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36 Questions to Fall In Love

ch. 8

jason todd x reader

5683 • series masterlist

summary: in which you go on a retreat for tax purposes and make mortal enemies. also adopt a robot baby

wc: 12.5k

--- Questions used:

#20. What does friendship mean to you? #30. When did you last cry in front of another person? By yourself? ---

Jason’s duffel sits on the bed like a problem he hasn’t solved yet.

He stares at it. The duffel stares back. Neither makes the first move.

Packing should be easy. Clothes. Toiletries. Normal retreat things. He’s seen people do this. A civilian activity. A human activity. He’s watched YouTube tutorials on how to fold shirts before. He could do this blindfolded.

He tosses in two black shirts. Then three. One pair of jeans. Sweats. A hoodie. Socks. Toothbrush. Knife. Backup knife. No. Retreat. Soulmate retreat. He exhales, puts the knives back. After a beat, he pulls one out again, drops it in the side pocket. Just in case.

The gun sits on the dresser.

He stares at that next. Practicality wrestles with logic. It is a soulmate retreat, not a warzone. But he is who he is. Gotham runs in his bloodstream like an infection.

He grabs the gun. Checks the safety. Slips it under folded shirts. No one needs to know about that.

When he steps outside, Gotham is still dark. The kind of gray-blue early morning that feels like the world is holding its breath. His breath ghosts in front of him as he shoulders the bag and heads downstairs.

Duke’s car idles at the curb, headlights soft in the fog. Duke looks disgustingly awake.

“Morning,” Jason grumbles, sliding into the passenger seat.

“It is,” Duke says, way too chipper. “A beautiful one.”

Jason pinches the bridge of his nose. He was on patrol until three. His bones are vibrating in that post-adrenaline way, the kind that makes sleep impossible and consciousness inconvenient.

“It sure is,” Duke says, dangerously cheerful. “Love this vibe. Early productivity.”

Jason mutters something that might legally count as a death threat.

They drive. Street after street blurring past. Jason half-dozes against the window, not fully asleep, just in that soldier’s limbo where the mind flickers like a broken lamp but refuses to turn off.

Then Duke slows in front of your building.

And there you are.

Standing on the sidewalk at five in the morning like it’s noon in July. Suitcase upright beside you. Wool hat on because of the chill. A thermos in one hand, phone in the other. You wave like you’ve been vibrating in place for twenty minutes.

Jason wakes up instantly.

Duke pulls up and you walk around the car, reaching for the passenger door automatically but Jason stops you with a quiet, low “You take the front.”

You blink. “You sure?”

He nods, already sliding into the backseat. “Yeah. Easier for me to sleep.”

You climb into the front seat beside Duke, radiant and jittery and warm, and Jason settles behind you, head leaning against the cold window. Eyes closed. Breathing slow.

He is so faking being asleep.

He lies still with his eyes closed, breathing slow, body heavy in the practiced rhythm Bruce hammered into him years ago. He could sleep. Should sleep. He spent last night on rooftops with adrenaline instead of rest. His muscles ache. His mind hums.

But your voice is soft in the dark, warm in a way caffeine could never compete with, and he chooses that instead.

And because his eyes are closed, he gets to listen.

You and Duke fall into conversation easily, low voices in the early morning quiet. You discover you like the same show, the one with terrible CGI and deeply questionable writing decisions. Duke laughs. You gasp dramatically. You start quoting scenes and complaining about the season finale and Jason feels the corners of his mouth twitch.

He knows this show only because you once ranted about it for fifteen minutes straight.

God, you’re bright. Even at 5AM. Even in this dim car with snow on the streets and Gotham still half-asleep. You fill the space like sunlight leaking through blinds.

Jason pretends to breathe deeper asleep, but listening.

The train station glows under harsh fluorescent lights; too bright for 5:30 a.m., too awake for the rest of Gotham. Duke pulls up to the curb like he’s delivering royalty, smirking as you both unclip seatbelts.

“Alright lovebirds. End of the line.”

Jason glares. “Don’t call us th—”

“You totally are,” Duke says, already popping the trunk. “Have fun. Don’t die. Send pics.”

You thank him. Jason mutters something that does not sound like gratitude. Duke just laughs and drives off with a single, obnoxious farewell honk.

Inside, the station hums with early commuters. Coffee machines hiss. Loudspeakers murmur. Your hand brushes Jason’s when you pull out your tickets, and he pretends he doesn’t notice, but he does. He notices everything.

You find your train. Jason gestures for you to go in first. He always does. You pretend not to see the way he positions himself automatically between you and the crowd.

Your seats are side by side. He nudges you toward the window without a word.

You sit. He settles next to you. The train lurches once, then starts its slow crawl out of the station.

Five minutes in, you pull out sandwiches carefully wrapped in foil like you were packing lunch for a field trip.

Jason looks at you. You look proud. He takes one.

You talk a little in low, tired morning voices, until your sentences start drifting apart, thinning out like fog. Your eyes get heavy. You try to blink through it. Fail.

Your head tips toward the window.

Jason watches it happen. Watches you sag, slow as melting snow, until your cheek bumps the glass.

Then he turns his body slightly, lifts a hand, and with a gentleness that would stun anyone who’s ever seen him throw a punch, guides your head off the cold window and onto his shoulder instead.

You exhale against him, a tiny, unconscious sound. Your hand curls loosely toward his sleeve.

Jason stares straight ahead like he’s being tested by a higher power.

He could close his eyes. He could sleep.

But your weight is warm against him, your breath soft through the fabric of his jacket, and your hair brushes his jaw every time the train sways.

So he stays awake.

Just to feel you there.

—

The retreat is tucked deep into the trees, a low wooden complex that looks equal parts cozy and bureaucratic. Snow dusts the rooflines. Smoke curls from a chimney somewhere. It feels… quieter than you expected. Softer. Like the kind of place people come to figure things out.

Jason steps off the shuttle first, duffel over one shoulder. Before you can grab your own suitcase, he’s already rolling it behind him with his free hand. You open your mouth to argue. He doesn’t even look back..

You shut your mouth.

Inside, the facility opens into a bright atrium full of windows and indoor plants that definitely should not be alive in this climate. The front desk is manned by a woman in a beige cardigan who looks aggressively enthusiastic about love.

“Welcome! Soulmate Pairing 14?” she chirps.

Jason tenses beside you. You feel it more than see it.

You nod. “That’s us.”

She hands you both identical pamphlets full of pastel pages filled with module descriptions, smiling couples, clipart hearts. Jason takes his like it’s a bomb he needs to defuse.

“Orientation is at two,” the woman continues. “For now, feel free to explore the common rooms or settle into your quarters. You’ll find your room assignment on the back.”

Jason wheels your suitcase down the hallway, moving slower than his usual patrol pace but still purposeful, still protective. You trail beside him, nerves fluttering like moth wings under your ribs.

You set your bag on the floor with a little more force than necessary, because if you don’t do something, you might combust at the sight of the one bed. The room suddenly feels smaller, warmer, filled with an expectation neither of you know how to name.

Jason steps farther inside, giving you space. Or giving himself distance. Hard to tell.

He puts his duffel down gently, like being loud might break something fragile between you.

You clap your hands once, too brightly. “Okay! Classes! Before we both spiral about the bed.”

“Pick four,” you say, hopping onto the bed and sitting cross-legged. “We compare after. No cheating.”

Jason raises a brow. “How do you cheat at picking classes?”

“You’d find a way.”

He doesn’t deny it.

You both start circling options, but it’s impossible not to sneak glances at each other, at the way he leans forward, elbows on his knees, brow furrowed like he’s selecting weapons for a mission instead of modules like ‘The Art of Apology.’

When you’re done, you swap pamphlets.

You read his.

“Oh my god. ‘Self-Defense for Pairs.’ Shocking.”

Jason shrugs. “It’s practical.”

“‘Disaster Preparedness for Two.’”

“Also practical.”

“‘Soulmates and Communication Styles.’ That’s…” You look up. He’s suddenly fascinated by the carpet. “That’s actually really sweet, Jason.”

His ears go pink. “It seemed… relevant.”

Your chest does a thing, but you soldier on until the last one.

“Parenting Simulation?” you say, blinking.

He tenses instantly. “If you hate it, we don’t have to—”

“I don’t hate it,” you interrupt, smiling. “I’m just shocked you picked it.”

He shrugs again, but it’s the awkward kind. “I thought you might like … kids.”

“I like the idea of us in a room with something that cries less than you do,” you tease.

