"what?" you blinked, confusion wrinkling your brow. why would he care if you left town or not? "you should go." his voice is stern, making you snort at him, but truthfully his voice was softer than you expected. not a threat. not a warning. something caught in between that you couldn't place: quiet disappointment.

you crossed your arms. "and where exactly was i supposed to go? metropolis? i’m sure superman has enough on his plate." you laughed, shaking your head at him. "i’m not scared of you or scarecrow." he shifted in place, the sound of his boots scuffing the floor too familiar a nervous tic.

for half a second, you almost pictured jason there instead, fidgeting under your gaze like he had after dented walls with a thrown ball, or when he thought you’d be disappointed in him. the memory lanced sharp, and you shoved it down hard.

grief was cruel like that, painting ghosts onto strangers.

it happened to you far too often than you'd like to admit: when tim showed you his robin costume, when dick was making your dinner, and even sometimes you'd get the urge to call him. your baby. you'd grieved, but the grief never left and that pit in your stomach never faded.

the knight tilted his helmet toward you, head cocked —in that same impatient way jason had when he didn’t like an answer.— "you should be," he said, but there was no venom, no promise behind it. he sounded like someone mimicking what they thought a villain sounded like.

"are you here to scare me then? kill me? take everything i have?" you rolled your eyes, gesturing around the small apartment. "i don't have anything for you. i haven't worn my suit in years or helped batman, so trust me, i'm not any leverage to him. so why you are here, i do not know."

"you think batman cares about leverage?" his voice wavered, bitter, anger dancing in his words. "he doesn’t protect people. he destroys them."

you frowned. the cadence was too sharp, the words too personal, like someone who’d argued with bruce a thousand times before.

for a dangerous second, you swore you almost recognized him, his familiarity running too deep within you, but still, you couldn't place it. "you sound all studied up in all things batman." you mocked him. it made him huff, standing tall before you, but then, just as quickly, his hand flexed at his side, thumb rubbing against his palm like a nervous tick. you were terribly good at reading people, one of your many good abilities, but you didn't understand this one. he had broken into your home, and yet, he was nervous. a shyness to him almost mixed in with all the anger brooding off him.

for a moment, you’re not in your living room at all.

you’re back in the kitchen, light flickering overhead, jason 14 years old and pacing with the same exact twitch, muttering about how bruce never listens, how he doesn’t need someone hovering over him. that he could handle himself. you remember telling him that you didn't care if he could handle himself; you'd be there to handle the brunt of it anyways, that you’d never stop loving him no matter how hard he tried to test it.

the memory slices through you so sharply that you almost call his name. almost.

"yeah, well, we both know him better than most, ma." you blinked hard, throat tightening, and the knight’s silhouette swims back into view. not your boy. not jason. just another ghost wearing his shadows. grief was cruel like that, conjuring pieces of him where they didn’t belong.

like your mind needed to fill in the blanks with him to survive.

the words lingered as you tried to tell yourself you imagined, that the memories were all mixing together into one.

your eyes traced him again, desperate for reassurance that this was just a man in a mask, an enemy like the many you had faced before—nothing more. but every detail refused to cooperate: the restless thumb against his palm, the shift of weight from one boot to the other. your stomach twisted because you wanted it to be him. and that was worse than if it truly was.

"you should go."

he froze at that, helmet tilting the faintest bit like your words wounded. the silence stretched, and in it you could almost feel him staring. like if he took the helmet off, you’d find those green eyes looking back at you.

but he didn’t. the silence swallowed you whole. "how'd you even get in here."

“you never lock the back door.” the words landed like a stone in your chest. your breath stuttered before you caught it, forcing your face into something flat, unimpressed. anyone could have figured that out, you told yourself. anyone watching long enough.

“been stalking me, then?” you shot back, the edge of your voice a shield. “what, did you make a list of my bad habits to throw in my face? next you’ll tell me i leave the porch light on too.”

he shifted, and though the helmet revealed nothing, you felt the weight of his stare. too heavy. too knowing. then a small chuckle: “you do,” he said simply. no mocking lilt. no satisfaction. just… fact. your laugh was brittle. “lots of people do. doesn’t mean you know me.”

but the truth was crawling under your skin, buzzing in your bones. he hadn’t just broken in. he remembered.

