran a hand down his face. "I’m 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 him—someone 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 judgment—just 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. 

Too good for someone like him.

And yet…

He couldn’t get the image out of his head. You perched on his kitchen island, Crook in your hands, still trembling but trying to be brave. 

Your laughter like wind chimes in a hurricane. Your eyes holding nothing but warmth and trust.

It didn’t 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 wasn’t on the job. Not really.

Before Jason could spiral into his thoughts even more a voice calls out to him. 

“Yo, Jay! You done with that rebuild on the Valkyrie? We’ve got another job in bay three.”

Jason blinked once, grounding himself. He shook his head and grabbed a wrench. “Yeah, yeah. I’m on it.”

He stalked toward bay three, where a busted ‘94 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 suddenly—

 He froze.

A scent hit him before a voice did—cheap floral perfume clashing with cigarette smoke and synthetic vanilla.

“Jay,” came the high, syrupy voice. “Seriously? You ghosted me again?”

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. “Didn’t know I was under contract to answer your calls, Sasha.”

She huffed, pouting. “We hooked up three times, Jay. That’s, like, a relationship in this century.”

He snorted. “No, that’s three bad decisions and an Uber ride home. Let’s not pretend it was more than it was.”

Her mouth dropped open slightly, then narrowed. “You’re such an asshole.”

Jason shrugged, rising to full height, towering over her. His expression didn’t shift. “Never said I wasn’t.”

Sasha crossed her arms, stepping into his space. “You said you liked me.”

“I said you were hot and that I was bored.”

“Rude.”

“You’ll live.” He turned away, grabbing a torque wrench and focusing on the Shadow again. “Now if you’ll fuck off, I’m working.”

Sasha didn’t move. “You know, you act like you don’t give a shit about anyone, but I’ve seen the way you look when you think no one’s watching. You want someone to care. You're just too chickenshit to let it happen.”

Jason’s jaw clenched. Hard.

He turned, his voice low and cold. “You don’t know me. You sure as hell don’t know what I want.”

She scoffed. “You think you’re so fucking mysterious, but you’re just another damaged bad boy with a savior complex and a horrible attitude.”

Jason stepped in, eyes sharp like broken glass. “Get the fuck out of my face, Sasha.”

The tension in the air crackled like static.

For a second, Sasha hesitated—then she scoffed, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “Whatever. Hope you enjoy jerking off to your attitude.”

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. “Jesus,” he muttered, returning to the Honda. “Remind me why I ever dipped my dick in that.”

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 right—Briggs—sidled 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. 

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 Jason’s 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.

“Well, damn, Jay,” Briggs drawled as he sauntered up, tossing a microfiber cloth over his shoulder like he was about to deliver a sermon. “That Sasha chick’s got some serious fire in her. Loud, pissed off, smokin’ hot... just how I like ’em.”

Jason didn’t 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.

“I mean—shit, man—you gonna let her storm off like that?” He nudged Jason with a meaty elbow. “She lookin’ for rebound material or what? ‘Cause I wouldn’t mind takin’ her for a spin. You know what they say...”

He leaned in close, grinning, breath stinking of onion chips and monster energy drink. “The hottest ones are always the craziest.”

Jason’s hand stilled.

Briggs didn’t notice. Mistaking silence for agreement, he took it as his cue to go lower. “Does she scream? God, bet she’s got those little scratch marks and a mouth that—”

Jason moved.

Fast.

Deliberate.

The rag hit the workbench with a snap, and in one fluid motion, he peeled away from Briggs’ arm, turned, and stepped in—every inch of his six-foot frame unfolding like a weapon unsheathed.

His eyes were sharp. Ice-cold. Predator cold.

Briggs froze.

Jason didn’t 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.

“Say that again,” Jason said, low, calm,like a promise of violence dressed up in velvet.

Briggs blinked. His grin faltered. “Whoa, hey, man, I was just—”

Jason stepped closer.

Briggs immediately backpedaled.

“If you ever talk about a woman like that again in front of me,” Jason continued, voice deadly quiet, “you’ll be spitting your own teeth into a drain.”

Briggs went pale.

Jason’s eyes didn’t waver. Didn’t blink. His body language didn’t shout—it loomed.

It wasn’t bravado. It was intent.

The kind that came from someone who didn’t 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. “Hey, alright, man—just joking. Jesus.”

Jason didn’t 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 clear–

Jason Todd didn’t tolerate that kind of man. Didn’t give a fuck if he “meant it.” Didn’t give a fuck if he was “just joking.”

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 would’ve 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 happened—like he hadn’t 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 asshole’s locker room monologue.

Jason ran a hand through his hair, the sting of her perfume still haunting the air like a ghost.

He wasn’t a saint.

Hell, he wasn’t even a good man most days.

But he sure as shit wasn’t that guy.

He looked down at his hands—scarred, stained, twitching—and sighed.

This whole “Jay Smith” 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, “Thank you, Jason,” like it meant something.

He closed his eyes for a long moment.

“Get your shit together, Todd,” he muttered.

Then he grabbed the torque wrench and dove back into the Honda, trying not to think about how much you’d already gotten under his skin.

And failing. 

Miserably.

Time Skip – Hours Later – 2:00 PM

The sun had shifted in the sky, casting the garage in warm gold that spilled through the cracked loading bay door. 

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 runs—not the one he kept for his more.. Bloody activities. 

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 ached—not 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. You’d 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 chest—your 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 and—

He growled low in his throat, dragging a palm over his face.

“Nope. Not doing this,” he muttered to himself.

But the damage…

Already done. 

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 ridiculous—like 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 of—

“Snap the Fuck out of it Todd.” Jason thinks to himself harshly. 

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. 

The curve of your waist. The way your body moved even when relaxed—like 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. 

From you.

From the sheer, torturous image of you—half-naked, barefoot, and oblivious to the slow-cracking fuse you were lighting in his head just by existing. 

Fuck. 

Jason needed to get you clothes, and fast. 

Not just for your sake, but for his sanity. 

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 Gotham’s mutant sewer rats would no doubt appreciate the donation.

A plume of cigarette smoke wafted across the cracked pavement.

 Blake. 

One of the other mechanics. 

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. Didn’t ask too many questions. Didn’t give a shit what anyone did off the clock.

And—most importantly—she was a woman who had functioning opinions about women’s clothing. 

Probably.

Jason rolled his shoulders, groaned under his breath, and headed over.

Blake looked up as he approached, squinting slightly through the smoke. “Well well,” she said, lips curling into a crooked grin. “If it isn’t Mr. Sunshine himself.”

Jason grunted. “Need a word.”

“Already using them, Smith,” she drawled, flicking ash off the end of her cigarette. “You gonna ask me to prom or what?”

He ignored that. “You know where to buy… clothes. For women.”

Blake blinked. Once. 

Then again.

“…Okay, back up. What kind of clothes we talking here, Jay? Lingerie? Funeral wear? Cute sundress with little daisies on it?”

Jason scowled. “Just clothes. Normal ones.”

She tilted her head, amused. “This for Sasha? You trying to fuck your way outta that mess?”

His jaw ticked.

Green eyes flashed.

Blake raised a brow, caught the edge of that heat and wisely lifted her hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright—easy, tiger. Just asking. No need to chew my head off.”

Jason didn’t 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.

“…Alright. You serious? You actually trying to buy clothes for a girl.”

Jason’s voice came low. “Yeah.”

“…Like, real clothes.. Not like, you know, a plastic bag or something.”

He rolled his eyes.”Yes.” 

“Got it,” she said. “What size is she?”

Jason blinked.

Blake raised a brow. “Don’t tell me you didn’t check.”

“I wasn’t exactly holding a measuring tape Blake, how the fuck should I know.”

“I don’t know lets see… oh yeah you ask you dumb fuck.”

Jason merely narrowed his eyes at her.

“Jesus,” she muttered running a hand down her face. “Okay. What can you tell me about whatever it is she has on now?”

Jason glanced away, jaw tight. “Gave her a shirt. Real baggy. Hit her mid-thigh.”

“Like, big shirt baggy, or ‘you could fit a family of four in there’ baggy?”

Jason shrugged his shoulders. “Big. And…. she’s… busty.”

Jason grimaced as he pictured your large bust again, his shirt doing nothing to cover your beautiful skin. 

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.

“Oh my god. You poor fucker.”

He gave her a flat look. “You done?”

“Nope,” she said cheerfully. “But I’ll help anyway, because this is the most human thing you’ve done since you started working here.”

She reached into her back pocket and pulled out a pen, clicking it rapidly as she listed things off with her fingers.

“Alright. For basics—go to Savra & Sons, downtown. Sounds like a men's place, but they’ve got solid everyday stuff for women too. Hoodies, tanks, jeans with stretch. Especially good if she’s got some hips and thighs on her. And from the way you’re grinding your teeth, I’m gonna say she does.”

Jason said nothing, which was as good as a confirmation.

Blake smirked.

“Underwear—go to Arline’s Boutique in Park Row. Yeah, I know. Fancy name, but the ladies there are chill. They’ll help you figure out what to get without asking questions. Tell ’em you’re shopping for a girl who can’t try anything on and they’ll hook you up with stuff that’s comfy and decent quality. Cotton, lace, no scratchy crap.”

Jason folded his arms.

“What about bras?”

Blake let out a long whistle. “Boy, you’re in it deep, huh?”

His glare darkened.

“Right, right. Okay. Same place. Arline’s. Ask for Marcy. Middle-aged, pink streak in her hair, talks like your grandma but swears like a sailor. She’ll find something. Just… be vague. Say ‘full support’ and whatever you do do not get anything that looks like it’s held together with string and hope.”

He made a mental note of it all—burning each name into memory like a target list.

“Oh, and shoes,” Blake added. “Go to Rocket Sole. It’s 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 not—guess and pray.”

Jason grunted.

Blake wasn’t done. “Accessories? Jewelry?”

He gave her a long, deadpan stare.

“You’re buying her clothes, Smith. That means you gotta go all the way. Earrings, bracelets, maybe even a necklace that doesn’t say ‘I got this at the gas station next to a Slim Jim rack.’”

He blew out a slow breath. “Where.”

“Flicker. 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.”

Jason nodded. His eyes had lost the edge of pure panic now—shifting into focus, into control.

Blake tilted her head. “So. What’s the story with her?”

Jason didn’t answer.

Not a word.

Not even a twitch.

Blake held up her hands again. “Alright. None of my business. Just don’t show up with three shopping bags and forget the receipt, dumbass.”

Jason smirked slightly—more a twitch of the lips than a smile—but it was something.

“Thanks.”

Blake gave him a mock salute and walked off, fishing for another cigarette.

Jason stood there a moment longer.

He could do this.

He’d 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 didn’t make his blood pressure spike.