Jason snorts. “Wow. Offended.”

You grin. “Okay, my turn.” You hand him your pamphlet.

He reads aloud. “Conflict Management. Cooking for Couples. Shared Finances. Nature Walk.” His lips twitch. “These are so… you.”

“What does that mean?”

“Structured,” he says. “Organized. Very ‘I want to run a functional household.’”

You swat him lightly with your pamphlet. “And yours are very ‘I want to survive the apocalypse.’”

“We all have goals.”

“Okay,” you say. “Overlap.”

It takes thirty seconds. Everything falls into place without negotiation.

“Self-defense,” Jason says.

“Shared finances,” you add.

“Nature walk.”

And then, at the same exact time, you both say:

“Parenting.”

Your fingers brush as you tap the same circle. Neither of you pull away.

There’s a beat, not heavy, not frightening, just… warm. Familiar. Like standing in sunlight instead of spotlight.

The moment stretches. Comfortable. Domestic in a way neither of you fully understands yet.

“Okay,” you say, placing both pamphlets side by side like matching puzzle pieces. “We’ve got our lineup.”

Jason nods, softer now. “Yeah. Looks good.”

–

Orientation is at two, which leaves you about fifteen minutes to gather yourselves, smooth your hair, pretend you are Very Normal Soulmates who totally know what they are doing. You head downstairs together, Jason carrying both pamphlets because he “just wants to” (translation: he won’t let you juggle anything, ever). You hand your forms to the smiling staff member at the front table.

“Wonderful! We’ll process these for your course credits,” she chirps, like she’s narrating a children’s show.

Jason thanks her with a stiff politeness that makes you suppress a smile.

You both step into the main room which is a wide hall with rows of chairs, warm lighting, and the unsettling energy of mandatory bonding activities. Couples filter in, most of them radiating strange vibes. One pair is wearing matching tie-dye ponchos. Another is whispering very aggressively about chakras. A third couple is making out so intensely you feel like you should avert your eyes or offer them a room.

You find two seats near the middle. Jason hesitates before sitting, like he wants to give you the aisle seat in case you need to escape, then sits only once you do. His knee bumps yours, prompting you to look over.

“Drinks?” he asks quietly.

Your face lights. “Yes.”

“Apple cider?” you ask hopefully.

He gives you a look that says please, have some faith in me, and heads toward the refreshment table.

You turn back toward the forms desk, just to double-check you didn’t miss anything. It’s there that you hear a soft, pleasant voice.

“Oh! Hi—sorry, are you in the 2pm orientation too?”

You look up.

A woman stands across the table from you with a pretty, warm smile, soft curls, and a cozy sweater. She looks… normal. Blessedly, incredibly normal. Not staring lovingly into the void. Not treating this like the Olympics of Marriage. Just… normal.

“Yeah!” you say, relieved. “Finally, someone who doesn’t look like they’ve been training for this retreat since birth.”

She laughs. “Oh my god, right? I thought I was going insane. I’m Celeste.”

You introduce yourself, and both of you lean in across the table with the exact same breath of relief.

“Great to meet you,” you say.

“You too! Seriously, I was starting to think everyone here communicates through soulmate pheromones.”

You snort. This woman is a gift.

You scan the room. “So which one’s your soulmate?”

Celeste brightens. “Guess.”

You follow her gaze. A few guys stand clustered near the fireplace. One is tall and smiling, one is adjusting his glasses, and one looks like he’s about to cry because his partner is telling him something about “the alignment of your emotional stars.”

You point to the tall, smiling one. “Him?”

Her eyes sparkle. “Yes! Wow, how’d you know?”

“He looked the most… emotionally stable.”

Celeste laughs way too hard. “That’s exactly what I said when I saw him.”

You beam. Wow. This is great. A normal friend couple. You’re going to have such a peaceful retreat.

Then Celeste tilts her head thoughtfully. “Okay, my turn. Which one is yours?”

You shrug. “Try me.”

She surveys the room. Slowly. Like she’s selecting a wine pairing.

Then she points.

At a seventy-year-old retiree in cargo shorts, nursing a cup of chamomile tea and staring at the wall like he’s communing with his ancestors.

You blink. “I—excuse me?”

Celeste grins. “Is it him?”

You stare at the man. He stares back. His aura says I own three model trains and all of them are haunted.

You finally manage, “No.”

She waves dismissively, “Eh, could’ve been. You never know with soulmates.”

You’re about to explain that yes, you do know, and your soulmate is not someone who looks like he complains to grocery store managers recreationally—

When a warm presence steps up behind you.

A hand brushes your spine. A cup of apple cider appears at your elbow.

Jason sets it down gently. “Here,” he murmurs.

Celeste goes very still.

Her eyes travel from his boots… to the leather jacket… to his stupidly handsome face… to the way he stands slightly angled toward you like he’s ready to fight a bear on your behalf.

“So,” Jason asks, glancing between you and Celeste, “a new friend?”

Celeste’s jaw works once. Twice.

Then:

“Wow,” she says, smiling too wide. “He’s… your soulmate?”

You nod, taking your cider. “Yep.”

Celeste laughs a bright, brittle, too-sweet laugh that sounds like she’s swallowing glass.

“That’s soooooo cute,” she says.

You smile back, eyes narrowing just a little.

“Isn’t it though?”

And just like that: War has begun.

Before you can deliver a counterstrike of polite hostility, Celeste’s soulmate strolls over. He is exactly what you expected from a man named Chadwick: pastel quarter-zip, offensively perfect teeth, cologne that smells like inherited wealth.

“Hey, babe,” he says, slipping an arm around Celeste’s waist. “Everything good?”

Celeste beams. “Perfect. I was just making a new friend!”

You feel Jason shift beside you, all casual, relaxed, completely unaware of the silent battlefield forming around him.

Chadwick sticks a hand out. “What’s up, man? Chad.”

Jason nods and fist bumps him. “Jason.”

You swear the testosterone crackles like static electricity.

Celeste sighs dreamily. “Isn’t it so nice when our soulmates get along?”

You nearly choke on your cider.

Jason, smiling slightly, totally missing the tension: “So what modules are you two in?”

“Oh!” Celeste brightens. “We picked conflict management, shared finances, parenting, and morning self-defense.”

Your stomach drops.

“Same,” you say.

Celeste’s smile widens. Too wide. “Oh my gosh! What a coincidence!”

It isn’t a coincidence. It’s psychological warfare.

Jason checks the schedule pamphlet. “Looks like your self-defense slot is next door to ours. You should switch to our time.”

Your head snaps toward him so fast you nearly get whiplash.

He thinks he’s being helpful. He thinks he is building community.

You stare at him with the very specific look that says: Sweetheart. My love. My soulmate. Please stop inviting my enemies to dinner.

Celeste clasps her hands. “Oh my gosh, really? Are you sure?”

You laugh. Loud. Too loud. “Totally! Absolutely! The more the merrier!”

Jason blinks at you. You smile at him like a hostage begging in Morse code.

Meanwhile, Celeste nestles herself into Chadwick's side like she is posing for an engagement photo. “Baby,” she coos, “isn’t that so sweet of them?”

Chadwick kisses her forehead. “Anything for you, babe.”

Before Celeste can escalate, a cheerful voice booms across the atrium:

“WELCOME, SOULMATE PAIRS! Orientation is starting! Please find your seats!”

War has only begun.

–

Orientation ends with a round of applause so forced you’re surprised nobody sprains a wrist. Celeste and Chadwick turn to you with identical Stepford smiles, and you return the expression with the warmth of a malfunctioning toaster.

Jason, meanwhile, is waving at Chadwick like they are already planning a barbecue together.

You would like to go home.

But instead, you are herded, politely, by staff who definitely fear lawsuits, toward your next module: Shared Finances for Soulmate Partnerships!

The sign has a heart over the i. Deeply cursed.

You fall into step beside Celeste, because everyone else is pairing off and you cannot abandon Jason to Chadwick’s monologue about the stock market.

“So fun that we’re in the same classes,” Celeste chirps.

“So fun,” you echo brightly, smiling with all thirty-two of your fake teeth.

Behind you, Jason and Chadwick are bonding.

“…so then the coach pulled him in the seventh inning—”

“No way,” Jason says, genuinely invested. “What kind of call is that?”

You stare ahead, dead-eyed. “I’m in hell.”

Celeste hums. “What was that?”

“Nothing! Loving this journey for us.”

