â The Ghost Between Us â
Chapter 01
Pairings: Dick Grayson x Reader, Jason Todd x Reader
Warnings: Grief, death, depression (kinda?), angst
Notes: This was not supposed to be this long, and I was not supposed to get hurt by my own writing, but here we go...
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after you, nothing was ever enough
You never removed Jasonâs mug from your kitchen cabinet.
It has a chipped rim from when Jason was showing you some interpretative dance moves in the kitchen and his arm sent it flying back.
The crash startled you both, but then you just ended up laughing until your stomach hurt, and distracted with that, you burned the pasta again. Cue more laughter.
You told yourself youâd put the mug away with the rest of Jasonâs stuff, but you never did. It sits in the back of your old wooden cabinet, taunting you.
Reminding you that Jason wasnât around for coffee breaks, midnight snacks, and kitchen dances anymore.
No. Because heâs dead. Has been for a while now.
Someone else takes up the space in your apartment instead.
Dick.
You arenât sure how it happened, but he started spending the night at your place more often than not. His toothbrush joined yours by the sink, his jacket started appearing on your armchair, his shoes at the door, and his mug next to yours.
Sometimes, you still pause by the cupboard and hesitate, you almost pick up the wrong mug â it shouldnât even be that big of a deal â but it feels like your heart wonât let you completely vanish Jason from your life.
It wants traces of him everywhere, as if there arenât enough in the way your heart is shattered inside your rib cage, how it has been that way for so long now.
Your eyes take in the fading Wonder Woman symbol drawn on the mug, your fingers twitch at the handle, almost like muscle memory.
Two mugs. One for you. One forâ
Ghosts donât drink coffee. They donât stay. And yet, Jason always lingers at your table.
You donât talk about it with anyone. You donât know how to.
Some things, a heart only whispers in the dark, like the echoes of a love so poignant, it refuses to end.
You donât tell Dick. He doesnât deserve this. Not when he picked all the scattered pieces of you and tried â has been trying â to put them back together.
Sometimes, you wonder if he sees Jasonâs memories dancing behind your eyes when heâs holding you close, and kissing you like youâre all he ever asked God for.
Sometimes, you wonder if youâre in the wrong.
Sometimes, you wonder why it still feels like a betrayal to fall in love with someone who isnât him.
A lot of times, you wonder if Jason would hate you for this.
And Dick?
Sweet, steady Dick, he never asks you things like; âdo you still see him in your dreams?â And, âwhat does he had that I donât?â And, âdo you think youâll ever stop loving a ghost?â
No, Dick never asks. But you see the quiet questions dancing in his beautiful, bright eyes.
Dick never asks you to forget.
He just asks you to stay.
And, at nights when he can feel you slipping away, he wraps his arms around your waist, presses his forehead to yours like heâs just lucky to be here, like heâs simply grateful being able to love you even when part of him knows you donât love him the same. Not yet, anyway.
The hope in his sky-colored eyes is what makes your heart feel a little less broken.
Because, if he can hope for you to love him, then â maybe â you can hope for yourself to stop loving a ghost, too.
And somewhere, somehow, you find yourself trailing that dangerous edge of love again.
You love Dick. Almost.
You stay. Mostly.
Until Jason walks back into your life like a loaded gun placed right over your heart that never quite stopped beating for him.
âHeâs back."
The Gotham skyline is painted a warm hue with golden rays of sunlight peeking through the clouds. The city is still asleep except for the light hum of traffic somewhere far away, where people have already started their day.
You're in bed. Dick's arms are warm around your waist, your back pressed to his chest, and his face buried between your shoulder blades.
His lips brush your skin, and you can feel his chest move with every breath. You've been awake for a while, thinking about nothing, staring at one spot on the wall like it will give you answers.
And then, the phone rings.
It's Dick's. He stirs and shifts behind you, gently untangling himself from you to reach the buzzing phone on the nightstand. You catch a name glowing on the screen:
Bruce.
You don't even think. You sink back into the sheets, inhaling the scent of Dick's cologne on your pillow, another thing you'd gotten used to overtime. It's too early, your head hurts.
But Dick picks it up, and says nothing. You feel it; the shift, the way the air feels tense even when no words have been spoken.