As he walked back to his bike, he started making a plan—mentally mapping out the city and figuring which stops he could make in one trip. He’d head out after his shift.

If he could survive without images of you in his shirt anymore. 

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 television—a 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? 

The reason quite simple. 

You did not want to chance the TV putting another horrid screeching movie picture. 

Once was enough. 

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 Jason’s 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.

“…Right,” you whispered, finally exhaling. “To the task at hand.”

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 fingers—ancient, 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.

“Crook,” you murmured aloud, not needing to raise your voice. “I sense thy watchful gaze.”

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.

“Y’know, for someone who talks like a forest ghost, you sure like dramatic silences.”

You tilted your head, unoffended. “Silence oft reveals more than sound, dearest feathered one.”

Crook gave a low coo and hopped from the sill to a nearby lamp. “Yeah, well, yer magic’s makin’ the room smell like wet moss and peppermints. Not complainin’—just sayin doll’.”

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 you’d used your magic.

The first being when you shape changed. 

Crook cocked his head, squinting at the glow.  “That how ya do it, huh? No weird chants, no weird plant? Just touch it and boom, fixed?”

“Nay,” you said softly. “There 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.”

The crystal on your staff flashed once more, brighter this time. Crook hopped closer to the couch and blinked up at you, head tilted.

“You really are from a different damn world.”

You smiled gently and extended a finger toward him. “Yet 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.”

Crook cooed again. “Heh. Brooding’s one word for that guy. Y’know he growls in his sleep. 

You chuckled softly. “Yes.. I too heard it last night… It was oddly comforting.”

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 people—not 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.

“So, what now? You gonna keep sittin’ here, watchin’ lions and fixin’ yourself up while lover boy’s out playin?”

You pressed a clawed hand to your chest and looked toward the door.

“You missin’ him or somethin’? You got that look. The one birds get when their mate’s out scavengin’ too long.”

You hesitated. “He… is strange to me. Rough-hewn. Like a blade forged too hot. But kind, beneath the soot. I owe him my shelter. And…”

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 – Hours Later – 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 silver—one 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 hadn’t 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. 

His hands twitched as he held the handlebars. 

He closed his green eyes and imagined you. 

Your bright smile and warm (e/c) eyes and looking at him grateful. 

your strange and pointed fanged smile stared back at him. 

He imagines you still on the couch still watching animal planet and awaiting his return. 

And so with a clenched jaw and steeled eyes, Jason kicked his bike into gear, gunning the engine, and started down the route he’d made with the precision of a battlefield map.

First Stop: Savra & Sons – Downtown

The shop looked like an old barbershop from the outside—smoky 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 you’d 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 didn’t 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 voice—curious, unsure, delighted. “Oh, this one… the color reminds me of the bee-flowers from the whispering glade. Have you ever seen bees sleep, Jason?”

He shook the image off with a grunt and made for the register.

The clerk didn’t comment. Just rang him up, bagged the pile neatly, and sent him on his way with a faint, amused, “Good luck, man.”

Second Stop: Flicker – Old Gotham

Flicker was easy to miss if you didn’t 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. 

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 first—sturdy, 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 weren’t expensive. But they felt... right. Like pieces you’d 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. “You’ve got good taste,” he said, voice soft. “Lucky girl.”

Jason didn’t reply.

He just paid. Nodded once. And walked out into the dying light of Gotham, the bags heavy in one hand.

Final Stop – Arline’s 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 bags—flannel 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. 

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 woman’s boutique to buy bras and panties—alone—was a whole other kind of battlefield.

He cut the engine, the bike settling into silence.

 The street noise took over—traffic hum, a siren in the distance, footsteps on the cracked pavement.

Jason reached up, cracked his neck, exhaled sharply through his nose.

“Alright,” he muttered to himself. “Let’s fucking go.”

And slowly Jason made his way over. 

The boutique’s window gleamed like it had been scrubbed with rosewater and elbow grease.

Soft pink lettering curled across the glass: Arline’s: 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 glass—broad-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 wasn’t overpowering—just a subtle layering of rosewater, lavender sachets, and the faint must of old books, like someone’s grandmother had taught them how to keep a shop’s 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. 

Her hair was twisted into a knot, held in place by a pair of hairsticks tipped with tiny beads. Her gaze flicked over him—taking in the biker build, the tired green eyes, the helmet tucked under one arm—and one corner of her mouth quirked upward.

“Can I Help you, sweetheart?”

Jason set the helmet down on the nearest counter with deliberate care.“Looking for… underclothes,” he started.  “For a woman… She’s not here…. Can’t try anything on.”

He felt like a fucking idiot with how many pauses he was taking. 

The woman’s brows rose, but she didn’t laugh. 

Didn’t even smirk. 

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.

“Well, bless your heart for trying anyway. I’m Marcy. Let’s get to work.”

Jason gave a short nod. “Jason.”

No need to use his alias. 

Work was over afterall. 

She waved him along, weaving between racks like a seasoned tour guide. “Alright, Jason, talk to me. What’re we working with?”

He gave her the facts, stripped down and tactical: Tall-ish. Broad hips. Big bust. Likes to move. 

Probably doesn't like anything scratchy.

Probably won’t know what a zipper is.

Marcy didn’t miss a beat. “Shirt size?”

He answered best he could. 

She nodded like she’d just unlocked a cipher, then plucked a few bras from a rack and held them against her own torso for reference. “So—she’s at least a double D. We’re gonna go full support. Soft band, wide straps, no underwire unless you want her to murder you.”

Jason grunted. “Noted.”

They moved like tacticians preparing for war.

First came the neutrals—black, 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 he’d need to brief someone on the operation later.

Then came what Marcy called the “morale boosters”—pieces with lace trim, leaf-like embroidery, or colors richer than anything in the neutral palette.  “Girl like that,” she said, sliding a wine-red bra into the basket, “she’s gonna like feeling pretty, even if she don’t admit it.”

Jason didn’t argue.

In fact, in a moment of pure stubbornness, he reached past her and tossed in a deep forest 

green one.

He had no idea why.

 It just… felt right.

And after a few seconds Jason paused and realized what came next. 

Panties. 

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, “Jesus Christ.”

Marcy chuckled. “It’s not that bad. These are your workhorses—cotton briefs. These are your fun days—boyshorts. And these…” she picked up a silky high-waisted pair with vintage stitching, “…are your date-night specials.”

Jason didn’t ask what counted as a “date night” in this context.

He just loaded the basket—matching tones, complementary tones, and a couple that didn’t match anything else because why the hell not.

By the time they reached the counter again, Jason felt like he’d run an entire recon op in enemy territory without backup.

Marcy rang up the haul with a speed that made him suspect she’d 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.

“Free sample soaps,” she said. “Honey and lavender. Figured she might need a little kindness.”

Jason hesitated.

Not because he didn’t want to take it, but because the word kindness landed in his chest like a quiet punch.

He gave her a tight nod. “…Thanks.”

Marcy just smiled, sliding the bag across. “You’re welcome, sweetheart. And good luck.”

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. 

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 victory—not the kind you celebrated with champagne, but the kind that kept the wheels turning.

He had done it.

Every stop on Blake’s list, except the shoes—those would wait until he knew your exact size. He wasn’t about to risk buying the wrong pair and have you look at him like he’d just brought home shackles.

As he loaded the bags into the compartments and bungeed the rest, he muttered under his breath. “This felt like a fucking final boss.” 

But even he knew—he’d just survived a battlefield of silk, lace, and rosewater.

But for you.

He’d do it again.

Jason Todd POV 

Jason crouched on the ledge, boots planted against cold brick, the Gotham air biting damp against his armor. 

Below, the night churned in its usual symphony—distant 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 instantly—one figure stumbling fast down the cracked sidewalk, heels snapping against concrete, breath carrying in sharp, panicked bursts. 

A woman. Her purse slammed against her hip as she ran, clutching it tight like it might shield her.

And behind her, three shadows.

“Figures,” Jason muttered inside the helmet, voice flat as he leaned forward. “Three assholes against one.”

The HUD flickered red around their heat signatures, tagging them automatically as they pursued. They shouted things—ugly things. Their words carried up the alley walls, carried on Gotham’s stale wind.

Jason’s jaw flexed.

The woman skidded on her heel as she tried to cut down a narrow alleyway, thinking she’d lose them there......

She didn’t.

The three men simply followed.

Snarling with laughter. 

Rats cornering prey.

Jason shifted forward, ready, every instinct screaming not tonight.

The woman’s back hit the brick wall at the alley’s end. Nowhere to run.

One of the bastards—broad, sloppy in his stance but cocky—lunged forward, pawing at her.

Jason didn’t 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 wasn’t another attacker but something worse—something 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. “Scram.”

The woman didn’t 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. 

“Don’t you bastards have anything better to do than terrorize women in alleys? Or is that just the highlight of your sad little lives?”

One of them tried to bluff, stepping forward with a sneer, though his voice cracked. “Th-the hell are you supposed to be?”

Jason’s 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 man’s ID burned bright on screen. Jason’s lips curved into something cruel beneath the mask. “Oh, I know you.”

His voice echoed off the alley walls as he read the data aloud, each word a knife.

“Marcus Hale. Twenty-eight. Assault charges in ‘22. Six months served for breaking a woman’s jaw because she wouldn’t give you her number. Out on parole. And here you are again—didn’t learn shit, did you?”

Marcus’s 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. “Christ, I remember your mugshot on the news. You looked just as pathetic as you do now.”

He stepped closer, boots deliberate against the wet pavement. “Tell me, Marcus—what was it like, huh? Did prison make you tougher? Or did you spend your nights squealing in the corner, hoping no one noticed you?”

Marcus’s fists clenched, rage flickering to cover fear. “Fuck you.”

Jason’s head tilted, the red glow of the helmet unrelenting. “Already did. Society fucked you when they let you back out here.”

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 bastard’s skin. “You think cornering a woman makes you strong? Makes you a man? Newsflash—you’re nothing. Just another Gotham parasite.”

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 clean—identities unfolding instantly.

Jason chuckled again, dark and low. “Oh, this is rich.”

He jabbed a finger toward the second man.

“Eddie 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.”

He scoffed. “Yeah, real model citizen. Good behavior my ass.”

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. “And you. Thomas Briggs. Thirty-one. No convictions, huh? But plenty of complaints. Public indecency. Harassment. Workplace assault—oh, 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?”

Briggs blanched. His jaw tightened. He stammered, “You—you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

Jason’s laugh was sharp as a blade. “Don’t I? The mask doesn’t lie, Briggs. My tech’s better than GCPD ever dreamed of being. I know exactly who the fuck you are.”

He advanced a step, the alley shrinking around them. The two men huddled instinctively, like rats in a corner.

Jason’s hand hovered near his holster, but he didn’t draw. 

Not yet. 

He wanted them to feel it. Wanted their fear to steep until it curdled in their guts.