"what do you want?" your voice soft, quieter than you meant, as if you were afraid of the answer.

he stilled, and you hated how your chest tightened in the silence. if he were just another villain, he would’ve already spit out demands, threats, ultimatums. instead, he just stood there, shifting once, boots dragging like he couldn’t stand still.

finally, the modulated voice broke through the heavy quiet. “...to make sure you’re safe.”

you blinked. your head tilted, frown cutting sharp across your face. that wasn’t the answer. it wasn’t his answer. it was too… tender. too careful. like words you’d heard before, whispered at your doorway when a boy swore he didn’t need you waiting up for him, but loved that you always did.

your heart lurched, and you forced a scoff up your throat. “you’re doing a terrible job of it,” you said. “breaking into my home, creeping around like a shadow. you want me safe? stay the hell away from me.”

but he didn’t move. didn’t argue. just stood there with his hand flexing at his side again, like he was biting back something you weren’t meant to hear. his laugh is dry: "you know you never used to tell me to go." your stomach felt like it was plummeting, and your throat felt dry. you couldn't speak. "in fact you used to beg to stay." he walked further into the room, closer to you. "used to let me sleep in your bed, the old man hated it." he shook his head at the memory while you felt like you couldn't move.

felt like your skin was vibrating.

“i don’t expect you to remember,” he said, voice tight, almost bitter. “especially since you forgot me so quick.” his fingers curl tightly into his hand, he's upset, angry.

all the same tells.

but it couldn't be…

"jason?" the name left her lips for the first time in what felt like years. he visibly relaxed at her voice, like he had spent this whole time just waiting for his mother. he reached up, opening his mask. "hey ma." you want to break down, you want to crumble

you can't. it feels like you don't know how. every emotion washing over you. you took a slow step forward, gulping, "jason-how-“ he took a sharp step back, and it broke your heart. it tore something in you that you didn't know could be broken.

"don't."

he flinches, stepping back again, and your chest tightens. he looks different, scars covering his face that broke your heart, but the boy you remember is still there, buried under the armor and the anger. "i’m not-" he starts, voice bitter, then cuts off, unsure. like he wants to tell you he's not who he used to be, he is a shell of himself. a part of him feared you'd never love him the same again.

"my baby," a soft whisper that shatters him, that tells him that all he needed was his mother, who had spent all night crying in that abandoned wing. his mother.

he had scripted a thousand things to say to you, to yell at you, to tell you off, but all he saw when he looked at you was the woman who had loved him ever since the day bruce wayne took him in. he saw his mom, the woman who held him when he cried. the one who had made his robin suit especially just for him.

and when you saw him… you only saw the poor boy who you had caught trying to steal your husband's tires.

your jason.

With a loud crash that reverberated in your bones, the back doors blew open like a bomb had gone off. Smoke spilled into the room in a crawling, living cloud, and through it walked a figure dressed in blood-red and black—shoulders squared, helmet glinting in the firelight like a demon had risen from the ashes.

Red Hood.

You didn’t even have time to say his name before he opened fire—precision sharp, brutal grace in motion. Two thugs dropped before they could turn their weapons. A third tried to run, and Jason threw a knife with an effortless flick of his wrist, pinning the guy by his jacket to the wall.

He didn’t speak as he approached.

Didn’t say a damn word as he took down the last straggler with a fist to the throat and a low, seething growl. Didn’t even flinch as a glint of a knife in his hand caught skin and pulled.

Only when the silence fell—thick, ringing, and absolute—did he finally turn to you.

His helmet came off with a jerk.

And Jason’s eyes burned like open flame.

“The hell are you doing here?” His voice was a snarl, barely leashed. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

Your breath caught, but you didn’t answer right away. The adrenaline was still draining from your limbs like water through a cracked dam.

“I was following a lead,” You said, quieter than you meant to. “I thought—”

“You thought?” He cut in, voice slicing sharp and clean. “You thought this was a good idea? You didn’t even call me. You just waltzed into a goddamn death trap like it’s some kind of—what? Solo mission? Do you think you’re bulletproof?”

The hurt behind his fury made your chest tighten.

“I didn’t want to drag you into it if it turned out to be nothing,” You muttered. “I didn’t want to be a burden.”

Jason’s expression twisted—shock, heartbreak, and fury mingling in a storm behind his eyes.

“A burden?” He repeated, voice hoarse. “You think I care about being dragged into danger? That’s my job. My whole life is built around pulling people out of burning wrecks—especially you.”

The words punched the breath out of you.

“I thought I lost you,” He added, quieter now. It was raw and it scared you. “You didn’t answer your phone. I saw the ping on that burner you took and by the time I got here. . .” He trailed off, swallowing hard. “I thought I was gonna find your body.”

Your heart cracked at the edges.

He stepped closer, close enough that you could see the faint tremble in his hands. His jaw was clenched so tight you could see the muscle ticking in his cheek, but there was fear underneath all that anger—a bone-deep terror carved into every word.

You reached out, fingers brushing the hem of his jacket. “I’m sorry.”

Jason exhaled through his nose like he’d been holding it in for hours.