The four of you shuffle into a classroom that looks like an accountant’s waiting room swallowed a Pinterest board. Soft lighting, couple-themed posters, a bowl of mints shaped like dollar signs.

Chairs are arranged in pairs. You and Jason take the seats at one table; Celeste and Chad settle in directly beside you like a pair of judgmental flamingos.

The instructor is a woman in beige linen who absolutely leads mindfulness retreats in the summer. She claps her hands.

“Welcome, couples! Today we’ll explore financial transparency, asset merging, and collaborative budgeting. Please begin by listing your debts and assets.”

You glance at Jason.

He glances at you.

Oh god.

You pull out your pen. “Okay. Easy. I’ve got my job income, some savings, a retirement account, and student loans.”

Jason nods. “Cool.”

You look at him expectantly. “Your turn.”

Jason opens his banking app.

You watch the color drain from his face.

Because on the screen are approximately ten accounts, four offshore, two investment pools, one safehouse fund, one that is absolutely illegal, and one that Alfred manages because Jason is banned from touching it.

Also the numbers keep changing in real time because the stock market is apparently having a panic attack.

He scrolls. Scrolls again. Scrolls more.

“Which one do I… write?” he mutters.

“Jason,” you whisper, “maybe pick the approximate—”

The number jumps again.

He stares at it in horror. “It keeps going up.”

You gently nudge his pen toward the paper. “Then just freeze it. Pick a number and write it down before you accidentally list yourself as Jeff Bezos.”

Jason scribbles down a number that is technically true for one (1) second of that day.

He sighs, relieved. “Okay. Done.”

You pat his knee. “Great job, Jay.”

He flushes. You flush. Celeste glances over like a hawk.

The instructor claps again. “Now, pair with another couple!”

Because of course.

Celeste and Chadwick glide over like they’re about to announce their engagement on national TV.

Celeste beams, flipping her worksheet so aggressively her glitter pen almost flies out of her hand.

“So,” she purrs, “I’m a model. Which is sooo hard to put into the asset column because my brand deals vary, but, you know, I make it work.”

Chadwick nods proudly. “And I’m an investment banker. Last year I pulled… what, babe? Seven hundred thousand?”

Celeste giggles. “Seven hundred and twelve.”

You smile. The kind of smile that would get you banned from a country club.

“That’s… nice.”

(Internally: I WILL BURN YOUR PORTFOLIO TO ASHES.)

Jason is still politely nodding along, missing every single blade of tension.

And then—

He sees it.

The arrogance. The bragging. The way Chadwick strokes Celeste’s arm like he’s congratulating her for existing. The faint sneer when they look at your worksheet.

Something ancient and Crime-Alley-coded awakens in him.

He leans back in his chair, casual.

Jason says, “Seven hundred K? Cool. I think that’s what DAD’S last car cost .”

You look at him in shock. Holy shit. Jason is claiming Bruce as a father to one up these bozos.

Celeste blinks. “Your… dad?”

Jason looks at his nails like the world's most dangerous housecat. “Oh. Bruce Wayne. Yes, that Bruce Wayne. He bought the car in my name for tax reasons. I should probably list it as an asset, thanks for the reminder.”

Silence.

You stare at him like he just fed you chocolate-dipped strawberries in a thunderstorm.

Celeste’s smile twitches

Jason drapes an arm across the back of your chair, still pretending he didn’t just commit a social homicide.

And then, softly, sweetly, with the smugness of a man who has found a new sport:

“Anyway, angel,” he murmurs to you, “DAD wants you to come over again this week.”

Celeste’s eye twitches.

You sip your cider.

Score: You & Jason - 1Celeste & Chadwick - 0

-

Lunch should be neutral territory.

Neutral, peaceful, restorative. A place where couples can nourish their bodies and practice mindful appreciation of shared resources.

Instead, it feels like the cafeteria in Mean Girls but everyone is legally bonded by fate.

You and Jason weave into the buffet line, trays in hand, whispering like fugitives.

You lean in first. “They’re awful, right?”

Jason’s eyes widen slightly, as if he just realized this is a shared enemy. “Okay, yeah. They’re the worst.”

You lower your voice even further. “They’re not just rich. They’re annoying rich.”

Jason pauses mid-reach for a bread roll. “Annoying rich is the worst kind.”

“Yes! They brag.”

“They preen.”

“They accessorize with condescension.”

Jason pockets two packets of butter like he’s preparing for war. “We should avoid them for the rest of the retreat.”

“Agreed.”

And of course that’s when you hear it.

“HI, BESTIES!”

You both freeze.

Slowly, painfully, you turn your heads.

Celeste and Chadwick are four people behind you in line, smiling like toothpaste commercial models.

There is a long, terrible moment of mutual eye contact.

Celeste wiggles her fingers in a wave.

Chadwick does a head nod that is somehow both flirtatious and deeply unearned.

You and Jason plaster polite smiles onto your faces and wave back, synchronized like two hostages in a ransom video.

The second you turn forward again, both of you make the exact same noise:

“Ughhhhh.”

You reach the end of the buffet, practically tasting the freedom—

And then you hear rustling. Whispering. A soft chorus of “Oh my gosh, thank you!” from behind.

You turn.

And your stomach plummets.

Celeste and Chadwick are handing out gifts.

Small pastel gift bags, tied up neatly with ribbon, like they’re hosting a baby shower for their personalities.

One couple squeals over matching mugs. Another gasps at monogrammed luggage tags.

Celeste beams, radiant with weaponized generosity. Chadwick carries the gift bags like Santa Claus with a trust fund.

You stare in horror.

Jason whispers, “What… is happening.”

“It’s a flex,” you murmur, voice grave. “They’re buying goodwill.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re unhinged competitors in the sport of being liked.”

Jason’s face contorts. “Do we… do we need gifts?”

“NO,” you say too fast, too loud. “We are NOT competing in philanthropy. That’s a losing game. She probably bought those in bulk before we even arrived.”

You both rush to a table in the corner like two squirrels fleeing a hawk. You sit. You inhale your soup. You pretend everything is fine.

But your mind is churning.

This wasn’t even a module. This was LUNCH. Lunch wasn’t supposed to COUNT.

And yet:

Celeste: 1 You: 1

Jason leans closer. “Should we—like—share our food with people? Is that a thing?”

“No,” you sigh. “Unless you have a spare Rolex in your pocket, we’ve already lost this round.”

Jason checks his pockets as if he might actually have one.

“Jason,” you warn.

“…okay.”

Across the dining hall, Celeste hands a tote bag to an elderly couple, who applaud her like she invented kindness.

You slump into your seat. “Okay. It’s fine. She won the lunch round. I’ll recover.”

Jason raises a brow. “Lunch was a round?”

“EVERYTHING is a round.”

He considers you for a moment.

Then, solemnly, he nods. “Okay. Then we’re not losing another one.”

You blink. “Jason… you understand this rivalry now?”

He cracks his neck like he’s preparing for a street fight.

“Oh,” he says, deadly calm. “I understand perfectly.”

–

The nature walk is advertised as a grounding experience to help soulmates reconnect with the earth and each other.

Translation: forty couples trudging through the woods while a retreat facilitator named Marla points at leaves.

Honestly? It’s kind of nice.

The air is crisp. The snow muffles sound. There’s something peaceful about watching your breath cloud in front of you while Jason walks beside you with hands in his pockets, shoulders brushing yours occasionally like he’s orbiting you without noticing.

Marla cheerfully gestures at a patch of moss. “This particular species is several hundred years old! It thrives in damp, shaded environments—”

You walk a little slower, letting the group pull ahead so you have a bubble of privacy. It feels… cozy. Like an accidental date wedged between classes.

Marla points at a cluster of winter berries. “These are poisonous, so avoid ingesting or touching them without gloves.”

Jason leans down slightly. “Don’t eat those.”

You stare at him. “What part of me has EVER given ‘will eat unknown berries in the woods’ energy?”

He gives you a look. “You once left cookies in an alley box for me to eat.”

“That was the start of our love story!” You swat his arm, but you’re grinning.

For the first time all day, the tension from the Celeste–Chadwick saga melts off your shoulders. The snow sparkles. Jason looks calm, hands stuffed in his pockets, shoulders loose, breathing steady. A rare sight.

You inhale deeply. “This is actually really nice.”

He glances down at you. His voice softens. “Yeah. It is.”

For a moment, it’s just you two, crunching softly through the snow.

Then—

A rustle.

A giggle.

A very dramatic moan.

Marla pauses mid-sentence. “Hm?”