“You know what’s funny?” he said conversationally, tilting his head. “I could call the cops. Let them drag your sorry asses back to Blackgate. Let you rot in a cell.”

Hope flickered in Eddie’s eyes. “Y-yeah. Do that. We—we’ll go quietly.”

Jason’s helmet angled down, voice thick with mock sympathy.

“Aw, you want the law to save you? After all the times you pissed on it? Nah. See, here’s the difference between me and Batman.”

He leaned forward, visor glowing inches from Eddie’s pale face. “He still thinks you can be scared straight…..I don’t.”

Jason’s fist shot out, crunching into Eddie’s ribs with enough force to fold him in half. Eddie crumpled, gasping on the pavement.

Marcus scrambled to his knees, swearing. 

Jason’s boot lashed out, cracking into his jaw, sending him sprawling again.

Blood sprayed dark across the wall.

Briggs tried to bolt. 

Wrong move. 

Jason’s arm snapped up, pistol drawn in a blur. The barrel barked once, deafening in the narrow alley. The bullet didn’t hit him—it shattered the brick beside his head, spraying dust across his hair.

Briggs froze. 

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.

“Run again, and the next one’s between your fucking eyes.”

Briggs whimpered.

Jason let silence drag heavy, the only sound Eddie’s wheezing and Marcus groaning. 

Then he spoke, voice low and lethal.

“You three had your shot at life. You blew it. You hurt people, over and over and over.... Women, workers, strangers—doesn’t matter. You think Gotham’s a playground for your bullshit? You think you get to do this forever?”

He shook his head slowly. “Not on my watch.”

His guns clicked free again, both barrels leveled in a perfect aim.

Marcus raised a trembling hand. “Wait—wait, man, we—we can change—”

Jason barked a laugh, sharp as a gunshot. “Oh, I love that one. ‘We can change.’ Heard it a thousand times. Never seen it once.”

The muzzles gleamed. His finger tightened.

Jason’s voice dropped to a final growl. “You’re done.”

The barrels bucked twice, the thunder of the gunfire punching against the alley walls and rattling Jason’s 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. 

Briggs never even made it to his knees—one bullet through the throat, another through the skull when he flailed.

And all that remained—

Silence. 

Jason lowered the pistols slowly, smoke curling from the barrels. 

The stink of copper thickened in the air, hot and raw, mixing with the sewer reek that always lingered in Gotham’s veins. 

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. “Should’ve stayed home, assholes.”

He holstered his guns with practiced ease and turned on his heel, no hesitation, no second glance. 

The job was done. 

They didn’t 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 Gotham’s endless ledger of violence—three 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. 

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 running—

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 ghost—a predator watching the living grind themselves to pieces beneath.

His focus stayed forward, always scanning. 

Corners. 

Rooftops. 

Windows left too open, too bright. 

Movement flickering in the periphery. The fighter in him didn’t know how to stop. 

Gotham never let him.

The HUD flickered green as his helmet synced to the police radio channels. 

Static cracked, voices bleeding in—dispatchers, 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.

“…reports confirm Joker spotted at Amusement Mile… repeat, Amusement Mile. Possible hostages inside the funhouse attraction. Units en route, proceed with caution. Multiple casualties reported.”

Jason’s jaw locked and clenched. 

Of all the pieces of shit that had to act up tonight it had to be him. 

The Joker.

For a split second his body reacted before his mind—pulse spiking, teeth grinding, every nerve raw with memory. 

The name was a match struck against oil-soaked rags. 

Pain. 

Laughter

Crowbars.

death. 

His death.

Part of him wanted to pivot right then, head toward Amusement Mile. 

Tear through the clown’s men, drag Joker into the street, put a bullet between those painted eyes and finally end it.

And before Jason’s anger could overtake him the radio cut in through his helmet again.

“Batman and Red Robin are presumed to be en route.”

“Of fucking course they are.” Jason thinks to himself annoyed and clenching his fists. 

No way in hell Bruce would not answer a Joker call. 

And Jason knew the second he set foot on that ground, Bruce would stop fighting Joker just long enough to fight him instead. 

Or Lecture him on his killing ways. 

The arguments would start again, the one they’d been waging for years—Jason’s bullet versus Bruce’s fucking code.

And while they argued, Joker would slip away. 

Again.

Jason’s breath came slow through the modulator. 

He forced the tension down, the shaking in his hands easing only when he flexed them tight around his grappling gun.

“Not tonight,” he muttered. “Not my fight. Not like this.”

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. 

The Serrano crew.

Small-time gang trying to go big. Drugs, guns, extortion—usual bullshit. 

Jason had been tracking them for weeks, circling their hideouts, gutting their runners one by one. 

The trail had finally narrowed to a warehouse by the river, a supposed hub for smuggling crates out to their contacts in Blüdhaven.

He angled his path southeast, grappling from ledge to ledge, slower now, deliberate. He wanted to keep his blood from boiling over after hearing Joker’s name.

And as Jason made his way through the skies of Gotham, his thoughts slid back to you.

He pictured you in his apartment—the only piece of his life that wasn’t jagged or bloody. 

You, with your horns, strange eyes, and even stranger tail, curled up on the couch earlier, giving bits of dinner to Crook like he wasn’t a pigeon with an attitude problem. 

Jason had sat there too, beside you, trying not to stare too long whenever your tail flicked against the cushions.

He hadn’t realized until tonight just how much peace he’d forgotten.

Now, though, he figured you’d probably drifted off by now. 

It was past midnight, later still. 

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. 

His chest tightened without permission.

For years, his nights ended with nothing but blood on his hands and an empty apartment 

Waiting. 

Now he had to shake the image of you there, asleep, waiting without even realizing you were waiting.

The idea of it scared him.

Don’t get used to it, he told himself bitterly. It won’t 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 didn’t belong to peace. 

He belonged to Gotham nights like this—chasing, hunting, putting people in the ground. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like if you ever saw this part of him, really saw it. 

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 didn’t matter.

Didn’t matter because right now his job was the Serrano crew. 

Didn’t matter because keeping you safe meant keeping distance, keeping you away from this life.

But still—fuck—his mind wouldn’t let it go. 

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. 

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.

Jason’s HUD zoomed in, catching sight of a few guards smoking out front.

He drew a long, steady breath through the filter of his mask. 

This was where he belonged—in the hunt, in the violence. And maybe, if he could keep his head straight, you’d 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. 

You, maybe even waiting for him, even though he told you not to. 

You, maybe wondering when he’d walk back through the door.

Jason’s 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 sigils—cheap intimidation tactics, trying to look like they belonged to some bigger syndicate. 

Floodlights hung overhead, buzzing faintly, casting everything in sickly yellow light that left long, jagged shadows across the concrete.

Jason counted bodies. 

Fifteen, maybe twenty. 

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. 

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 didn’t even look like they cared.

On the far side, a pair leaned against a shipping crate, smoke curling around their heads, muttering about nothing. 

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 weren’t even holding properly.

Others were louder—barking orders, pacing like they thought yelling made them leaders.

“Cut the shit, alright? You think Batman’s gonna give us time to sit around?” one snapped, voice sharp with nerves.

Another, young and wiry, scoffed back, “As if the Bat gives a shit about us. He’s out there playing tag with Joker or some other freak. If anyone’s gonna show—”

Jason smirked under the helmet when he heard his name.

“—it’s that Red Hood fucker we should be worried about.”

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. “Red Hood’s just one asshole. And half of what they say’s bullshit anyway. Nobody moves that fast, nobody clears out crews like that without backup. It’s a ghost story, man, stop being such a fucking pussy.”

Jason’s gloved fingers curled loosely around the railing. 

A ghost story.

He could live with that.

Closer to the middle, two were arguing.

“This is bullshit. Serrano’s got us sitting here guarding crates nobody’s gonna touch. Waste of a fucking night.”

“Shut your Goddamn mouth. You wanna be the one telling him you skipped out? You know what he’ll—”

Jason tuned them out. Their words didn’t 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 wasn’t Jason Todd anymore. He wasn’t 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 didn’t 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. 

Then another. 

Then three more.

The smoke bombs hit the concrete floor one by one, clattering sharp. 

For a heartbeat, no one reacted—just 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. 

Then curses. 

Then–

panic.

“What the—shit—” “Eyes! Can’t see—” “Fuck, what’s happening—?”

Weapons clicked up wildly, muzzles swinging in blind arcs. In the chaos, somebody fired.

The muzzle flash ripped through the smoke—and the bullet punched through another man’s arm. Screams tore out, muffled by the growing haze, followed by more gunfire, louder, frantic.

They weren’t hitting him. 

They were hitting each other.

Jason waited, crouched above, listening. 

The symphony of panic never got old. 

The coughs. 

The cries. 

The desperate, half-choked prayers from men who thought they’d 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 continued—-

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 didn’t even know he was there before Jason’s 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 man’s 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 another’s jaw. Bone cracked. Teeth scattered across the floor like dice.

Jason moved like water, each kill silent, efficient. He fired only when he had to—two shots to kneecaps, one to an eye socket. 

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 wasn’t 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 man’s skull in. Bone shattered with each hit until the face wasn’t recognizable anymore.

The floor was a killing ground. Bodies twitched in pools of red. Smoke curled over them like shrouds.

Jason’s breathing stayed steady, measured. No wasted effort, no hesitation. 

Every strike calculated. 

Every kill necessary.

This wasn’t vengeance. This wasn’t 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 alive—gurgling, choking, begging. Jason walked among them, boots slick with blood, eyes scanning for stragglers.

Most were already gone.

All but one.

An older guy—late forties maybe, scraggly beard gone gray at the edges, gut straining against his bloodied shirt—scrambled upright. 

He clutched his side, staggering toward the exit, legs quivering under his own weight. The wound wasn’t Jason’s. No. Jason never missed his shots. The bullet hole was sloppy, torn in at a bad angle. Probably one of the bastard’s 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 didn’t 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. 

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. 

Hope was fuel—and 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. 

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 didn’t need eyes on the guy. 

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.

Jason’s HUD tracked the splatter patterns, every droplet tagged and traced, glowing faint red outlines against the darkness. He could’ve followed it blindfolded if he had to.

The guy’s breathing echoed faintly ahead, ragged and wet, hitching with every step. A dying man’s soundtrack. Jason kept his own steady, closing distance only when he wanted to, keeping the leash tight.

He turned a corner—and 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 he’d tried to climb it before his body finally gave out. Blood was pooling beneath him, thick and slow. 

The end of the line.

Jason let out a tired, sharp sigh inside the helmet, fogging his visor for half a second.

“Fucking perfect.”

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 stance—oh, Jason knew that silhouette.

He knew it too fucking well.

Nightwing.

Or, as Jason’s brain put it: “great, it’s fucking Dick.”

