CATHY MEETING GRANT IN ANY AU YOU WANT

Hey remember that au where Grant is a ghost and Jason can see ghosts ☺️

Grant doesn't know who she is at first. He just knows that she's stuck to Jason like glue, too far gone for even Jason to see her fully, but he knows that Jay sometimes does. Staring back at him in the mirror when he's doing his T shots but gone in a blink, pressed against the glass outside his window on chilly mornings, floating limply in the tepid water of his discarded bathwater but sinking to impossible depths before he can reach her.

Grant doesn't know who she is, but he knows that he doesn't like the way Jason looks when he catches glimpses of her. Pallid, eyes red rimmed with shaking hands. He can never bring himself to talk for a long while after the whispy woman appears, his voice seems to fade away with her apparition.

Jason can never reach her, but Grant can. She likes to hover over Jason's bed at night, humming a tune Grant has maybe heard on the radio once, or on one of Grandma Fran's records. Sometimes she stands in front of the overstuffed bookshelf and just stares, glassy brown eyes tracing the words on the cover, occasionally reaching out a boney dark hand to run the tips of calloused fingers over the spine.

It's in neither of these places that he finally manages to corner her. They're staying at the manor, empty save for Alfred and Damian for the moment, and there's enough ghosts in these halls that Grant almost misses her. He's done a mighty fine job of keeping the rest of the spirits away from Jason, enough so that Jay has finally been able to get some rest, and the others have been made quite aware that Jason is his, so he feels comfortable enough to roam around.

He finds her in the garden, mimicking the motions of tending to a patch of lilies but unable to really interact with them. She is different from the other ghosts of Wayne manor, her skin is dark and stuck to her bones, underfed or maybe sick. She's barefoot, an old nightgown made of threadbare white cotton that brushes her calves, dotted with pale blue flowers and cigarette burns. There's a rosary hanging from her neck, familiar in its design, he swears he's seen it somewhere before but he can't quite place it. It's hard to see her hair with her head obscured by the bonnet.

"Why won't you leave him alone?" Grant demands the moment he realizes she's not going to slip away.

The woman doesn't turn to him immediately, still fussing with the flowers that phase right through her fingers. "Well, I missed him of course." She says simply, her voice dropping with a southern twang that catches him off guard with its familiarity. Not Kentucky, but certainly some place rural.

"You're hurting him. He's scared of you." Grant tells her firmly. If she cares about Jason, whoever she thinks he is, it might be enough to make her go away.

She looks at him then, with hollowed cheeks and dark circles around her eyes. This close she smells like mildew, stale sweat, and cigarettes. Hospital disinfectant and disease. She doesn't have the vacant stare of a spirit too faded to distinguish between their life and death, but that must be what she is because he has never heard of this woman and Jason tells him everything.

He ignores the voice in his head sounding suspiciously of his mother that points out that Jason doesn't have such a strong reaction to the other ghosts that hung around him before Grant chased them all away.

"I don't know you." Is what she says instead of acknowledging the question. "But you are close to him. Did he tell you that? That he was scared." She looks... worried maybe, verging on pitiful.

And well, Jason hadn't said it explicitly, but Grant thinks he could tell. Maybe. Probably. "Does it matter? He's not whoever you think he is." Grant settles on.

She tilts her head, squinting at him. "Of course he is. He's Jason Peter Todd. He wasn't always, but that's the name he wanted. He's my son. I would know my baby blind and deaf."

That can't be true. Jason has told him about the woman who gave birth to him, a doctor supposedly, with bleach blonde hair and the same big dark eyes as Jason. The woman who gave him over to the Joker, the woman who smoked a cigarette while Jason was tortured. The woman Jason threw himself at the bomb to protect. The woman who died anyway.

The more he thinks about it, the more it lines up. The pieces fall into place and settle hot and angry in his stomach. "You." He scowls at her. "He told me all about you. What you did. What you didn't." He bares his teeth and is gratified by the way she flinches.

"I'd like to say I tried my best-"

"but we both know that's a lie." He cuts her off. She looks distraught, if ghosts could cry he's sure she would be. Grant doesn't buy it for a second, Jason had fallen for her act and paid the ultimate price. Grant is not trusting, and certainly not so quick to forgive.

"You don't know anything about us." She shakes her head, fists clenched even while her thin frame shakes with sobs she can never let out. She's an angry crier, Jason must get it from her.

"Don't I, Sheila?" Names are powerful he knows, for spirits clinging to the living they can burn like hot coals, especially malicious entities. I see you, I know you, you will not fool me.

The woman freezes and Grant let's the feeling of triumph settle over him.

"What did you just call me?" Her voice is low and hateful, her aghast anger prickling up his arms like static.

He opens his mouth, fully prepared to repeat himself, when-

"Momma?" It's a quiet, ruined thing from behind him. When he turns Jason is a ways back still, frozen in place, hesitant to get any closer.

Ice rushes through Grant's veins the way blood no longer does. Sheila is mother, when Jason is feeling generous. The Woman Who Gave Birth To Me, when he's not. Never, not even in his dreams, is she momma. Only one person has ever held that title, that Jason has told him about. A frail woman, sickly and hurting and slowly rotting away in a one bedroom apartment under a pile of thrifted blankets.

"My baby," Catherine calls out to him, she holds outs her arms and the sleeves of her dress roll up to reveal the track marks littering her skin, "oh my baby."