Half the group turns.

You don’t see anything at first.

Then you do.

Behind a tree, barely hidden, are Celeste and Chadwick, kissing like they’re auditioning for a 90s shampoo commercial. Hands everywhere. Lips everywhere. Chad’s leg is inexplicably lifted like he’s being dipped.

You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again.

“No,” you whisper. “No. NO.”

Jason follows your gaze.

He blinks once. Twice.

“Oh my god,” you mutter, horrified. “They’re… winning nature.”

Jason tilts his head. “How do you win nature?”

“LIKE THAT!”

Celeste flips her hair mid-kiss, spotting you over Chadwick’s shoulder. Her eyes meet yours.

She smirks.

The audacity.

The sheer sportsmanship violation.

The unsportsmanlike conduct.

Somehow, Celeste won the nature walk.

Celeste: 2 You: 1

—

You enter your hotel room first, still burning from the nature walk betrayal. The door closes behind you, and Jason barely sets his bag down before you exhale sharply.

“They were making out behind a tree,” you say, pacing once. “In the middle of a supervised activity.”

Jason leans against the wall, watching you with quiet caution. “They weren’t exactly subtle.”

“She looked at me,” you insist. “While doing that. I don’t even care that she kissed him. I care that she made it a statement.”

Jason doesn’t deny it. He just nods, slow, absorbing your frustration like he’s used to being the quiet part of your storms.

You kneel by your suitcase, hands decisive. “Self-defense is next. She’s absolutely going to show up in some coordinated pastel outfit, and I refuse to stand next to her looking unprepared.”

Jason raises an eyebrow. “Do we need to… match her?”

“It’s not matching,” you say, pulling out navy leggings. “It’s refusing to be outdone.”

He considers that with surprising seriousness. “Fair.”

You lay the leggings on the bed, then sift for a top, the tension in your shoulders refusing to loosen. “I should look comfortable. Neutral. Nothing that screams ‘I’m trying.’ But not something that makes it look like I gave up.”

Jason watches you for a moment. Then he pushes off the wall, opens his own duffel, and pulls out a black hoodie.

He holds it out to you without ceremony. “Wear this.”

You pause. “…Why?”

“Because,” he says simply, “you’ll feel better in it.”

And it’s true. You know it’s true before you even touch it.

Warm, soft, heavy. Jason.

You take it from his hands, your fingers brushing his knuckles. The contact is brief, but his eyes soften just a little.

“Jason Todd.” you grin “Are you offering me your hoodie so I can look better than Celeste”

Jason nods once. “I think you’d win either way, but this will help.”

You look down at the hoodie, then at your outfit laid out on the bed. The combination is perfect in a way you didn’t expect. Understated. Confident. Impossible for Celeste to interpret incorrectly. Which is exactly what you want.

Your shoulders finally relax.

“Thank you,” you say.

Jason shrugs, but he’s watching you carefully, like he’s checking if he made the right call. “Self-defense is your class to win. I’m just making sure you walk in feeling like yourself.”

You fold the hoodie over your arm, the fabric warm against your skin.

“We’re not losing this one,” you murmur.

Jason’s mouth curves, not quite a smile, but close.

“No,” he agrees. “We’re not.”

—

You walk into the self-defense studio expecting pastel pink.

You do not expect powder pink.

Celeste stands near the front like she’s posing for a catalog spread in matching set, matching scrunchie, and matching smug expression. You inhale through your nose.

Jason glances at you. “…That’s not baby pink?”

“No,” you say darkly. “It’s worse.”

Jason’s mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile, but you ignore it, adjusting the sleeves of the hoodie he gave you. You feel grounded in it. Steady. Not losing this one.

The instructor claps for everyone to pair up.

Jason, traitor to your peace, lifts a hand and waves Celeste and Chad over.

You whip your head toward him. Really?

He just gives you a quiet, steady look that says trust me.

You exhale through your teeth. Fine.

Celeste practically skips to your side. “Oh my gosh, this is perfect,” she beams. “We can practice together! I always say, it’s so important to surround yourself with couples who inspire you.”

“…Right,” you say politely, already wishing for the sweet release of unconsciousness.

Chad stands behind her, tall and stiff and wearing a shirt that says NO PAIN NO GAIN like it’s still 2010.

Jason shakes his hand. “Hey.”

“Bro,” Chad says, giving him a solid nod. “Let’s crush this.”

Jason glances at you again. You can practically hear him thinking: I’m sorry in advance.

The lesson starts simple: basic stances, balance, leverage. The instructor demonstrates a wrist escape, then gestures for everyone to try with their partner.

You turn to Jason.

He’s already looking at you.

Not intimidating. Not smug. Just… there. Steady. Present. Like he’s already in “protective but pretending not to be” mode.

“Okay,” you murmur, lifting your hand for him to grab.

Jason hesitates. “You sure?”

You snort. “What, afraid you’ll break me?”

His eyes flicker, half offended, half amused. “I’m afraid if I sneeze too hard you’ll go flying.”

“Jason.”

He gives in, fingers wrapping gently (too gently) around your wrist.

“You can actually hold me,” you say. “I won’t shatter.”

He exhales, adjusts his grip with just enough pressure to feel secure.

“Better?”

“…Yes,” you lie, because your pulse has skyrocketed and you’re definitely not normal about it.

The instructor calls, “Escape on my count: three, two, one!”

You twist your wrist the way you were shown.

Except Jason lets go the instant you move, stepping back like the goal is not to win but to avoid risking you taking a single ounce of force.

“Jason.”

“What? You escaped. Great job,” he deadpans.

You squint up at him. “You’re supposed to resist.”

“I did.”

“You let go like I’m defusing a bomb.”

“You kind of are.”

Next: defensive hold reversal.

This one requires you to pin him.

You place your hands on his arm, bracing your stance. “Okay. Now resist.”

He raises a brow. “If I resist, this won’t work.”

“Are you calling me weak?”

“I’m calling me heavy.”

“Jason.”

Jason just shrugs, all innocent and compliant, and lowers himself to the mat on one knee.

You place your hands on his shoulders.

He is solid. Like the ground. Or a bank vault. Or a mythological creature sculpted entirely of warm granite.

You apply pressure.

Jason goes down instantly.

He’s flat on his back before you even finish the motion.

You blink. “Jason.”

He looks up, dead serious. “Yeah?”

“That wasn’t resisting.”

Jason sits up, sputtering. “I was giving you room to practice!”

“That wasn’t practice! that was you becoming the world’s largest decorative pillow.”

He stares at you like he can’t decide whether to laugh or die. “Fine. I’ll actually resist. A little.”

“Thank you.”

You reposition yourself. Hands on his shoulders again. Steady. Determined.

“Ready?” you say.

“Yep.”

“Resist.”

He does.

Instantly, you discover that Jason Todd’s definition of “a little” is God-tier nightmare strength.

He doesn’t move. Not an inch.

He becomes one with the earth. A man-shaped monument. A cryptid carved from immovable stone.

You push harder. Nothing.

You try a different angle. Nothing.

You dig your heels into the mat and put your whole back into it.

JASON TODD. DOES. NOT. BUDGE.

“Jason,” you whisper, “you can move a little.”

“You said not to.”

“Jason.”

“I respect your instructions.”

“JASON.”

He stares at the ceiling, completely stiff, like he’s auditioning to be a cadaver in a medical textbook.

You sigh, push harder, your hands slide down his arm, trying for leverage, and Jason gasps dramatically.

“Ah—oh no—I’m going down—”

You freeze. “Are you mocking me?”

He keeps going, monotone, like the world’s worst actor.

“You are so strong. I cannot resist your might. I am overwhelmed.”

You drop your forehead onto his head in despair. “Jason. Be serious.”

“I am serious,” he insists, still utterly limp on the floor. “Look, you’re pinning me.”

“Jason, PLEASE—”

He lifts one eyebrow. “Do I increase or decrease?”

“Decrease! DECREASE!”

He immediately swoons backward in the most exaggerated, dramatic, limp collapse imaginable.

“Oh no,” he says, monotone. “I have fallen. My strong, powerful soulmate has bested me.”

You slap a hand over your face. “You are doing this on purpose.”

Meanwhile, Celeste narrates her own existence.

“Chad just picks things up so naturally,” she says as he fumbles through a grip. “He’s like, gifted, you know?”

Chad responds by nearly elbowing himself in the face.

Jason stays perfectly polite. You do not know how.

Then the instructor claps his hands. “Alright! We need two volunteers to demonstrate controlled sparring.”