Jason stalked closer, boots hitting puddles with heavy splashes.

His voice came out rough, distorted through the helmet’s modulator, low enough to cut through the alley hum.

“Shouldn’t you be with your little fucking boy band right now?” His arms spread in mock-innocence as he closed the gap. “What happened, pretty boy? Did Princess Tangerine kick you out of the clubhouse?”

Dick didn’t flinch, didn’t stop twirling his escrima. His tone came back smooth as always, clipped with that faint smile Jason always wanted to break off his face.

“First off—it’s Teen Titans,” Dick corrected, stepping aside so Jason could see the bleeding thug slumped against the fence. “Second, her name’s Kory. And I'll have you know she's back at out place waiting for me.” He flashed the smallest grin. “—thank you very much.”

Jason rolled his eyes so hard it felt like it scraped bone.

“Oh, my bad. Forgive me for not keeping track of your soap opera of a life.”

His boots squelched on the blood trail as he got closer, tone thick with mockery. “Next time I’ll remember to send flowers to your fucking space girlfriend, yeah?”

Dick didn’t rise to it. 

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 wasn’t the focus.

“You planning on finishing him?” Dick asked finally, casual, like they were just catching up.

Jason tilted his helmeted head. “What, you gonna stop me if I say yes?”

There was a pause. A subtle shift in Dick’s stance. The smile never fully left, but Jason saw the jaw tighten beneath it.

“Maybe,” Dick said.

Jason chuckled—sharp, bitter, mirthless. “See, that’s what I love about you, Bird Boy. You always gotta leave that door open. Can’t just say ‘yeah’ or ‘no.’ Always gotta be Mister Diplomatic. Like this city needs that shit.”

Dick sighed through his nose. “You don’t make it easy, Jason.”

Jason spread his arms again, exaggerated, almost theatrical. “I’m not here to make it fucking easy. That’s your job, remember? You get to smile for the cameras. I get to mop the floor with scum.”

He jabbed a finger toward the thug slumped on the fence, voice dropping lower, darker. “And that piece of shit right there? He’s 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?”

Dick shifted, escrima clicking together once before separating again. His eyes narrowed just slightly—measuring Jason, weighing the choices.

“Depends,” Dick said slowly. “What are you gonna do to him after you get your information?”

Jason tilted his head, silent for a moment. Then his voice came out flat, cold.

“What do you think Greyson?”

The silence stretched, broken only by the gutter drip and the wheeze of the half-dead thug trying to crawl.

Jason’s grip twitched against his thigh, itching for steel, itching for action. But under it all—under the blood, the bravado, the armor—was something heavier. 

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. Dick’s 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. 

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.

“P–please,” the thug stammered, voice high and broken. “Don’t kill me. I didn’t want to do this—I swear. I—I got a family. Kids. Please—”

Jason crouched low, his helmet tilting down at the man, the modulated growl of his voice cutting like razors.

“Save your fucking breath.” He scoffed, the sound sharp and humorless. “Your family’ll be better without you in it. That’s a fact.”

The thug whimpered, but Jason’s HUD was already working. A quiet flicker of data ran across his visor, his helmet scanning the man’s face, pulling criminal records, police reports, gang affiliations. A neat little file unfolded before him in seconds.

Jason’s lips curled into a grin behind the mask.

“Well, well, look at that.” His voice dripped with venom. “A loyal little son of a bitch, aren’t you? Extortion, trafficking, assault—hell, you even took a rap for your boss once. Real soldier material. That why he keeps you around? Or just because you’re too much of a dumb fuck to quit?”

The thug’s pleas spilled out faster now, tears cutting muddy lines down his grimy face. “Please, I—I didn’t have a choice—”

Jason’s patience snapped. His boot came down hard, pinning the man’s shoulder to the ground with a wet crunch. The thug screamed, body jerking.

“Alright. Now’s listening time,” Jason growled. He leaned closer, voice sharp, deliberate, every word cutting through the night.

“Here’s what I know. You’ve 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.”

He pressed harder, eliciting another scream, then barked, “Now, where’s your fucking boss?”

“I—I don’t know!” the man sobbed, face streaked with snot and tears. “Please, I swear to God, I don’t know where he is—”

Jason tilted his head. “Wrong answer.”

The gun barked once, sharp and deafening in the alley. A bullet tore through the man’s 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. “Shut the fuck up. Next one goes through your kneecaps. You don’t want that.”

“Jason,” Dick’s voice cut in, low, warning.

Jason didn’t even look at him. He snapped, “Shut the fuck up. You don’t like how I run things? Fuck off.”

Dick’s eyes narrowed under his domino mask, his jaw tight, but he didn’t move.

Jason turned back to the thug, his boot pressing heavier against the man’s chest now. “One more time, you motherfucker. Where the FUCK is he?”

The thug sobbed, shaking, blood pooling beneath him. His words tumbled out frantic and broken. “H-he’ll kill me if I tell you—”

Another shot cracked the night. This one went straight into the kneecap. Bone splintered, the scream that followed raw enough to tear the man’s 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. “You’re afraid to die? Trust me. I’ll do much worse.”

The man cried, begged, but Jason didn’t move, didn’t relent. The only sound was his ragged sobs, echoing off the brick.

Finally, in a voice shrill with terror, the thug broke. “O-okay! Okay! He—he’s meeting with the lieutenants. All of them. Big sit-down, I don’t know where exactly, but it’s about the shipments. Merchandise.”

Jason narrowed his eyes behind the visor. “What kind of merchandise?”

The thug shook his head violently, lips trembling. “I—I can’t—”

Jason’s boot slammed into his stomach, pressing down hard enough to drive the air from his lungs. “Answer the question.”

“G–girls!” the thug screamed, the word ripped from his throat. “It’s girls! Trafficking—young—Christ, please stop—”

Jason’s grip on the pistol tightened. His vision tunneled.

Heat rose in his chest, fury clawing up his throat. “You sick fucks.” His voice was low, shaking with rage. “That’s what passes for business now? Selling kids like goddamn cattle?”

The thug sobbed, nodding frantically. “That’s all I know! I swear to God, that’s all I know!”

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.

“Sure,” Jason said flatly. “That’s all you know.”

The man blinked up at him, hope flickering in his tear-swollen eyes.

Jason raised his gun.

Dick’s voice cut in, sharp. “Jason, don’t—”

The shot cracked like thunder.

The thug’s 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. “Oops.”

The word still hung in the air when Dick’s voice ripped through it, raw and furious.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!”

Jason didn’t even flinch, simply slid his pistol into the holster, motion casual, almost lazy, as though the body cooling in the gutter wasn’t even worth acknowledgment.

“Well,” Jason drawled, turning slightly to leave, “I’m done for the night. See you around, Dickie.”

He’d barely taken two steps when a hand clamped down on his shoulder. Hard. 

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. “Kinky. What’s the matter, not getting enough from Princess Short Skirt?”

The barb landed like a blade. 

Dick’s jaw locked, his eyes burning under the mask. “Don’t you dare,” he snapped, voice shaking with fury. “Don’t you dare turn this into one of your jokes. You crossed the line again, Jason! You always do!”

Jason stayed pinned, but only because he allowed it. 

His body radiated coiled violence, every muscle straining against the hold.

His silence only fueled Dick’s anger, the words spilling out sharp and relentless—the same sermon they’d both heard a thousand times, drilled into them since they first wore the mask.

“The second you pull that trigger, you’re no better than them! That’s what separates us from the bastards of Gotham. That’s what Bruce—”

Jason snapped, shoving Dick off with brutal force. 

His older brother stumbled a step back, breath ragged with fury.

“You done?” Jason’s voice was low, venomous, the modulator grinding it into a growl.

He didn’t wait for an answer. 

He pushed off the wall, turning as though the conversation were already over.

But Dick’s hand clamped down again, tighter, dragging him back with a force born from desperation more than strength. “Don’t walk away from me!”

Jason’s fist flew before the words finished leaving Dick’s 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. “You wanna talk about lines, Dick? You wanna preach at me like some goddamn priest?” His voice roared, echoing down the empty alley.

Dick spat blood, his glare unwavering.

Jason jabbed a finger at him, shaking with fury. “You think that code of yours means shit to the people who are already six feet under? Huh? You think Bruce’s 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?”

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.

“Your code? Bruce’s code?” Jason snarled, fists clenching so tight his gloves creaked. “It’s 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.”

His helmet tilted down, visor catching the faint streetlight as he glared. “But you tell that shit to the mothers of Gotham. To the ones who bury their kids because you and Bruce couldn’t stomach doing what needed to be done.”

Dick’s breath was ragged, his hands still balled into fists, but he stayed silent.

For once.

The argument he always had ready wasn’t there. Or maybe Jason’s words had punched harder than his fist.

Jason’s chest rose and fell, the rage simmering into something heavier, darker.

“Stay the fuck away from me.” he said finally, voice cold as steel.

And then he was gone. 

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 — Apartment

The ride back was a blur.

The bike thundered beneath him, red tail-lights streaking through Gotham’s sleeping streets. 

Wind screamed against his helmet, but it couldn’t drown the words rattling inside his skull—the same fight on repeat, the same wounds torn open again and again.

Dick’s voice. His own. 

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. 

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. 

Gotham breathed like a beast all around him—sirens wailing far off, the muffled shouts of some argument three blocks away, the low growl of a dog. 

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. 

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. 

The sliding door gave way with a soft clack when he unlocked it, and Jason stepped into the dim interior of his apartment.

He wasn’t expecting anything except silence. Maybe the rat’s 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 wasn’t Crook—or even the tail twitch—that widened Jason’s eyes.

It was you.

You had changed. 

Gone was the lilac top and pleated skirt from earlier, something Jason still hadn’t 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. 

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 different—it wasn’t trying, it wasn’t dressed for the world. It was just for you. And somehow, that hit harder than the skirt ever had.

(What you wear)

“Thank god,” Jason muttered under his breath, relief loosening his chest even as heat crawled up the back of his neck. 

Still sexy—of course you’d manage that—but at least not in a way that made his brain want to short-circuit.

You spotted him instantly. 

A tired smile tugged at your lips, warm despite the weariness in your eyes. 

Carefully, you set Crook down beside you on the counter. The pigeon stirred with a disgruntled coo but didn’t 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. “What are you doing up? I told you not to wait up for me—”

You ignored him completely. 

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.

“Hey, I’m serious,” Jason kept talking, trying to pull your focus with his words even as your fingers ghosted over the seams of his armor. “It’s late. You shouldn’t be—”

You didn’t 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 he’d tried to ignore all night.

Jason’s breath caught. He reached out, gently catching your wrist.

Your eyes snapped up to his, glowing hands paused mid-motion.

“I’m fine,” Jason said, voice steady, almost soft. “Don’t.”