"please don't leave." Jason begs her. Grant has never heard Jason beg, not through the worst of his nightmares or through the worst torture his teachers have thrown at him. "Please momma, please don't leave."

"I'm here baby. Momma's here I promise. I'm sorry, I'm here." Catherine's voice is thick with tears that can't fall, heavy with the wail forever stuck in her chest.

Jason barely spares him a glance, he barrels into her, strong arms wrapping around her emaciated waist as he cries, nose buried in her neck. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." He repeats, over and over. "I love you, I'm sorry."

"Ain't nothin' to be sorry for," She sniffles, "you've done so well." She cards her fingers through his hair.

He's shaking his head, forehead tucked under her chin because he can't bear to look her in the eye. "I- I didn't finish school, or go to college, I don't go to church, I hurt people. I'm not- I'm never gonna wear your wedding dress. I didn't even keep the name you gave me." He confesses through tears.

Catherine doesn't try to refute any of it, just holds him closer. "It's gonna be alright baby, momma's here now. And I ain't ever leavin' again." She promises. Her eyes fluck to Grant then, freezing him in place. "No matter what no one has to say about it."

Grant- he should apologize. Or explain himself. Or maybe crawl back into his grave and never come out. But he can't bring himself to move, staring wide eyed with his mouth agape.

Jason pulls back with a start, quickly wiping his face as he remembers Grant. "Oh. Um, momma I'm so sorry," he laughs thickly, "I never introduced you two. Momma, this is Grant. My...my boyfriend." He swallows. "Grant this is Catherine, my momma."

Grant is still and silent. Catherine rakes her gaze down his body skeptically, clearly not fond of what she's seeing. It makes him feel open and vulnerable in a way he hasn't in years. "Boyfriend?" She raises an eyebrow at Jason. "Darlin' there are plenty of fish in the sea, you ain't gotta settle for the first stray that sticks himself to ya." She clicks her tongue.

"Momma, I promise he's real funny. And he takes good care of me. He's a lot like dad. You just gotta get to know him." Jason assures, his thick Jersey accent dipping into something more rural in a way Grant's never heard it.

"Yeah he's funny all right." Catherine mutters, intentionally loud enough for them both to hear. "We'll see about straightening him up. Your daddy had a lot of getting it together to do too before I even let him propose y'know."

"I know momma." He doesn't seem inclined to argue with her, which is not a good omen. Jason loves arguing, he argues with everyone. He sends Grant an apologetic look and Grant knows with a sudden clarity that he's fucked.

For Nyra because I feel great potential for good old hurt/comfort!

why yes it's the dear old commander

not very spoilery i think it's just vaguely champions right

-- Eye of the North

-- set sometime during Champions

At first, their stares are in awe. How does she do it? She's always on her feet, does she even sleep? Does she ever stop? Tireless, involved, is she even human anymore, it must be Aurene's aid, no it's her own willpower. She trains with soldiers, she works with tacticians, she mediates, she watches for signs of danger, she's here, she's there, she's everywhere. She's the first to wake and last to go to bed.

Then, they're frowning in worry. Like bloodhounds, they sense the breaking of the seams. They sense her worsening moods and violent stares. Nobody dares contradict her. They're scared of her. Does she ever stop, does she ever sleep? No, Nyra wants to say, I don't because dreams are frightening, because if I stop I'll fall apart. It's old habits kicking in again; it's the troubled and restless limbs; it's the overwhelming feeling that if she stops, it will all fall apart. Must outrun, her instincts scream, run, what good are those legs for if not for trying to outrun yourself, why are they so restless then, what good is a leader who doesn't persevere? What good is a hero after it's all gone to shit? What good?

And she should know better, she knows better, she knows what it is. It's stress, it's the impending doom, the anxious wait. It's the losses going up. It's the fact she can't do anything more than she's already doing. And she's losing herself in it.

You can do it, Alysannyra Ainsaph, her own voice taunts.

Do what? she gurgles against the water that suffocates. Do what?

No answer. So in order not to drown in it, she doesn't dare stop.

And the loop starts again.

And one day, suddenly, the dam breaks. Phlunt says something, she doesn't even know what, and it breaks. She flings herself at him like an enraged beast, breaks his chair till it's little pieces, holds him by the ear and screams at it all while he's whimpering and shouting in pain. It takes Rytlock, Logan and Trahearne's minion to overpower her; their grip doesn't relent till she stops trashing and begins shaking instead, staring at the ground with the insistent taste of tears on her tongue.

"I--" she begins pitifully. I couldn't do it. Whatever it is. "I--"

"You're okay, Nyra," Logan says gently, removing sweaty hair from her face. She clings to him, shaking like a leaf, hiccuping from sobs. Everyone stares at her, fear in their eyes. They're afraid of me. Gods, they're afraid of me. Good Gods, what have I done?

Trahearne's voice is firm and authoritative. "Logan, Rytlock, can you take over for a bit?" he asks, but it's really an order. Even drained as she is, she can't help but feel a smidge of pride. Rytlock growls affirmatively at the same time as Logan's nod, though he doesn't let go of her till Trahearne comes closer.

Raw, Nyra attaches herself to him as soon as she can, not trusting herself to handle her own despair. He gently leads her away, holding her close, whispering soft things into her hair. He feels like an anchor, a lifeboat, a wooden board she clings to not to drown.