Before you can blink, Celeste pushes Chad forward with both hands. “Baby, go! Show them what you’ve learned!”

Chad stumbles, then flashes a grin like he’s entering the Olympics.

Jason shifts next to you, expression neutral.

No, you think instantly. Do not. Don’t you dare—

He raises his hand.

“Yeah,” he says. “I can go.”

Celeste squeals and bounces toward you. “This is sooooo exciting!! Chad is soooo strong. Like, soooo strong. Did you know he took three weeks of jiu jitsu?”

You stare at her, blank. “Fascinating.”

Jason steps into the center mat opposite Chad.

You exhale, bracing. Yes, Jason can win. Jason can win in his sleep. Jason could win while eating a sandwich. Jason could win while reading the sandwich its rights. But Jason also has control, and he knows it.

You fold your arms tight, heart pounding.

The instructor gives the signal.

Chad lunges first, loud and messy.

Jason moves like water.

A sidestep. A shift of weight. A subtle redirection that lets Chad’s own momentum betray him. Then—

A single precise jab to a pressure point.

Cass taught him that one. The move that doesn’t hurt but turns a man’s knees into warm pudding.

Chad’s face does a brief, confused contortion.

And then he collapses.

Not gracefully. Not even with dignity.

He drops like a marionette whose strings were cut, sprawled on the mat in complete bafflement, blinking at the ceiling like it personally attacked him.

The class gasps.

The instructor raises his brows, impressed. “Effective technique, Jason. Controlled. Clean.”

Jason nods respectfully and steps back.

You try to stay composed.

You fail.

Spectacularly.

You swallow hard, your pulse embarrassingly loud in your ears. He looks over at you, checking your reaction, a hint of uncertainty flickering across his face like he’s worried he went too far.

But you’re not horrified.

Unfortunately, you’re extremely into it.

Celeste runs past you to help Chad sit up. “Oh my god, baby! Are you okay?? That was soooo unlucky!”

Jason winces a little, softening his stance. “He’ll be fine. Just needs a minute.”

Chad gives a weak thumbs-up from the floor.

The instructor dismisses the sparring demo, and the class breaks into applause. Actual applause.

Jason rubs the back of his neck, trying to disappear again. He can’t. Everyone saw.

You step toward him, voice low. “That was… controlled,” you say, because you can’t say unfairly attractive in public.

He huffs a tiny laugh, eyes dropping. “Didn’t want to hurt him.”

And that’s the moment you decide:

Jason Todd has never been hotter.

The scoreboard in your mind updates.

Celeste: 2 You: 2

–

By the time class ends, the sun is dipping low enough to stain the windows gold. Everyone is sweaty, slightly bruised, and riding the strange high of mandatory couple-building exercises. The scoreboard in your head reads: you 2, Celeste 2, which is frankly unacceptable. Jason, on the other hand, looks like he just completed a serene yoga retreat instead of a sparring session.

He slings his bag over one shoulder and nudges you gently. “Ready for the next thing?”

“Parenting?” you say. “Sure. How hard can it—”

You stop.

Because the classroom you step into looks like someone crossbred a hospital nursery with a consumer electronics store. The overhead lights flicker across rows and rows and rows of robot babies. Dozens of them. Plastic skin, blinking eyes, each tucked into a little cot with a serial number.

Jason goes still beside you.

“…No,” he says.

“Yes,” the instructor says cheerfully.

“No,” Jason repeats, louder this time.

“Yes,” the instructor says again, handing you a clipboard. “Welcome to Module 4: Applied Bonding and Cooperative Care. Each pair will be responsible for maintaining the wellbeing of one Unit-Infant for the duration of the night cycle.”

A robot baby beside you stares right into your soul. Jason flinches like it pulled a knife.

Celeste materializes at your elbow, glowing with delight. “Oh my god, this is so cute! Chadwick, look, we got a boy!”

Chad holds up their robot like it’s a football trophy. “Little guy looks like he could bench press.”

Your turn at the distribution table comes. The instructor presents a pink-capped baby unit with an unsettlingly realistic face. “A girl, for you two.”

You and Jason both nod politely, but your soul leaves your body the moment she is placed in his arms.

“You’ll turn the unit on at 9pm to activate monitoring,” the instructor continues. “The software tracks feeding, changing, soothing, sleep cycles, and environmental conditions. Any mishandling will register as damage.”

You glance sideways.

Jason is holding the robot like it’s live ammunition and emotional kryptonite at the same time. His biceps are locked, shoulders tense, eyes narrowed like he’s waiting for it to detonate.

“She copies real-baby patterns,” the instructor adds. “Some cry a lot. Some barely sleep. Good luck.”

Celeste beams. “We are so ready for this.”

You smile sweetly back at her while imagining yourself shoving their robot into a compost bin.

The instructor hands out the final sheet. “Units will activate at 2100 hours. Bring them back tomorrow at 0930. Scores will be posted after evaluation.”

Celeste waves her perfect manicure. “See you two bright and early!”

Chad salutes Jason like they’re in a military drama.

Jason just stares at the robot girl in his arms and murmurs, horrified, “She blinked.”

You place a hand on his sleeve, trying not to laugh. “It’s fine. How bad can one little robot baby be?”

—

Your door clicks shut behind you as Jason shoulders it closed, wheeling the absurdly fancy bassinet the retreat gave you. For a government program, they really splurged on the accessories. Probably to distract from the fact that the actual baby is a blinking piece of Bluetooth-enabled chaos.

You’ve got her bundled against in your arms, tiny plastic head wobbling like she’s learning gravity for the first time.

“She’s… heavy,” you say, adjusting her.

“That’s because she’s glaring at me,” Jason mutters as he locks the door. “I can feel it.”

“She does not glare. She doesn’t even have emotions.”

“…Okay,” you concede, “maybe she has vibes.”

Jason sighs and flips open the monitor unit. “Nine o’clock activation window, right?”

“Yep. Just press—”

The baby makes a small booting-up chime.

“—that,” you finish weakly.

Instantly, she opens her eyes and lifts her little plastic arms toward you like she’s demanding tribute.

Jason’s eyes widen. “Nope. No. That’s too realistic. I didn’t sign up for—”

“She’s cute!”

“She’s haunting.”

You carry her to the couch and Jason drops onto it beside you, shoulders stiff. He looks like a man facing judgment.

“Okay,” you say brightly, “name time.”

“Oh god.”

“Clementine!” you announce. “We can call her Clemmie.”

Jason blinks. “That feels like naming a landmine something precious so you don’t fear it.”

“…Thank you?”

“Hows Glockina.”

You stare at him.

He shrugs. “Just brainstorming.”

“Valentine?” You say

“AK-47,” he counters.

You shove his shoulder. “You can’t name a baby AK-47.”

“It’s aspirational.”

You clutch the robot like she’s shielding you from his nonsense. “We are not naming her after a firearm.”

Jason leans back, arms folded, pretending to think deeply. “Bowie. Like the knife.”

“No.”

He snaps his fingers. “Claymore.”

“JASON.”

You take a breath, patting the robot’s soft synthetic hair.

“…Grenadine.”

Jason pauses.

Slowly, a grin spreads across his face. “Grenadine.”

“It’s cute!”

“That’s adorable,” he says, picking up the baby and holding her up like Simba. “Grenade for short.”

Before you can scold him, his thumb shifts to a button and the robot coos, then her internal speaker chirps: NAME REGISTERED: GRENADE.

You freeze. Jason freezes. The robot baby wiggles happily, like she’s thrilled to join a paramilitary unit.

“…Did you push the confirm button?” you whisper.

Jason turns the baby around, frowns. “No. I didn’t even touch—”

Grenade squeals again. The name is locked in. Irreversible.

You bury your face in your hands. “She’s going to be traumatized.”

“She’s a robot.”

“She deserves better!”

“She’s named after an explosive. Honestly, she’s thriving in her identity.”

Grenade coos again.

Jason beams proudly at her, which is deeply concerning.

“I can’t believe our baby is named Grenade,” you groan.

“I can.”

You lean back on the couch, exhausted already, and Jason nudges a shoulder against yours gently. Grenade sits in your lap between you both, blinking up at you with robotic innocence and the soul of a tiny war criminal.

Jason sighs contentedly.

“Yeah,” he says. “This is going to go great.”

—

For the first hour, Grenade is… perfect.

Suspiciously perfect.