He didn’t raise his voice again. He just wrapped an arm around you, sudden and fierce, pulling you against his chest like he needed to feel you breathing just to believe it.

“Next time,” He said, voice low and ragged into your hair, “we go together. Or not at all. Got it?”

You nodded, face buried in his armor. His scent was smoke, leather, and something painfully familiar—home, even when everything around you burned.

“Got it,” You whispered.

He kissed your temple, lingering there like he could imprint safety into your skin.

And for the first time all night, you let yourself feel safe—tethered to the one person who would always come for you, even if it meant tearing down the city to do it.

Jason didn’t let go of you for a long moment. His arms were wrapped around you like he was anchoring you to the present, as though if he let go, you’d disappear into the rubble and smoke like a dream he’d wake from too late.

Then, finally, without a word, he slid his helmet on your head and gently guided you toward his bike.

The ride home was silent—save for the roar of the engine and the occasional sharp gust of wind that tugged at your clothes. Your arms were tight around his middle, face pressed to the worn leather of his jacket, and though the ache in your body hadn’t subsided, something inside you settled with every mile that carried you away from that godforsaken warehouse.

When you finally reached the apartment, Jason parked the bike with precision, killed the engine, and peeled his helmet off your head, smoothing down your hair with a worried look, the lines of tension still hardened on his face.

The lock clicked under his fingers. He ushered you inside with a hand on your back—gentle, but firm, like you were glass and he still hadn’t forgiven himself for watching you crack.

Inside, the low lights flickered on, casting everything in a gold-dusted hush. The apartment smelled like cedarwood and lingering gun oil, the kind of scent you’d once found intimidating and now found oddly comforting.

Jason crossed the room ahead of you, tossed his helmet onto the couch already shedding off his body armor, then turned back with eyes that scanned you top to bottom. “Sit,” He said. “Living room. Let me see.”

You didn’t argue.

The moment you sat, he was already kneeling between your legs, hands surprisingly gentle as they swept over your arms, your ribs, your thighs—checking for bruises, breaks, blood. His brows were furrowed, a storm still quietly raging behind his eyes, but his touch was reverent. Almost apologetic.

“I’m okay,” You murmured, but your voice came out thin. Unconvincing.

Jason didn’t answer right away. He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, eyes dark and solemn. “Let me take care of you.”

There was no room for pride in that request. No sharp edges, no armor. Just the quiet plea of someone who needed to make sure you were still here, still whole.

You nodded.

He moved like a ghost then, retrieving the first aid kit from the bathroom with all the familiarity of ritual. When he returned, he cleaned the gash near your hip—nothing deep, but raw and angry-looking. The alcohol stung, but he didn’t flinch when you hissed. He murmured something low—an apology, or maybe a reassurance—as he worked.

His fingers were stained with your blood, but his hands were steady.

When he was done with you, you gestured for him to sit. “Your turn.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding, Jason.”

A breath escaped him—half a sigh, half surrender. He pulled off his shirt, revealing the mosaic of fresh bruises blooming along his ribs like stormclouds. A long scrape ran across his side, angry and red.

You worked in silence, the antiseptic sharp between you, the quiet hum of the city outside the only sound. As you pressed gauze to his wound, your hand trembled slightly. Not from fear—but from the sudden, sobering awareness of how close this had been.

“You could’ve gotten hurt worse,” You whispered.

Jason looked at you then—really looked—and something in his gaze softened. “So could you.”

You pressed the bandage into place, helped him put his shirt back on, then rested your palm over his chest, just above his heart. It beat strong beneath your fingers, steady and alive. And for a moment, that was all that mattered.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” You said. Gentle.

He leaned into your touch, eyes closing briefly like your hand was the only thing tethering him to solid ground. “You didn’t just scare me,” He said, voice low. “You wrecked me.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, so instead, you leaned forward and pressed your forehead to his. The space between you buzzed with things left unsaid—fear, anger, relief, love—all wrapped in the same silence that hung heavy in the apartment like smoke that never cleared.

His hands found your waist, careful and grounding. Yours rested on his shoulders, fingers brushing the edge of the bandage you’d just placed.

And together, under dim lights and aching hearts, you held each other—not because either of you were broken, but because in the wreckage of that night, this was what survival looked like.

Quiet. Steady. Earned.

You stayed like that a while—knees brushing, foreheads touching, hearts slowly finding the same rhythm again. The world outside could fall apart, and maybe it had tonight, just a little. But here, in this pocket of warmth and gauze and unspoken promises, you both breathed a little easier.

Eventually, Jason eased back and stood, offering you a hand. His palm was calloused and nicked from years of holding guns and gripping rooftops, but when he held yours, it was soft—like even with all the danger in his bones, he remembered how to cradle something delicate.