You frowned, the glow pulsing faintly against his grip. “You’re not fine. You’re—”

“Save your strength,” he cut you off firmly. “You’re still hurt. Don’t waste it on me.”

“But—”

“No.”

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. 

With visible reluctance, you let the glow fade, slipping your hand from his and stepping back. Jason didn’t 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.

“How did your night fare?”

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.

“Messy,” he said finally. “But… handled.”

No mention of his brother. 

No mention of codes or corpses. 

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.

“Alright,” he said, pushing off the counter. “Time to hit the sack.”

You blinked, tilting your head in confusion. “Why would one wish to strike a sack?”

Jason barked a short laugh, shaking his head. “It means time to sleep.”

“Ah.” You considered this, tail flicking idly. 

Then you smiled.

Jason smirked back, the edges of his mouth quirking up with tired amusement. “So. You gonna let me take the couch tonight?”

Your smile then turned into a glare that could have frozen lava. “Not in all the nine realms of hell.”

Jason snorted.

And with a shake of his head he spoke up again. “Well then,” Jason started, voice dry, “guess we’re sharing again, Princess.”

You gave a small nod of agreement, already turning toward the hallway. Jason’s eyes followed the sway of your tail before his smirk widened.

“Hopefully you keep your hands to yourself this time.”

Jason hears a small squeak and what sounds like a foot getting caught on the floor.

Jason’s smirk spread into a full grin and he shakes his head. 

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. 

The pigeon ruffled his feathers irritably, cooing with something between annoyance and threat as Jason scooped him up.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jason muttered, voice wry. “Sorry, your highness.”

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 here—in the dim apartment, with a pigeon in his hands and you waiting in the bed—there was something else. Something he hadn’t had in a long, long time.

Something like peace.

And for tonight, that was enough.

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 song—low rumbles, far-off horns, the occasional cry of a gull disturbed by Crook’s cousins. But within these four walls, all was still.

You stirred.

Your eyes blinked open—slitted, 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 leaf—but leather, metal, sweat, and soap. Mortal scent. 

Jason’s scent.

You drew a soft, startled breath.

You had expected to see his back—broad and strong, turned politely away, as it had been the night before.

But it was not so.

He faced you.

And worse still—so did you.

And worse than that—

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 flushed—a deep purple blooming across the soft blue of your cheeks and nose.

“By the roots of the World Tree…” 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. 

Mortal man. 

Unreasonably handsome.

His black hair, tousled now with sleep, fell in sharp contrast against the pale of his skin. That strange white streak—like a comet through ink—had 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 lashes—long, dark—fanned 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 happened—that 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 man—flesh and scar and soul.

There was a faint nick at his brow—some 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.

“Cease thy foolish flutterings,” you chastised yourself silently, willing your tail to stop betraying you with every flick. “Thou art no blushing maiden.”

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 him—not 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 shirt—you 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 cat’s 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. 

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 one—no one—had 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 breath—calm now, but still quickened with the aftershocks of your morning revelation.

Eventually you pulled yourself from your embarrassed state. 

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 overnight—thanks in no small part to your druidic magic and Jason’s unspoken care—you 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. 

The first place your wanderings took you was the kitchen.

You recognized it vaguely from last night—Jason had come here to fetch his strange box for healing—but 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 counters—some 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 eggs—eggs!—but 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 floor—small, 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 these—there 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 faintly—though not from cold—you 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 temple—a smudge, likely from the pillow.

The room had strange scents—sandalwood, mint, something that reminded you of a stormy forest. You opened a cabinet and found small tubes and bottles of mysterious potions—gel, balm, aftershave—and 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 didn’t open them—you didn’t dare. 

But you stood there, eyes wide, taking in the strange realm beyond. Gotham stretched out in smudged layers of metal, stone, and sky. 

Towering monoliths rose in all directions, some glittering with glass, others dark and bruised with age and soot. The air shimmered with distant motion—tiny dots of flying machines, flocks of birds, and blurs of light from faraway vehicles.

You placed a hand on the cold glass. “How strange your world is,” 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. There—tiny buttons. The glyphs meant nothing to you, but your curiosity demanded resolution.

You pressed one.

The world exploded.

Light and sound burst from the mirror—no, 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 you—a 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 feline—a 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. 

"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. 

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 didn’t 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. 

After a moment, your cat body shimmered again, and you returned to your normal blue form—now sitting upright, hair disheveled, face flushed in dark purples of embarrassment, and Jason’s 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. 

As you make your way over you watch as Jason swats Crook off of his head. 

“Rude” You hear the thoughts of Crook as he flies to your shoulder. 

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.

“Thy home is a realm of metal and chaos,” you murmured, gaze drifting over the unfamiliar devices. “This… lair of yours, it hums with strange life.”

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 — 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 don’t. 

The tip tapped on the counter every few seconds as if waiting for something. 

Jason noticed.

“Hey,” he said, his voice dropping, softening like the edge of dusk. “You okay? Really.”

When you finally look up from your lap Jason pauses. 

Your eyes, while unnatural, are beautiful, but behind them he sees something. 

Something he knows all too well. 

Fear. 

The cold from the strange light-box still clung to your spine. That horror—whatever that blood-stained wailing on the screen had been—was something else entirely. You had seen demons, you had spoken to tree-spirits, but that?

“'Twas… unlike anything I have seen,” you said at last. “And I have witnessed battlefields. I have seen the madness of corrupted dryads, the withering of the sick moon. But this—this realm’s nightmare made flesh in a box—”

“It’s fake,” Jason said quietly. “None of it’s real. Just actors and red corn syrup and special effects.”

You frowned deeply. “I do not know what half of those words mean.”

“I know.”

You tilted your head again and stared at him for a long moment. His kindness was steady now—not 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 it’s anxious twitching. 

Jason glanced your way as he poured himself a cup of the foul smelling liquid, and watched the way you stroked the pigeon. 

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. “So… you wanna ask me anything?”

You tilted your head again. “Thou are offering?”

He shrugged. “Figured it’s only fair. You introduced yourself to me, bleeding out, and all.. I introduced myself with a gun and a bad attitude. Kinda one-sided.”

You considered this. “Thou has a valid point.”

You lowered your gaze, brow furrowing faintly in thought. Crook gave a tiny sneeze and tucked himself under your elbow as you thought aloud.

“…I already know thy given name,” you said slowly. “Jason. But not thy full name.”

Jason blinked, not expecting that as your first question. “Oh. Uh… Jason Peter Todd.”

You repeated it under your breath, letting the sounds roll on your tongue like a sacred invocation. “Jason… Peter… Todd.”

You said it again, slower, like a ritual. Jason shifted under your gaze.

“…Why do you say it like you’re about to write it in blood under a full moon?”

You blinked innocently. “It is customary among my people to memorize the full name of one we owe a life-debt to.”

Jason choked on his coffee.

You frowned. “Art thou well?”

He coughed into his sleeve, then wiped his mouth. “Peachy. Just wasn’t expecting the whole life-debt thing before I finished my first cup.”

“Would you rather I not honor the sacred laws of my people?”

“I’m not gonna tell you what to do,” he muttered. “I’m just not used to being someone’s ‘sacred protector’ or whatever.”

You blinked. “You did aid me and bear me to thy den, heal me, and share thy bed.”

Jason froze. “Okay, first off, I didn’t share my bed in that way.”

Your tail flicked in amusement. “I did not imply carnality.”

Jason muttered, “You’re gonna be the death of me,” and took another long sip.

You let your legs dangle off the counter, bare feet swinging lightly. “What other questions am I allowed?”

He raised a brow. “Allowed?”

“Well, I would not wish to stumble into secrets,” you said earnestly. “I 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.”

Crook ruffled indignantly. “I tolerate him at best, doll.”

Jason leaned on the counter again. “Ask what you want. I’ll deflect if it’s too personal.”

You gave a slow nod and tapped a claw against your chin thoughtfully.

“…Why doth thou have white in thy hair? Is it a mark of age or of sorcery?”

Jason glanced up at the offending streak and shrugged. “Gray from stress. Got it when I came back from the dead.”

You stared. “You… what?”

Jason said nothing. Just took another sip, eyes on yours.

You waited.

He didn’t elaborate.

You frowned. “Thou cannot say something so cursed and then remain silent.”

Jason’s lips tugged at the edge. “You said nothing too personal. That one’s definitely too personal.”

You huffed. “Very well. Another, then.”

You looked down at your hands, curling gently around Crook’s small frame.

“…Why here? Why stay in such a place that scars the soul and poisons the air?”

Jason blinked slowly, caught off-guard by the shift in tone.

“…Because it needs people who can fight,” he said finally. “And because I was born here. Can’t shake it. City’s in my bones.”

You tilted your head again, watching him.

“You do not fight for the city, do you?” you asked softly. “You fight because no one else will fight the way you do.”

Jason didn’t answer immediately. He looked out the kitchen window at the skyline of Gotham — gray, jagged, broken and alive.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “That’s pretty much it.”

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 — 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 — 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 didn’t pull away.

“You carry much, Jason Peter Todd,” you murmured. “More than most mortals could bear.”

His eyes met yours, green meeting silted and slightly glowing (e/c) ones. 

And for a moment. 

Time ceased to exist. 

Jason Todd POV 

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 who’d 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 said—

“You carry much, Jason Peter Todd. More than most mortals could bear.”

Her voice had weight. Not volume—no, she didn’t need that. It had gravity. Like stone circles in the middle of ancient forests. Like moonlight filtering through ash. 

Jasons was by no means a poet.

 He wasn't soft. But the way she said his name—his full name—like it was a psalm instead of a scar, made something old and bitter in you… twitch.

He didn’t move. Not right away. Her hand was warm. The claws didn’t scare you—they were careful, reverent. Like she knew there was something fragile despite the armor he wore, the literal and the metaphorical.

Her eyes—the slit-pupiled kind you only saw in beasts and nightmares—looked at you like you weren’t a ghost. Like you weren’t a walking grave. Like you hadn’t died once already and dragged yourself out of the dirt.

Jason hated it.

And he couldn’t fucking deal with it.

So he pulled back—not forcefully, not enough to hurt her. Just enough to shift the world back into something he could control. He muttered, “I should get ready,” and brushed past her with all the grace of a kicked alley cat.

He didn’t 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 wrist—as 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 disheveled—likely from being scared awake from your earlier screams of terror. 

The little pigeon fluffed his wings, gave a dramatic huff, and muttered in your mind with a snort of psychic static:

“What’s up his butt?”

You blinked once. Twice. Then a soft, breathy sound escaped you—a 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.

“I… cannot no for certain,” you murmured, your voice soft and formal, as though speaking in reverence before a sacred grove. “His moods are like forest storms—fleeting, sudden, and oft accompanied by thunder.”

Crook tilted his head to the side, beady eyes gleaming. “Yeah, well, someone’s got thunder wedged where the sun don’t shine.”