She blinks her little animatronic lashes. She coos. She wiggles. She raises her arms whenever one of you walks by, like a tiny plastic empress demanding immediate elevation.

And somehow you and Jason fall into a rhythm like you’ve been doing this for years.

“Bottle?” Jason asks, checking the schedule.

“Already warming,” you say, shaking the little silicone container under the tap until the water hits the exact temperature listed in the manual. “She likes it slightly warm, not hot.”

He lifts a brow. “She likes things?”

“I can tell.”

Grenade burbles.

Jason narrows his eyes. “…Okay, maybe she does.”

Feeding goes shockingly well. Grenade’s little mouth latches with a soft clicking noise; her eyes flutter; her internal circuits emit a gentle hum. Jason watches her like he’s witnessing a miracle unfold.

“She’s doing it,” he whispers, genuinely proud. “She’s actually doing it.”

“You sound like a dad at a piano recital.”

“Don’t ruin this for me.”

Diaper changing… is less peaceful.

The first time she squeaks and her diaper icon flashes on the monitor, you both freeze.

Then Jason grabs the kit with military efficiency while you carry Grenade to the changing table like she’s a live explosive.

You open the diaper.

There is goop.

Unidentified. Brown-ish. Textured.

Jason recoils. “That is a war crime.”

“She’s a BABY, Jason.”

“That’s NOT baby output. That’s biohazard. That’s.. why is it steaming?!”

“It’s not steaming!”

Grenade giggles.

You both stare at her.

Jason points accusingly. “She knows exactly what she’s doing.”

Still, together, you manage it. Wipes. New diaper. Swaddle. A little pat on the back. Jason, who insisted he would never be good at this, folds the blanket with surgeon-level precision until Grenade looks like a burrito at peace with the universe.

You put her on your chest. She sighs against your shoulder.

Jason’s entire face softens like butter under a heat lamp.

“…She likes you,” he says quietly.

“She likes you too,” you answer.

He looks down at Grenade. She wiggles her little aluminum fingers at him.

Jason melts.

After your shower, Jason takes his. You switch off without needing to speak, one of you bouncing Grenade up and down while the other disappears behind the bathroom door, steam trailing out when they return. By the time Jason comes back, hair damp and jaw shadowed, he finds you on the couch with Grenade resting on your knees, legs pedaling lazily through the air.

Jason stops in his tracks.

You look up.

Something goes warm and still between you.

“…Movie time?” you ask softly.

“Yeah,” he says, voice low. “Movie time.”

You put on something simple, light, background noise, familiar enough to be comforting. The volume stays low because every time Grenade hears a sudden noise she flinches like a startled squirrel.

The baby bag sits open at your feet. Bottles ready. Diapers stacked. Swaddles folded. The two of you operate like a tiny, drowsy, shockingly competent unit.

Grenade becomes fussy halfway through the movie, so Jason scoops her up and starts doing a slow, rhythmic bounce. The kind that looks instinctive. Natural. The kind you didn’t know he had in him, but he does effortlessly.

Her head rests against his chest.

Her wiggling slows.

Her little animatronic chest rises and falls with quiet whirrs.

Jason glances down at her, then at you.

“She’s falling asleep,” he whispers.

“Because you’re good at this.”

He chuckles under his breath. “I doubt that.”

Grenade finally powers down into sleep mode.

Her eyelids flutter shut, a soft whirr leaving her chest, and the little green indicator light on her swaddle shifts to a steady glow. Jason lowers her into the bassinet like he’s handling a live bomb that happens to coo.

You both stand there for a moment.

Silent.

Traumatized.

Victorious.

Then you exhale and whisper, “Bed?”

Jason glances at the single mattress like it personally offends his moral code. “Yeah. Uh. Bed.”

You circle around opposite sides, trying not to look as awkward as you feel. He clicks off the bathroom light. You turn on the fan. You set a glass of water for him on the nightstand.

You slide under the covers first, trying to look normal about it, failing miserably. Jason hesitates before lifting the blanket and easing in next to you. The mattress dips under his weight. Heat rolls off him immediately, warm and steady, and he lies on his back like a soldier at attention.

You stare at the ceiling.

He stares at the ceiling.

“Comfortable?” you ask.

“Very,” he lies.

A beat.

Then, softly, “You can relax, Jason. I promise I don’t bite.”

“My mistake,” he murmurs, turning his head just enough to look at you, “I thought I was the one you were afraid of.”

The air shifts, slow, electric, aware.

You turn toward him without meaning to. He mirrors you. Your knees bump under the covers. Neither of you move away.

This is fine. This is normal. Soulmates sharing a bed. Totally fine.

You say, “Thanks for today.”

He says, low, “Thanks for letting me beat the shit out of Chad.”

Your cheeks heat.

You bite your lip.

Jason watches the motion like he’s memorizing it.

Slowly you slip your calf forward until it brushes against his leg. Just a light touch, a test, a question.

Jason inhales.

Not sharply.

Not startled.

More like he’s been waiting for that contact without knowing it.

His hand lifts.

Hovers.

Then, with reverence, he brings his fingers to the side of your cheek, brushing lightly, barely there, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he touches too much.

Your breath catches.

His thumb grazes your cheekbone. Your forehead almost bumps his. Your noses are close your lips a hesitant inch apart.

There’s no rush.

No panic.

Just a quiet, inevitable gravity pulling you toward him.

You tilt your chin.

Your lips brush.

The universe chooses violence.

Grenade lets out a shriek that could wake the dead.

You both jolt like you’ve been electrocuted.

Jason’s hand flies off your face. Your calf yanks back. The mattress trembles as you bolt upright, hair skewed, heart pounding.

“Why now,” Jason groans under his breath, rubbing his eyes like a man betrayed. “What did I do to deserve this.”

You’re already scrambling out of bed, fumbling for the bassinet. “She was asleep. She was literally asleep. She was in REM, Jason.”

Grenade wails louder, thrashing her arms.

Jason swings his legs out of bed too fast, stubbing his toe on the nightstand. “Look alive, soldier. We’re back in the trenches.”

You scoop Grenade up. She screams in your ear. “She hates us,” you gasp. “She hates love.”

The next three hours are… hell.

No poetic metaphor. No exaggeration.

Just HELL.

Grenade screams like someone poured battery acid into her tiny animatronic soul. Nothing helps. Not feeding. Not changing. Not rocking. Not pleading with the gods.

Jason is pacing the room like a soldier in a war documentary, bouncing the robot against his chest in a steady rhythm that absolutely should work and absolutely does not.

“Please,” he mutters into her plastic scalp, “please, small demon, I am begging you. I will give you anything. I will buy you a pony. A jet. An actual grendade. Just stop.”

Grenade shrieks harder.

You are in the bathroom heating a bottle like it’s a bomb you need to defuse, yelling over the noise: “IS SHE OVERHEATING?? IS SHE HUNGRY?? IS SHE TESTING US??”

“She’s possessed,” Jason yells back. “She’s possessed by Satan.”

At one point, you both try singing lullabies.

She screams louder.

“Listen,” Jason whispers, forehead pressed to her round plastic head, “you don’t even need real food. You run on Wi-Fi.”

You try to change her diaper again. It’s clean.

You try feeding her again. She pushes the bottle away and wails harder.

You try burping her again. Nothing.

Jason stops moving. “She’s doing this on purpose.”

“She’s a robot, Jason.”

“She’s doing this on purpose.”

Then, disaster part two.

Jason is playing soft music for Grenade when his phone buzzes with a low-battery warning. He grimaces.

“Shit. I need my charger. It’s in the bag.”

“Okay, I’ll get it.”

You unzip the duffel and freeze.

“…Jason.”

“Yeah?”

“There is a gun in here.”

Jason doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, I know.”

“WHY IS THERE A GUN IN HERE.”

“ I’m the Red Hood.”

“You’re not the Red Hood here.”

“Well, I brought the helmet too, if that helps.”

“It does NOT help!”

Jason shrugs helplessly while jostling Grenade, who is screaming directly into his aorta. “I told you I pack for every scenario.”

You stare at the bag. “Did you bring… anything normal?”

“…My toothbrush?”

“Oh my god.”

But eventually after hours of misery, Grenade’s cries taper off. Her little silicone cheeks stop moving. Her limbs settle. She makes a tiny, contented coo.

Jason stops moving like he’s afraid one breath will restart the apocalypse.

“Don’t… don’t even look at her,” he whispers.

You place the bottle down like it's nitroglycerin. “Don’t breathe on her.”