“Come on,” He said, voice low and gravel-edged. “Let’s get some rest.”

You followed him into the bedroom, the floor creaking underfoot like it, too, exhaled after the night’s tension. The sheets were rumpled from earlier, but still warm. Jason tugged his shirt over his head again, a wince catching at his side, and you stopped him with a hand to his wrist.

“Don’t push it,” You said.

“’m fine.”

“You’re not made of titanium, Jay.”

He snorted faintly, then let you guide him to the bed. The two of you slipped beneath the covers without ceremony, just quiet, exhausted gravity. You settled into him like muscle memory, head tucked under his chin, his arm looping around your waist.

For a moment, the only sound was the hum of the city bleeding in through the windows and the soft cadence of his breathing.

Then, quieter than before, Jason spoke.

“When I found you in that warehouse. . .” His voice cracked a little, like something raw split open beneath the words. “I saw you—on the ground, blood on your shirt, that look on your face. I—” He stopped, swallowed, started again. “I don’t think I’ve ever been that scared.”

Your chest ached.

You looked up, and even in the dark, you could see the guilt etched across his brow, in the way his jaw clenched like he was still trying to keep something buried.

“I’m here,” You whispered. “I made it. Because of you.”

Jason’s arm tightened around you. “You don’t get it,” He said hoarsely. “You’re the one thing I can’t lose. Not after everything. Not you.”

And just like that, the last of the night’s defenses cracked.

You leaned up and kissed his temple, slow and lingering, like a benediction. “You won’t,” You murmured into his hair. “You won’t lose me.”

Silence stretched again—but this time, it was full. Of trust. Of breath. Of healing.

Jason’s breathing slowed, and you felt the tension bleed out of his body bit by bit, until he finally melted into the bed, into you. And you followed soon after, both of you bruised but whole, fragile but stitched back together in the places that mattered.

Outside, the city kept its noise, its violence, its ghosts.

But with him, under the soft hush of shared blankets and battered hearts, there was peace.

It wasn’t perfect or clean; but it was real. And that was enough.

It was the kind of peace that didn’t sing or shine, but rather breathed—low and slow, like the final exhale after a storm’s last crash. It settled in the hollow places: in the cracks beneath your ribs, in the ache of bruised skin, in the place between Jason’s shoulder and your cheek where your breath fogged against his bare collarbone.

The room was dark, but not empty. The quiet wasn’t silence—it was safety. The distant drone of traffic and the occasional siren became nothing more than white noise, swallowed by the warmth radiating from Jason’s body and the slow, syncopated beat of his heart under your hand. You could feel it, solid and relentless beneath your palm, a pulse like a war drum that had finally quieted to a lullaby.

He had one hand curled at your waist, fingers twitching in his sleep like his body didn’t quite trust that you were still there, even now. His other arm was tucked beneath the pillow you shared, cradling your head. Every inch of him—this man built of muscle and scars and rage—was wrapped around you like he was made for it.

And maybe he was.

Jason Todd was not a soft man. He was fire and steel, vengeance with a loaded gun and a restless soul. But in this hour, in this bed, he’d folded down all his edges just to make room for you. Every breath he took was a vow spoken in silence: I’ve got you. I won’t let go.

The ceiling above you was cracked and dim, a canvas smeared by passing headlights, and the shadows that moved across it were slow and reverent—like even the night didn’t dare disturb the stillness that had grown between you.

You didn’t sleep right away. Your body ached too much, and your thoughts—though gentler now—still flickered like old film reels. But you stayed close. You listened. To him. To yourself. To the miracle of being here, alive, and held.

And when your eyes did finally close, it was not from exhaustion, but from surrender.

Not to weakness—but to rest. To the quiet kind of love that didn’t need grand declarations or perfect timing. The kind that waited through the worst of you and met you in the wreckage, hands steady, heart bruised but unwavering.

You drifted off with your fingers still tangled in his shirt and his breath warm against your forehead, knowing—deep in the marrow of you—that tomorrow would come, full of city noise and unspoken danger and all the chaos that living beside him brought.

But tonight? Tonight, you had this: blood and balm, thunder and tenderness, wrapped up in the arms of a man who would tear the world apart just to keep you breathing.

And that, you thought as sleep finally claimed you, was more than enough.

And as sleep finally threaded its fingers through your hair and pulled you under, you didn’t think of the warehouse, or the bruises, or the mistakes that had almost cost you everything.

You only thought of him—the quiet strength in his arms, the steady beat of his heart anchoring you home—and how, in this fragile sliver of night, wrapped in the aftermath of chaos and care, you were no longer afraid.

Not of tomorrow. Not of falling. Not with him beside you.