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.

“Jason Todd is a haunted soul… a creature of sharp edges and deep hollows.” Your voice wove like wind through tall grass. “Wounded beyond what even time may fully mend. He walks through shadow with armor of wit and steel, but inside…”

You hesitated, brow furrowing.

“There is a boy who died and was reborn, still clutching the pieces of himself.”

Crook was quiet for a moment, feathers rustling as he adjusted his stance. Then, with surprising gentleness for a Gotham pigeon, he murmured:

“Yeah. I figured that out when I watched as he held a gun to your face and didn’t shoot. That’s trauma-boy language right there.”

You gave a solemn nod, your expression strangely peaceful.

“I 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.”

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 wasn’t 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. 

It wasn’t her fault. He knew that. 

She didn’t know how raw everything was.

 She didn’t know how fragile the glue holding him together had gotten in the last few years.

 And she sure as hell didn’t know what it meant when someone touched him gently.

Violence, Jason could handle. Threats? Bring it on. 

He’d been sharpened by it all his life. Bullets, knives, fire. Whatever life threw at him he never went down without a fight. 

And Jason always made a fight worthwhile. 

He could flirt, seduce, fuck, maim, kill. 

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. 

Especially when it came from someone who looked as soft and as warm as Y/N did. 

The way her strange eyes all but seem to haunt him. 

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 him—soft, 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 burned—anger, 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 hair—the souvenir from Lazarus—fell over his forehead like a comet’s tail. His reflection in the fogged mirror cracked for a moment. He didn’t 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 silence—it 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 resurrection—resurrection 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 witch’s brew around him—bubbling, churning, alive. It wasn’t water. It was some twisted imitation—thick 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 thrashed—fists 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 didn’t heal—it 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.

Joker’s grin. That awful, awful laugh.

The last look in Bruce’s eyes, that moment before everything exploded.

Silence.

Then—

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 inhuman—a 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 hell’s 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 didn’t trust it to stay still beneath him. And his mind—his mind—was a shattered mirror. Too many pieces. Not enough glue.

Footsteps. Voices. None of them real.

He thought he saw Ra’s. Or Talia. Maybe just shadows. All speaking in languages older than Gotham, talking about rebirth and purpose and vengeance.

He couldn’t 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.

“Where’s… Bruce?”

Not “Where am I?”

Not “What happened?”

“Where’s Bruce?”

Because that was the only name that mattered.

The laughter in his skull didn’t stop.

It echoed. A laugh he’d heard just before he died. Before bones broke and blood splattered the floor of that warehouse.

And it hadn’t stopped since.

Jason dragged himself upright, dripping, burning, vibrating with a fury that wasn’t entirely his own. Something in him howled for blood. For justice. No—not justice.

Retribution.

His rebirth wasn’t clean. It wasn’t holy. It didn’t make him whole again.

It made him a weapon.

When he looked in the mirror later, all he saw was green—green in his eyes where blue used to live. Green in the veins. Green under the skin. And red in his mind.

The Pit hadn’t 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 wouldn’t 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 underneath—the same detergent he always used, the one he'd picked because it didn’t smell like Wayne Manor. He’d tested a dozen brands before settling on that one.

He didn’t want to smell like that house.

Didn’t want to smell like Bruce.

Didn’t 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 wasn’t in the kitchen anymore.

That woman—the tiefling, or whatever magical term fit the blue-skinned, clawed and fanged mystery woman curled up in his space—she had touched him.

And worse, she’d 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.

She’d 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. 

Nothing in this room said anything of who he used to be. 

Except one thing.

A single photo tucked in the frame of the mirror.

A family photo of the Waynes. 

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 stranger’s 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 didn’t flinch.

 But he did.

“Fuck,” 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 Henley—the one that was soft from too many washes and clung to his chest just right. Socks, black. Boots—combat 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:

“Jay Smith.”

His alias.

His life.

The job didn’t pay shit. The hours were crap. His boss was a grumpy ex-marine who hated everything newer than a ’97 Chevy. But the shop smelled like coffee, grease, and freedom.

And most of all?

Nobody knew who the hell he was.

He wasn’t the dead Robin. He wasn’t Bruce Wayne’s wayward corpse. He wasn’t the Red Hood, scourge of Gotham’s 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 didn’t need the job.

He made more shaking down Gotham’s criminal elite than he'd ever make at the shop. Half the time, he’d 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 wouldn’t.

He’d 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 Bruce’s 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 floor—already 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 hadn’t 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 you’d touched his wrist.

How you spoke so softly.

Told him he carried more than mortals could bear.

And somehow, instead of brushing it off, he’d 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 first—herbs 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. 

Your tail swayed gently, not the anxious flicks from earlier, but a slow, distracted rhythm. In your lap sat that worn, leather satchel—one he vaguely remembered from the rooftop when he came back from grabbing his bike and found you feeding the rat-with-wings. 

Who was still in his home for some reason. 

And speaking of. 

Crook, the very pigeon from hell, sat perched like a smug gargoyle atop your fancy stick, which leaned against the couch’s 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 vendor’s bag from one of those fantasy games someone had tried to drag him into years ago.

He cleared his throat softly, but you’d 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. “You make a habit of carrying around a whole damn apothecary in that thing, or is this just a special occasion?”

You gave a soft smile and placed a corked vial back in its nest. “Tis 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.”

“…Right.” 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. “Don’t start, You're lucky I let you stay the night.”

The bird simply lets out a coo and Jason watches as You choked back a giggle, covering your mouth quickly.

Jason narrowed his eyes. “He said something, didn’t he?”

You nodded, the amusement tugging at your lips. “Aye. He claims thine very being here is rude.”

Jason let out a dry laugh, low and scratchy. “Carful rat, making you into soup is still an option.”

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. 

That look made his skin itch. 

“I’m headed out.” he said, scratching the side of his jaw. “Work.”

Your brow furrowed. “I see.“ and tilted your head, horns catching the light. “And this… work. You must leave for many hours, one would assume?”

“Yep. I’ll be gone most of the day. Should be back around five, maybe six if the new kid fucks something up again.” He hesitated. “That’s… like when the sun starts to fall, okay?”

Your tail curled tightly at your side. “And thou… would leave me alone?”

Jason didn’t miss the tension in your voice. The way your claws curled slightly against the satchel’s fabric.

“I’ll only be a few blocks away,” he said gruffly. “You’re safe here. No one knows you’re here. No one’s coming for you.”

He shoved his hands in his jacket pockets, shoulders stiff. “But yeah. I can’t stick around all day. Gotta keep up appearances.”

You nodded once, slowly, clearly trying to understand the strange ritual of "work" in Gotham.

Jason shifted again, then blew out a sigh. “Okay, so... a few things.”

You perked up, listening intently.

“First—don’t open the door. At all. Doesn’t matter who it is. You don’t know ‘em, you don’t answer. Got it?”

You nodded solemnly.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Second, don’t touch any of the weapons. Some are loaded. Some aren’t. Doesn’t matter. Just don’t.”

“Understood,” you said, voice steady.

“And last… just don’t burn the place down or open a portal to hell or whatever it is druids do.”

You looked vaguely insulted. “I am a druid of the Grove, Jason Peter Todd. I heal and ask nature for aid.. I do not open portals.”

He raised his hands. “Alright, alright. My bad.”

Crook flapped his wings once, then resettled.

Jason scratched his neck again. “There’s food in the fridge—cold box in the kitchen. I think I saw some damn apples in there. Eat if you’re hungry. And water’s from the sink, it’s fine.”

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. 

He rubbed at the back of his neck again. 

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. 

You meanwhile still staring at the TV like it might come alive and lunge at you. Jason didn’t blame you. As he was sure you were still traumatized from your earlier exploration.  

Jason paused, thumb hovering over the power button.

“Relax. It won’t attack you,” he muttered. “It’s not like... that screen from earlier.”

You looked at the TV warily. “Thou swear it?”

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.

“There. Animal Planet.” He dropped the remote into your lap. “It’s not some horror show. Just... weird Earth animals doing weird Earth animal things.”

You studied the screen as a herd of deer-like creatures bounded through the grasslands, their delicate legs barely touching the earth. 

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.

“That one’s called a lion,” Jason added. “She’s the boss out there. Queen of the plains. Kills what she eats, protects what’s hers.”

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 head—the slow knitting together of what you did understand and what still confused the hell out of you.

“And if this thing—” he pointed at the remote, “—starts playing something else and you get spooked again, just press this.” He guided your fingers to the power button, firm but not unkind. “This turns it off. Dead. Silent. No more... demons screaming.”

You nodded, biting your lip slightly. “A simple charm, then. Press to bind the spirit. Press again to banish it.”

Jason blinked. “...Yeah. Sure. Let’s go with that.”

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 patch—“Jay”—catching the light.

You stood carefully as he reached for the handle.

“Will thou…return safely?” you asked softly.

Jason froze for a half second. The weight of that question was heavier than it should’ve been. People didn’t usually ask that. Or if they did, it wasn’t like that—like you meant it.

He turned halfway, green eyes catching yours again. “Yeah,” he said. “I always do.”

He hesitated, then nodded to Crook. “Keep her company, you little feathered bastard.”

Crook puffed his chest proudly.

Jason opened the door. The city’s noise filtered in faintly—sirens, 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. 

“Hold down the fort till I come back, you hear.” 

You tilted your head, solemn. “ I vow upon the Verdant Mother’s grace—no man, or beast shall lay harm upon your home.”

Jason blinked. “...Okay. That was… Dramatic, but I appreciate it.”

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.

“Gods, saints, hell—whatever’s listening. Just let my apartment still be standing when I get back.”

And with those final words the day of Jay Smith begins.

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 else—something old. But maybe that was just his own thoughts rotting in his skull.

Jason crouched near the edge of a rooftop—tall, 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 slap—real, 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 laugh—quiet, 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 he—"

"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 plea—."

Jason clicked the comm off.

Just like that, the world fell into silence again. A heavy, pressing kind. It wasn't peaceful anymore—it 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 him—cold, unforgiving, familiar.

The Red Hood didn't have time for sadness. Or apologies.

But just as he lifted his arm to fire the grappling hook—

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.

No—someone.

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.

"FUCK—!"

They hit the rooftop hard. Jason's back crashed against cold concrete, breath crushed from his lungs. The world rang.

His vision blurred—but 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 up—and 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 finally–

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 wide—not 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, even—she whispered, "Please... I don't wish to fight thee. I have no knowledge of where I am. If you could just cal—"

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 attacked—there were bandits—and the magic, I didn't—"

"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 now—worn 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 still—still—you 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 I—"

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 eyes—or where they should be behind that cursed helm—and 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 the—?!"

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.

Another—closer. Too close.

He's not aiming to kill.

But the warning was clear.