Then, a miracle, she enters “content play mode,” which is just her sitting in your lap and waving her hands while emitting tiny chimes.

You and Jason collapse onto the couch like corpses.

You lean your head back. Jason sits beside you, legs sprawled, looking like he’s aged twelve years in one night.

“I can’t believe this is our lives now,” you croak.

Jason laughs a broken, exhausted, incredulous sound. “We’re not even real parents. We’re— we’re beta testers.”

Grenade reaches for Jason’s hoodie string.

He hands it to her automatically, like a dad too tired to resist.

“Sleep,” he murmurs, nudging your knee with his. “I’ve got her. Just… close your eyes for a bit.”

“You sure?”

He nods, leaning back, adjusting Grenade onto his chest. “Yeah. Go ahead. She likes the music. I’ll keep it playing. Just… sleep.”

And for once, for the first time since the robot descended into madness, Grenade does not scream.

Jason exhales.

You’re out within minutes.

Not gracefully, either, you slump sideways, cheek smushed against the couch cushion, mouth parted in an exhausted little “mmf.” Jason glances over, makes sure you’re truly gone, then lets out a breath that sounds like it’s been trapped in his chest for years.

Grenade is still lying on him, tiny mechanical fingers curled in the fabric of his hoodie. Her little animatronic head wobbles once… twice… then nestles in, right over his heart.

Jason freezes.

He has been shot. Stabbed. Blown up. Thrown off buildings.

None of that hits him as hard as a robot baby nuzzling into him like he’s the safest place in the world.

“…oh no,” he whispers.

Grenade lets out a tiny coo.

Jason looks down at her like she’s rewriting his entire personality.

Against all logic, instinct takes over and his hand moves to support her back, thumb brushing the soft plastic. She responds with a happy chirp.

And Jason Todd: Crime Alley menace, resurrected vigilante, certified emotionally constipated adult, melts.

Like butter.

“Oh, I’m losing my mind,” he murmurs, head tipping back against the couch. “This isn’t even real. You’re not even real.”

Grenade wiggles.

He sighs. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. You’re still cute.”

He’s quiet for a moment, just breathing, letting the exhaustion settle into his bones. The room is dim. Soft. Warm. You’re asleep beside him. Grenade is snoozing on his chest like the world's tiniest weighted blanket.

And without meaning to he whispers:

“I’ve never wanted this before.”

Grenade’s LED irises glow faintly in the dark.

Jason swallows hard, voice barely audible.

“Not kids. Not a family. Not… anything like this. It always felt too far away. Too dangerous. Too much like a life I couldn’t have.”

His hand rests lightly on Grenade’s back.

“But now?” His voice cracks in the smallest way. “Now I’m scared that I do.”

Grenade makes a tiny hiccupping sound.

Jason huffs a quiet laugh and taps her nose. “You have her nose, you know that?”

He immediately stiffens.

Oh my god.

He just said that.

Out loud.

To the robot.

He covers his eyes with one hand. “Okay. Nope. Completely gone. I’ve fully lost it.”

Grenade beeps cheerfully, unaware she has just witnessed a man’s entire emotional arc.

Suddenly she lets out a louder chirp, not a cry, just a loud enough noise to startle.

You shoot upright instantly, hair wild, eyes half-closed. “Huh?? Is she— is she crying?? Is she hungry?? Did she explode??”

Jason barks out a laugh before he can stop himself. “No, no. She’s fine. Just… keeping us on our toes.”

You blink at him, still half asleep, then slump sideways until your head lands on his shoulder.

You peer down at Grenade, who looks back with blank animatronic serenity.

“Yeah,” you mumble, “okay…”

Jason adjusts his arm so you can lean comfortably and murmurs, “Go back to sleep, angel. I’ve got her.”

Your eyes flutter. “Promise?”

He looks down at you then at the robot bundled on his chest.

Something inside him settles.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I promise.”

–

Somewhere between four and five in the morning, the two of you stop fighting sleep and gravity altogether. You end up half-curled against Jason on the couch, legs tangled under a blanket, Grenade cradled between you like the world’s most demanding therapy pet.

Jason is the first to stir when Grenade gives a soft, hungry beep.

He groans but sits up anyway. “Alright, alright. Daddy’s coming.”

You blink awake, face squished against his bicep. “You just called yourself Daddy.”

“I’m delirious,” he mutters, already grabbing the bottle. “Don’t speak to me.”

But he’s gentle as he lifts Grenade, settling her in the crook of one arm while he feeds her with the other. He even tilts the bottle the exact way the instructor demonstrated. He even checks the temperature on his wrist first.

You shift up against his shoulder, cheek pressing close to his jaw. “You’re really good at that.”

“Don’t say things that make my brain emotional,” he grumbles, but his voice betrays him.

Grenade slurps at the bottle like a champ.

You giggle. “She eats like you.”

Jason gives you a look that is 80% judgment, 20% fondness. “She’s a robot.”

“She still inherited your death stare.”

“Oh my god.”

You lean closer anyway, head dropping onto his shoulder again, and together you watch Grenade’s little plastic mouth work as if she’s drinking the holy nectar of life instead of lukewarm sink water.

Somewhere in the timeline of the universe, you became parents.

Sleep-deprived. Delirious. Possibly hallucinating from exhaustion.

But parents.

Jason glances at you. You’re blinking slowly, trying to stay awake, cheek warm against his shoulder.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod, eyes half-lidded. “We’re really good at this.”

And Jason, who once swore he’d never want this, who once couldn’t picture the future long enough to imagine a family, lets out a small, helpless laugh.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah, we are.”

Grenade finishes her bottle with a triumphant click.

Jason pats her back like a veteran father. “Good job, kiddo.”

She emits a pleasant chime.

You coo. “She’s so cute.”

“We’re insane,” Jason replies.

“Whatever. She’s adorable.”

Grenade cuddles into Jason’s chest again. You both melt like two idiots.

Just as you’re settling back into the couch, drifting in and out of consciousness…

A beep.

A faint mechanical rising hum.

Jason tenses. “Uh—”

Grenade’s LED eyes flash bright white.

Then her head snaps upright.

Then, in the deepest, most unsettling robot-man voice known to science, she announces:

“SIMULATION COMPLETED. RETURN TO CHECKPOINT BY ZERO NINE THREE ZERO HOURS.”

You scream.

Jason flinches so hard he nearly launches her across the room.

“What the—WHY DOES SHE SOUND LIKE A NAVY SEAL—”

Grenade repeats, louder:

“ZERO NINE THREE ZERO HOURS. ZERO NINE THREE ZERO HOURS.”

You grip Jason’s arm. “TURN HER OFF.”

“I CAN’T FIND THE BUTTON—”

“SHE’S POSSESSED—”

“THIS IS WHY WE DON’T HAVE NICE THINGS—”

Finally Jason locates the toggle and flips it. Grenade goes limp instantly, arms dangling like she’s been exorcised.

Silence.

You and Jason stare at her corpse-like robot form.

Then at each other.

Then burst into laughter so exhausted and deranged it borders on medical emergency.

Jason drops back onto the couch, running a hand down his face. “We survived the night.”

You flop against his shoulder. “We survived… her.”

He tilts his head toward you, voice low and warm. “Teamwork.”

Grenade lies there in the bassinet.

Limp. Silent. LED eyes dark.

The room is quiet for the first time in ten hours.

Jason leans back against the couch, staring at her motionless plastic body with an expression halfway between trauma and mourning.

You sniff.

Once.

Jason side-eyes you. “…Are you crying?”

“No,” you lie immediately, wiping your cheek. “My allergies are just emotional.”

Jason looks back at the bassinet.

He blinks rapidly.

You gasp. “ARE YOU crying?”

“No,” he snaps, voice cracking like a dropped plate. “Shut up.”

You both stare at her.

The tiniest whirr still echoes in the room from her shutdown sequence, like the ghost of your child haunting you.

“She was… really cute,” you mumble, wiping another not-tear away.

Jason’s jaw flexes. “She was annoying as hell.”

“But cute.”

“…Yeah,” he admits softly. “She was cute.”

Silence.

Heavy, reflective, unreasonable silence.

You sniff again. “I miss her.”

Jason stares at the floor, shoulders sinking. “Don’t say it.”

“What?”

“I—” He breathes out slowly, defeated. “I miss her too.”

Your eyes widen.

His ears go pink.

You whisper, horrified at yourselves, “…We are SICK in the head.”

Jason puts his face in his hands. “We’re unwell. We’re actually unwell.”

“She was a good baby.”