Dick stays silent for too long and you turn over, sitting half up in bed, your eyes take a minute to adjust.
Dick is sitting at the edge of the bed now, phone lowered and gripped so tightly his knuckles have gone white. And he hasn't moved, hasn't even breathed.
"Dick," your voice is soft, a little groggy, still sleep heavy when you reach for him. "What is it?"
He doesn't look at you. Just breathes. One breath. Then, another.
You brace yourself, for what, you're not sure.
After a few moments, he gathers himself.
And then, a broken whisper, "He's back."
You sit up straight like you've been hit.
Dick turns to you and you see it now, his eyes red rimmed, like he's holding in tears. And with that, you see something worse:
Terror.
Not the kind you wear on missions or in the face of loss.
This looks like the fear of loss.
Your mouth opens, but no words come out. Dick doesnât say whoâs back, he doesnât say anything more, but somehow you know. Your heart knows.
Itâs in the way your pulse surges, the way the air seems to grow in your lungs, the way your breath catches, like something buried deep just clawed its way to the surface: hope.
âJason?â You whisper.
Dickâs eyes search yours with a sense of desperation you donât seem to notice. He nods.
And thatâs when the light sparks in your eyes.
And god, he sees it. Like your chest has cracked open and something golden is spilling out of it. Itâs a version of you he hasnât seen in years â not since before the funeral, before the screaming and isolation, before the pills and breaking down in his arms at 3 am.
You donât say, I love him. But you donât have to.
Dick sees it in your trembling hands. In the way your lips part in something like wonder, like a miracle you never let yourself dream for.
And he hates it â he hates the insecurity, and jealousy, and fear he feels because of a dead boy who used to own your heart.
And maybe owns it still.
He hates that heâs not just happy that Jason is back. He hates that all of this dread overshadows his happiness.
He hates the way horror claws in his chest, not just for losing you. But for losing his brother, too, all over again.
And you? You look like you're suddenly breathing again after holding in your breath for years.
But when you look at Dick, there's guilt in your eyes, there's grief all over again, except this time, it's his heart on the line.
"He's different now."
You don't storm out the moment you hear Jason is back. You don't show up at Wayne Manor with trembling hands and tearful eyes.
You sit in bed with Dick when he explains how it happened, how Bruce figured it out, and how much has changed.
You hold him when he starts sobbing, and you cry together.
But then, the days start turning into restlessness. You finally go back to Wayne Manor after what feels like ages. It's as cold as it has always been. Except now, Tim stands beside Bruce, wearing those colors that still make your stomach turn.
"He's Red Hood, now," Bruce says, trying his best to keep his voice even but you've known him too long, "He's killing people."
You don't tell him that you couldn't care less. You don't tell him that you just need to see Jason. Just once. Maybe then, you'll breathe easier.
"He's not the same," Bruce continues anyway, his voice wavers, eyes up at the computer, and jaw clenched tight enough to break. "He's... angry. Different." Finally, he sighs, "I don't blame him."
You nod. Neither do you.
Later, Barbara adds, her eyes and voice tired, her expression one of pity, "Jason... died. And now he came back. That doesn't just change you..." She sighs, wraps her palm over your fist in your lap, "He's... darker now. He's not who we remember."
At night, when you come back home, you cry alone. Because you wish you could forget. You wish every day that you didn't walk around with your hands still stained in his blood and his memories clinging to you like shadows. You wish you could love someone else.
And maybe you do. But not how he deserves, not how you wish you could.
You lie in bed with Dick, wide awake, most nights. You let him wrap around you, bury his face in the crook of your neck, you let your fingers card through his hair, ignoring the painful echo of a name you can't say out loud swirling in your chest.
Sometimes, you even smile, kiss his jaw, and mutter sweet nothings in the dark. But even then, you're dreaming of someone else and maybe Dick knows it.
He doesn't say anything even when he wants to. He just kisses you more, holds you a bit tighter, and lets himself believe that maybe - maybe - you're choosing him.
And you pretend you are.
Until the day comes when you finally walk into that safehouse.
(Notes: This has one more part, dw)
Thank you for reading. Love y'all <3