Still, you ran harder, faster—toward 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 again—back, 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 fingers—warm, 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 fury—radiating 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 surrender—but 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 too—even if your knees shook doing it.

Lifting your chin slightly, your voice rasped—steady 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 again—clearer, 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 listening—but 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 this—what 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 brigands—outlaws of my own land—who sought to take what they would. I stood to fight them, though I was outnumbered."

Your eyes flicked to the ground, remembering it—the 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 rift—no 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 stood—Barely.

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 breath—shaky, shallow—and 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 gaze—or 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 again—to flee as bird or beast—but 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 — sharp, unclean, cold. Your legs buckled again, and your breath hitched in your throat.

Finally—

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 — just slightly — 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 — 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 — 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 — he was already running.

"Shit—!"

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 look—like 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 — 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 you—?"

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-second—unsure whether she was going to pass out or puke—

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 — 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 conscious—"

Her shoulders shook.

A grunt escaped her lips — 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 — 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 — 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 pit—slow, 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 — 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 — "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 — 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 — her staff — 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 further—"

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 — 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 — a growling sentinel made of anger and iron — 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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — not words exactly, but the essence of understanding — 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 — fingers fumbling — 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 — elixirs, salves, herbs, dried fruits... and the soft glint of jewelry wrapped in woven cloth.

You ran your fingers across one piece — a silver ring inlaid with a dull opal. When you touched the stone and closed your eyes, you could feel it stir — 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 — 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 — with a flutter and a determined hop — it landed softly in your lap, nestling down as though it had always belonged there.

"Strange," it said — not in words, but in meaning.

Strange, but not frightening.

The bird blinked slowly at you. Then came a pulse of thought — clear and bright:

"Never seen a human like you."

You smiled wider, despite the ache in your side.

You chuckled — 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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — neither offended nor bothered — 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 — 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 — emerging from the edge of the dark, leather coat whipping behind him, red helmet glinting under the moonlight —

He was back.

The red-helmed man.

The mortal storm.

He paused mid-step, staring at you — 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 — 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 — something distinctly unholy — 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 — steady, surprisingly gentle — 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 — 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 — without ceremony — 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 tension—

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 — 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 — firm hands steadying your waist.

"Easy."

Your cheeks warmed — from pain or proximity, you couldn't tell — 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 — with a tight jerk on the line — 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 — 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 — just slightly — 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 then—

He stepped off the ledge.

The wind howled around you — cold and furious, lifting your (h/c) hair like leaves caught in a storm — 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 — but your legs, unbidden, wrapped firmly around his waist, locking at the ankles behind him.

"By the gods—!"

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 — cruel and cold and endless — 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 finally–

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 — littered with trash bins and the reek of oil and damp stone — 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 — 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 — 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 — or at least his — 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 — 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 above—

A flutter.

A soft whistle of wind.

And the sound of wings.

"Crook," you murmured.

With a fluttering grace, your companion returned — 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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — 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 — 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.

Jason Todd’s POV

Peace.

Not the graveyard kind. 

Not the brittle, suffocating kind that came after too much blood, when silence pressed down so hard it was louder than noise. 

No—this was different.

It was……

Soft.

Warm.

Caring.

The kind Jason didn’t get. 

The kind he wasn’t supposed to get.

And for what felt like a long moment, Jason didn’t stir. 

His body was still, his mind too slow to realize it wasn’t 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. 

Just… breathing.

And weight. 

There was weight on him.

He blinked, groggy, lids heavy. 

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 it—the 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. 

Your hand—clawed, sharp-tipped—was resting over his chest, right above his heart.

Jason swore under his breath. “For fuck’s sake…”

His head fell back against the floor with a dull thud.

This was—Christ. He couldn’t even begin to unpack this.

You, wrapped around him like this wasn’t the worst idea in the goddamn world. 

Like you didn’t know what kind of man you were holding on to. 

And as Jason continue to lay there he felt the your tail twitching every now and then like even in sleep, you couldn’t hide what you were feeling. 

Comfortable and at ease.

With him.

And it would’ve been—hell, Jason didn’t want to admit it, but it would’ve been nice.

Except.

Except when he dragged his gaze lower, the world reminded him it was Gotham, and peace wasn’t allowed to last.

Because on his chest—his chest, right above where your clawed hand rested like some poetic goddamn symbol—sat 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.

Jason’s eye twitched. He glared down the bridge of his nose at the smug little lump of feathers, muttering low through clenched teeth. “I really, really need to find recipes on what I can cook you into.”

The pigeon shifted, cooing faintly, as if mocking him. 

Jason swore he felt the bird’s 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. 

This was his actual life.

Former Robin. 

Murdered by the Joker. 

Dragged through hell’s 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 woman…... And a pigeon.

“Unbelievable,” Jason muttered, words muffled against his palm. “Absolutely unbelievable.”

He should’ve moved. Should’ve shoved both of you off him, gotten up, gone to do what he did best—move, run, fight. That was safer. Easier.

But he didn’t.

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 him—your warmth—wasn’t 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 he’d ever seen them. No guardedness. No strange, foreign tension of being stranded in Gotham. 

Just… serenity. The kind Jason hadn’t 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. “One of these days, bird. One of these days.”

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 breathing—the slow drag of yours, the faint whistle of Crook’s tiny body, and his own chest rising beneath both of you.

It was…

Peaceful.

Jason wasn’t used to this kind of peace. 

Not anymore. 

Peace usually came in the form of exhaustion so deep he didn’t 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 this—this wasn’t 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 he’d never admit it out loud. He’d seen plenty of monsters in his time—things with fangs and claws and eyes that glowed. 

But your horns weren’t monstrous. 

They looked… regal. Beautiful, even.

That thought made his throat tighten, so he pushed it away fast, shoving it back where it belonged—behind the wall he’d 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 weren’t the strangest damn thing he’d ever stumbled across. Like he wasn’t a man who’d 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 didn’t follow through. Didn’t shove. Didn’t 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 wasn’t carrying it all alone.

The thought made him laugh, soft, bitter. Carrying you and a pigeon wasn’t 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 wasn’t about to get caught petting you like some creep.

Not when you’d 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 wasn’t 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 wouldn’t last. It couldn’t. And when it broke, it would break hard. He knew that. He’d 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 slowly—hesitantly—he brushed his fingers once through your hair, careful not to wake you.

It was soft.

Softer than he’d 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.

“You’re gonna get me killed,” he muttered, voice barely more than air.

Crook cooed, as if in agreement.

Jason scowled at the bird. “Not a word outta you.”

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 Jason—Jason stayed right there, staring at the ceiling, stuck between wanting to shove the world away and wanting to freeze this moment forever.

He didn’t know which one scared him more.

Y/N POV

Warm.

That was the first thing you felt. 

Not the chill of stone caverns, nor the damp bite of moss-soaked earth. 

Not the biting winds that haunted the cliffs of home. 

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. 

And with that movement came scent.

Strange. 

Arresting. 

Familiar now, though you had no word for it in your tongue. Steel and smoke, but not of the forge-fires you once knew. 

This smoke stung, sharp and acrid, burning faintly at the back of your throat like sulfur from a battlefield’s 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. 

Beneath it lingered leather—aged, 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 then—

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. “Good morrow, dear Crook,” you whispered, voice hushed, reverent for the moment’s stillness.

The pigeon stirred. One beady eye cracked open. Then his voice—not aloud, never aloud, but sharp in your mind, that grating accent he bore like armor—rang through you.

”What’s good, doll? How’d we sleep?”

You blinked, startled, though you’d grown accustomed to his intrusion. Then your smile softened. “Very well indeed.”

The pigeon shifted, feathers rustling. You swore you felt the smirk in his tone. “I’ll bet. Especially on pretty boy here.”

Everything in you froze.

The events of last night slammed back into you like a crashing tide. Jason’s 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 now…

Now you looked up.

Slowly. 

Oh, so slowly, as if dragging your soul through quicksand.

And when your eyes found your mark—

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.

“Comfortable, princess?” he rasped, voice thick, low from disuse.

Your mouth opened. Nothing emerged.

Closed. Opened again. Your fangs flashed briefly, lips parting—but still no sound.

Words fled you. Entirely.

This was worse—far worse—than 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. 

That strangeness had unsettled you, yes, but this—

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 other—

Something seized you. 

Some reckless current, primal and undeniable, that surged through your veins before you could think. Your hand lifted, betraying you. Fingers trembled as they rose—slow, reverent—and 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. 

Reflected.

Jason did not speak.

Nor did you.

Silence wrapped around you both, thick, fragile. A moment suspended on the edge of shattering.

And then—

“So… you and broody gonna kiss or what?”

The voice sliced into your skull, crude and brash, dripping sarcasm. Crook.

“’Cause lemme tell ya, doll, the suspense is killin’ me here.”

You jolted. Whipped your head to glare at the pigeon. “I—I was not—! We were—he and I—there was no intent of such—”

Your words tripped, tangled, collapsing over each other in flustered fragments.

Crook’s eye glinted wickedly, feathers puffed with smugness. “Sure, doll. Whatever helps ya sleep at night… though it seems like broody helps with that.”

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.

Jason’s lips curved—barely, faintly—but curved all the same. It wasn’t 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 there….Neither of you spoke. 

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 you’d 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 weren’t meant to witness.

But then—

A sharp trill shattered the silence.

Jason’s little box of wonders—his phone—screeched 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. “You mind?” His voice wasn’t sharp, not curt—simply clarifying. Requesting space.

You startled, head shaking quickly. “Nay! Not at all!” 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. “Forgive me—I… aye, of course.”

Your face burned as you pressed your palms against it, desperate to hide the glow radiating from your cheeks. 

But no matter how you shielded yourself, you could not quell the ache—the sudden hollowness—that 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. 

And Jason all but shoved him into your hands.

“Next time you sleep on me, bird,” Jason growled, glaring, “watch what happens.”

Crook twisted his neck around, fixing Jason with a beady, unamused stare. Then his voice unfurled in your head, dripping with sass. “Yeah? Try it, tough guy. See what happens.”

You stifled a laugh, pressing your lips together tightly as your tail gave the faintest twitch behind you. Jason and Crook’s 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. 

He snatched the phone, thumbed across the glowing surface, and lifted it to his ear with another weary sigh. “Yeah,” 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. 

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. 

 Crook, freed from your hands, waddled once in a circle before hopping squarely into your lap. He puffed himself up, feathers smoothing as if he’d 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 thoughts…

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. 

Protected. 

Encircled. 

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.

Jason’s 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 hadn’t 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 yet—even then—you 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 Crook’s feathers, and you whispered it aloud before you could stop yourself.

“Just how wounded are you, Jason Peter Todd?”

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 Crook’s feathers, your voice soft, almost prayerful. “I know not how to mend thee. But if there be a way, I… aye. I would find it. I would.”