Jason nods, equally solemn. “The best. She fought… so hard.”

You choke on a laugh-sob combo. “Jason, she literally tried to kill us.”

“She had spirit,” he murmurs.

You lean into him just a little.

He doesn’t pull away.

Together, you stare at your deactivated fake child with the reverence of two war veterans remembering fallen comrades.

Jason whispers, “Rest easy, grenade.”

—

Celeste and Chad look immaculate.

Of course they do.

Celeste waves at you with a perfectly manicured hand. “Hi, sweetie!” she coos. “Omigod, we slept so well. Our little guy didn’t cry at all.”

Chad drapes an arm around her like an overconfident realtor. “We actually feel refreshed,” he says. “Probably because we’re just naturally good with kids.”

You smile back cause otherwise you’d stab them. Jason, behind you, adjusts Grenade in his arms like he’s shielding her from bad vibes.

“Good for you,” he says, voice perfectly flat.

Everyone hands their robots over. Grenade is packed away in a little box, and you swear Jason glances back once, like he’s leaving a beloved pet at the vet.

The instructors disappear to examine the recordings.

The room buzzes.

Celeste keeps going. “Honestly,” she says to no one, but loud enough for everyone, “I don’t know why people complain about these things. Ours slept straight through. I guess some couples just aren’t fit for parenthood.”

You inhale sharply.

Jason inhales sharply too, except his inhale sounds like prepping to commit a misdemeanor.

“Hey,” you whisper, elbowing him. “Not here.”

He mutters, “She drowned their baby, I’m sure of it.”

“You can’t drown a robot.”

Jason gives you a look like watch her.

Before you can respond, the instructors re-enter the room carrying clipboards.

“Results are ready!”

Everyone turns. The leaderboard is projected on the wall.

Your eyes shoot straight to the names.

You and Jason: HIGH PASS

Jason exhales in relief. He turns toward you with this tiny, lopsided smile you’re both pretending means nothing.

But then—

Something’s off.

Celeste and Chad are not listed.

Nowhere.

You hear Celeste’s saccharine voice behind you. “Um, excuse me? I think there’s been a mistake?”

The lead instructor clears her throat. “Actually… no. We found one robot with significant water damage.”

The room goes silent.

“Upon reviewing the internal recordings,” the instructor continues, “we confirmed the robot had been placed, multiple times, under running water in a bathtub.”

Every head slowly swivels toward Celeste.

Celeste’s smile twitches. “It WOULD NOT STOP CRYING,” she screeches suddenly, composure obliterated. “WHAT DID YOU WANT ME TO DO?”

Chad puts a hand on her shoulder. She shrugs it off like a feral cat.

You cover your mouth to keep from laughing. Jason doesn’t even try. He lets out a low, viciously satisfied snort.

The instructor continues reading from the clipboard. “Given the severity of the infraction, the couple responsible will not receive credit and will need to retake the course. Additionally, they will be scheduled for a psychological screening before resubmission.”

Celeste’s jaw drops.

Chad says, “Babe… you drowned it?”

She whirls on him. “YOU SAID A LITTLE WATER WOULDN’T HURT—”

“I said WARM A BOTTLE, CELESTE—”

The instructor claps her hands. “Congratulations to all passing couples!”

Jason leans down and murmurs near your ear, “We won.”

You turn to him. His eyes are shining, exhausted but bright.

“Of course we did,” you whisper back. “Grenade believed in us.”

He bites down a smile.

Breakfast happens in a haze of victory and sleepless delirium.

You’re both leaning into each other unconsciously with shoulders brushing, knees bumping under the table. Every time you tilt your mug toward Jason and he takes a sip absentmindedly, both of you freeze for a microsecond before flushing and carrying on.

Your hands brush reaching for the same fruit bowl.

Neither of you move away.

It’s peaceful. Warm. Easy.

The hostility of yesterday dissolves into laughter and shared sighs.

For once, nobody feels like a test.

After breakfast, the retreat leaders announce a few optional activities for couples who earned their credit early.

With a few hours before the train back, You and Jason choose to walk into the tiny town nearby.

It’s absurdly picturesque, cobblestones, brick shops, the kind of place where every storefront looks like it sells very seasonal jams.

Jason holds your hand halfway down the street before either of you notice.

When you do notice… neither of you let go.

At the bookstore, Jason wanders between shelves like a kid in a candy shop, grabbing a stack of classics with reverent fingers and then, shyly, a couple of self-development books.

You cradle them for him while he keeps browsing.

“You know,” you tease, “you’re giving serious ‘dad discovering hobbies’ energy.”

He nudges your shoulder lightly. “Grenade changed me.”

You burst out laughing.

A little later, you pass a jewelry vendor with bracelets laid out in neat rows. You pick one with soft lilac beads, simple and clean.

Jason watches you fasten it around your wrist with an expression you can’t quite read, warm and quiet and a little undone.

“Looks good on you,” he murmurs.

You don’t answer because your heart is doing something embarrassing.

–

Packing feels different this time.

Jason tosses you your charger; you catch it. You hand him his hoodie; he shrugs into it. The bracelet on your wrist glints in the late morning light, and every time Jason’s eyes flick to it with something soft and private.

Grenade’s bassinet is gone, but her absence lingers like a third presence in the room.

“We should write her a eulogy,” you say, stuffing your toiletries into your bag.

Jason zips his duffel. “She’s not dead.”

You lift a brow. “Emotionally, she is.”

He pauses, thinking. “Yeah, okay. Fair.”

You turn to grab your coat and nearly bump into him. He steadies you with a hand on your waist—easy, natural, warm—and neither of you jump or freeze or pretend it didn’t happen. His thumb brushes lightly where the fabric dips, just a fraction, just enough to make your heart hiccup.

“You ready?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah. You?”

He looks around the room like he’s checking for threats, or memories, or both. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Let’s go.”

He walks beside you down the hall, his knuckles brushing yours every few steps like an unconscious Morse code. You swear he does it more once he notices you’re not pulling away.

By the time you reach the shuttle stop, his hand finds yours completely. No hesitation. No awkwardness.

The bus ride to the station is quiet, peaceful, almost meditative. Snow melts in streaks along the window. Your bracelet catches the sunlight again, lilac beads glowing. Jason nudges it gently with his thumb, pretending he’s adjusting your sleeve. You pretend not to notice the way he looks at it like it’s a secret he isn’t ready to say out loud.

At the station, the crowd is the usual blur of commuters and weekend travelers. Jason stays close, subtly boxing you in from elbows, backpacks, and rushing strangers. By now you’re used to it. You don’t even tease him about it.

The train boards. Jason lifts your bag onto the overhead rack even though you absolutely could have done it. When he sits next to you, his arm brushes yours, and he doesn’t bother pretending it was accidental.

Once the train pulls out of the station, you expect him to settle into faux-sleep again, that soldier-still posture he defaults to, but he doesn’t. His eyes stay open. His body stays angled toward you.

You talk about everything and nothing—the terrible chili from the cafeteria, the nature walk fiasco, Grenade’s tiny war crimes, how Celeste is probably on a government watchlist now. Jason laughs more than he talks, but when he does talk, it’s honest, thoughtful, unguarded in a way that feels like a privilege.

Sometimes his knee bumps yours. Sometimes your shoulder leans into his. Sometimes the bracelet catches his eye and he goes quiet for half a second like the sight of it short-circuits him.

Halfway through the ride, you fall silent, watching the snow blur past the window.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You nod, then tilt your head at him. “You?”

Jason studies you for a long moment—your expression, the way you’re curled slightly toward him, the bracelet he hasn’t stopped looking at.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Better than okay.”

Your chest warms. Slowly, deliberately, you rest your head against his shoulder. Not pretending to sleep. Not pretending to be tired. Just… leaning. The snow keeps falling. The train hums beneath you. The bracelet at your wrist glints once more in the winter light, and Jason’s thumb brushes it gently, like a quiet promise he hasn’t found the words for yet.

You lift your hand and lace your fingers through his.

This time, he doesn’t hesitate at all.

---

a/n: holy shit she (me) lives!! life update. I survived the holidays. I have started school again. I need a job handed to me in 6 business weeks or else i am going to be a danger to this world because i am so not graduating without a full time offer. I am also going to be an aunt this week yay. hopefully i will be that cool hot aunt the kid wants to be like in the future.

---

taglist: THE TAGLIST IS NOW CLOSED (cause i am bad at it and its not working). to stay updated with the story follow: #goblin-writes

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