For you were druid. Healer. Guardian. You had sworn your life to tending wounds—of beast, of land, of spirit. And Jason’s 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 city’s edge, light striking the steel and stone of Gotham’s towers. It was not the dawn of your homeland, where sunlight dappled through branches and painted moss in gold. 

But it was dawn nonetheless.

And in it, you whispered a vow—not 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 Dick’s voice. 

The Caller ID had flashed his older brother’s name across the screen, and though Jason had nearly ignored it, some nagging instinct had made him swipe to answer.

He didn’t even get a hello out before—

“Finally! You picked up—good. I wasn’t 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 wasn’t an option no matter how sleep deprived I am, so that only left—”

And as the boy continued to ramble Jason’s spine went rigid.

That wasn’t Dick.

That wasn’t even close to Dick.

It was the one voice he would’ve sworn he’d rather chew glass than hear.

Tim. Fucking. Drake.

Jason clenched his teeth, the muscles in his jaw ticking hard. 

Of all the bastards in Gotham, this was the last one he wanted to listen to at—what, seven in the damn morning? Eight? He would’ve taken Bruce’s sanctimonious sermons over this smug little upstart any day.

The replacement.

The kid who’d slid into his spot without hesitation. Who got to sit at Bruce’s table, wear the damn “R,” act like he belonged. 

Like Jason hadn’t bled and died for it first.

Meanwhile Tim just kept talking, words spilling out rapid-fire. “—so yeah, swiping Dick’s phone was probably my only option, but hey, at least it worked. You’d have hung up if you saw my name, right? You definitely would’ve. Or maybe you’d have blocked it, which would be fair, not that I’m saying it’s actually fair, but you know what I mean—”

Jason pinched the bridge of his nose, patience already fraying.

Tim went on. “Anyway, look, the point is I needed to get a hold of you, and you weren’t 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 you’d agree, but—”

Jason snapped.

“What do you want?” he growled, voice low and lethal. His grip on the phone tightened until the plastic casing creaked. “Make it fast. I got things to do.”

Lies. 

He didn’t. 

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 Tim’s mouth. Then, in a smaller voice:

“Right. Sorry.”

Jason rolled his eyes skyward, exhaling slow.

Tim cleared his throat, then shifted gears, the words slower but still edged with that irritating earnestness. “Okay. So. There’s a situation. One of the gangs down on the Narrows—Los Arpías—you know them?”

Jason grunted. “I know of them.”

“They’ve been moving in heavy the last couple weeks. Guns, drugs, the usual. But this time they’re running something bigger. Coordinated. Which isn’t their style.” 

Tim’s tone sharpened, clipped. “They’ve got trucks moving shipments through the docks. Word is, it’s not just contraband—it’s weapons stockpiles. Military grade. Enough to arm half the East End.”

Jason leaned back against the dresser, eyes narrowing. “So what?”

“So,” Tim pressed, “one of the guys tied up in it—the one running point for the Arpías—is a name I think you’ll care about. Leon Vargas. Ring a bell?”

Jason’s grip tightened.

Vargas.

Yeah, he knew Vargas.

A gutter rat.

The kind of loser who’d scrape the bottom of every barrel in Gotham until there was nothing left but splinters and rot. Jason had seen his type a thousand times—sweaty palms, twitchy eyes, always looking for a bigger dog to hide behind. 

Vargas wasn’t clever, wasn’t strong, wasn’t 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. 

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 didn’t need to hear the whole damn PowerPoint presentation. He could already see where this was going.

He cut in, voice low and flat. “So what you’re really saying is, you want me to make the bastard cough up what he knows.”

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: “Yes. Exactly.”

Jason exhaled hard through his nose, dragging a hand down his face. “Christ almighty.” His tone dropped into a growl, bitter and tired. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that? Stealing Dick’s 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.”

“Jason—”

“Save it.” Jason spat out pacing the floor, his steps heavy against the worn boards. “I don’t have time for your Boy Wonder bullshit.”

The silence that followed was sharp. But Jason wasn’t done—not 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 wasn’t family. Vargas wasn’t a friend. Just a punk who’d managed to weasel his way under Jason’s temporary umbrella. And if the Arpías 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 Bruce’s nod, Bruce’s training, Bruce’s fucking approval while Jason was six feet under. If anyone deserved to hear “fuck off” and a dial tone, it was him.

Three. This wasn’t his problem. Not really. He wasn’t wearing a cape anymore. Wasn’t Bruce’s soldier. He had his own rules, his own territory. He wasn’t the goddamn babysitter for Gotham’s 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 didn’t want to admit, but it was there all the same.

If Vargas—his Vargas—had stepped out of line, then that meant something. Vargas was a coward, a rat. Rats didn’t stick their heads above water unless they thought there was a lifeboat waiting. If he was standing with the Arpías, 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.

“Motherfucker,” he muttered. “Piece of shit bastard can’t just keep his head down, no. Has to go play errand boy for a cartel that couldn’t organize their way out of a wet paper bag until someone handed them toys from Uncle Sam’s black budget. Jesus Christ.”

He wanted to hang up. Wanted to throw the phone against the wall, let it shatter into plastic and circuits, and pretend he’d never answered in the first place.

But he couldn’t shake it. That itch in the back of his skull. The one that whispered, If Vargas is moving weight with the Arpías, 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.

“Fine,” he finally muttered, voice low but edged with a promise sharp enough to cut steel. “Tonight. We’ll look for the bastard.”

The silence on the line broke instantly. Tim’s voice—too quick, too sharp—crackled through. “Really?”

Jason could hear it—real surprise. Like the kid actually hadn’t expected him to agree.

He narrowed his eyes, lips curling in a humorless smile. “Don’t get excited, replacement. I’m not doing this for you. You’ll meet me at eleven sharp. Alley off 43rd and Kingsley. And listen real close, ‘cause I’m only saying this once.” 

His voice dropped, venom coiled in every word. “You come alone. No Dick, no Bruce, no birds fluttering around in the goddamn shadows. If I even think you’re playing me—if I hear something I shouldn’t, if I smell one of their aftershave brands, or hell, just because I feel like it—I’ll blow Vargas’s brains out on the spot and leave you standing in the mess. Clear?”

The kid’s reply was quick, steady, and tight with effort. “Got it. Alone. Just me. No Dick, no Bruce. Understood.”

Jason could tell he wanted to say more—maybe thank him, maybe explain, maybe try to bridge that gap that had been festering between them since day one. But Jason wasn’t having it. Not tonight.

He cut him off the only way he knew how. 

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. 

Heavy footsteps carried him down the hallway, the walls pressing in, the apartment suddenly feeling too small, too empty, too loud with thoughts he didn’t 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 always—crooked 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. 

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 who’d stepped into his boots, into his colors, into his place at Bruce’s side. The one Bruce had trained. Had accepted. Had actually called “Robin.”

Jason’s grip on the sink tightened, the porcelain groaning under his hands.

He wanted to hate him. 

Christ, he wanted to. 

It would be easier if he did. Hatred was sharp, clean, it burned through you fast. But this? This was a mess. Because the truth—the ugly truth Jason couldn’t scrub out no matter how many times he looked in the mirror—was that it wasn’t Tim’s fault.

The kid hadn’t asked for it. 

Hadn’t killed Jason to wear the mask. Hadn’t stolen the mantle. 

He’d just… stepped in, because someone had to, because Gotham never stopped bleeding, and Bruce sure as hell couldn’t stand to fight without a soldier at his side.

Jason knew that.

And still.

Still, every time he saw Tim’s 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 saving—every damn time it was like another knife in the ribs.

Because Jason had bled for that role. He’d died for it. And when he clawed his way back from the grave, half-mad, burning with rage and Lazarus fire, he’d come home to find someone else sitting in his chair. 

Someone else wearing his name.

“Fuck.”

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 didn’t.

When he opened his eyes again, his reflection hadn’t changed. Same scars. Same shadows. Same man who wasn’t 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. 

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 who’d been replaced.

He let out a laugh—short, harsh, humorless.

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” he muttered.

Then he hung the towel back, turned off the light, and walked out, already building the armor in his mind.

Tonight wasn’t about Tim. Wasn’t about Bruce. Wasn’t 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. 

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. 

He tilted his head back, staring once again at the cracked ceiling above. 

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, that’s all there was. 

Quiet—not the good kind, not the kind you get in the woods or in a safehouse buried in snow. 

No, Gotham’s silence was never really silence. 

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. 

The little bastard perched somewhere near the armrest, cooing soft, almost musical notes that filled the empty spaces. Crook’s feathers rustled, a sound delicate and small, so at odds with everything else in this city.

Jason breathed. 

Just breathed, letting it all wash around him. 

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 him—always too damn warm, like your blood carried fire instead of iron. 

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 didn’t.

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.

“So,” he drawled, not looking at you yet. “How’d you like the shithole I call home?”

He didn’t exactly get to ask yesterday.

Couldn’t. 

Not when the words you’d spoken in the park—strange, haunting, foreign—were still echoing in his head like a song he couldn’t scrub out.

And Jason watched as your (e/c) eyes lit instantly, slit pupils narrowing in excitement, and Jason couldn’t stop himself from finally turning his head just enough to catch it.

“Aye,” you began, voice lilting, edged in that cadence he’d already memorized. “I…, I cherished it greatly.”

And then you were off.

“The scents!” Your hands moved slightly, as though to gather them from the air. “Never 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.”

Jason let out a breath that might have been a laugh, faint, but he didn’t interrupt.

“And the sounds,” you went on, eyes bright as stars. “The beating heart of this Gotham never slumbers. ‘Tis 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 wings—oh, 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 sky—it made mine own heart stir.”

Your head tilted, ears twitching ever so slightly, catching sounds Jason barely noticed anymore.

“And the beasts of metal!” you exclaimed, awe lacing your words. “Thy 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.”

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 he’d cursed every day of his life like it was some epic wonder.

“And the Ice cream,” you said suddenly, voice dipping almost reverent. “The 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!”

Jason huffed, lips tugging at the corner, but still didn’t interrupt.

“And the green!” Your voice lifted again, bright, eager. “With 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, aye—but enough to ease the ache of memory.”

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.

“Jason,” you murmured, softer now. “Thy Gotham is wondrous. Harsh perhaps as you say, aye… But alive. Fiercely alive. And to stand amidst its cacophony, its scents, its breath—I felt… not alone.”

The last words fell quieter than the rest, carried on the hush of Crook’s 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 didn’t even realize had formed. Small. Subtle. Gone if you blinked.

But it was there.

Because for once, the weight of Gotham wasn’t crushing him. 

For once, the noise didn’t sound like chaos—it sounded like wonder, because that’s 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 he’d found something worth listening to.

You.

And as you went on, words tumbling over each other, painting the city in colors he’d 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.