#jason toddxreader

“Can you turn the goddamn air up?”

Gothamites were becoming increasingly brusque as the summer heat slowly suffocated them. Typically, one can notice the season in Gotham based on the layers of clothing (or lack thereof) that each resident sported on the Gotham streets; however, tube tops and 1970s-style track shorts were no match for the heat index rising above 115 degrees, an unusually sweltering day for the sinful city.

“It looks like Gotham is finally getting a taste of what the afterlife is gonna look like.” One resident snickered with a twisted smirk as he laid change down on the newspaper stand to pay for the Gotham Gazette. “Lotta fire in those parts, don’t’cha think?”

“I don’t know - never believed in the stuff.” replied y/n, who sat on the other end of the newspaper stand. She counted the dirtied coins and wrinkled up dollar bills before placing them in the register, sitting on the stool with a sigh. She glanced at the clock on the upper corner of the interior of the stand as the upper hand mocked her boredom.

Y/n worked at the newspaper stand part-time since graduating from NYU - she fled New York City, hopeful about Gotham despite her friends’ pleas for her to stay after the break-up.

“Y/n, seriously? Fucking Gotham?” Amulya spat the city’s name, her boxed wine almost out with it. “What the hell?”

Sarah shook her head, the wiry blonde strands going with it. “Is it because of the superheroes?”

“No.” Y/n replied, her voice less convincing than her face’s poor attempt at hiding guilt. “I just think that I want to see more than NYC.”

“Then go to San Francisco, for crying out loud!” Amulya stood on her feet this time, glass full of wine sloshing with every movement. “Or at least Bludhaven. I’m with Sarah on this one: I think you’ve finally lost it, hun.”

Y/n sighed as she stared at her flats. “I’ll come visit, I just… can’t stand being here after everything.”

Since moving to Gotham, y/n caught up on the news: Batman was a household name, due in part by the Gotham News and Gazette. His name was both a prayer and a curse, spoken by all sorts of residents as they pointed to him. After a couple of weeks, it clicked for y/n: Gotham’s incessant violent crime ceases to stop due to Batman’s no-kill rule.

One day, while job hunting (for the third week in a row), y/n picked up a thrown out Gazette paper, with a piece titled Are You There, Batman? It’s Me, Gotham by Keke Throwma. She read it, then clipped the newspaper article into a scrapbook upon her arrival to her shared apartment. The following day, she applied for a position at the newspaper stand, writing articles in her downtime on shifts (which was often - the digital age nearly extinguished the paper business entirely).

“Do you think it’s ever going to change?” Y/n heard from a passerby who stopped at the stand to read the cover page of the paper.

The man standing beside the passerby shrugged, but grinned optimistically. “You know, all it takes is implementing a rehabilitation program, which Gotham should fund!” His voice was as deep as his shoulders broad, and only then did y/n notice the badge clipped on the man’s belt. “Could I just get this one?” He made eye contact with y/n, his blue eyes soft and welcoming.

“Yeah, no problem.” y/n opened her palm for the cash as she watched the man remove the wallet from his front pocket.

“What do you think about all this?” The woman asked y/n, pointing to the newspapers.

Y/n blinked for a moment, her mind blank despite preparing for this question for months. “The rehab center wouldn’t account for people like Joker, who believe that rules are meant for breaking.” she counted the coins after the man gave her the money, and pushed a button to open the register.

“See? Thank you!” the woman threw her hands up, her buttoned-up top rising from her slacks. “Grayson, you’re the only person who thinks Batman is in his right mind.” 

“Not right mind,” Dick corrected, “just on the right path. Big difference.” He folded the newspaper and placed it in his armpit, thanking y/n.

“You’re Detective Grayson, right?” y/n leaned forward in her stool in curiosity. “And Commissioner Gordon!” she grinned, awestruck by the pair standing before her.

“Yeah, we are.” Barbara replied. “Y’know, people aren’t always this excited to see us.”

“Unless they have a loaded barrel and a death wish.” Dick added, taking a sip of his coffee.

“Sorry, I just see you two on TV, I hear about you in the papers, and I think you’re doing a great job of interfering with the vigilantes.”

Dick blinked quickly, pursing his lips as he looked to Gordon for her reaction. She beamed, “Yeah, I know a lot of people are upset about that, but from working closely with my father until his death, I saw the often fatal flaws of enabling vigilantism, let alone encouraging it in Batman’s case.”

Y/n nodded, following along. “Yeah, we studied vigilantism in a couple of my criminal seminars in school. Although Batman has respectful intentions for the legal system in Gotham, he isn’t contributing to the reform of the system, essentially being a catalyst for the cycle of retribution and re-offense for these criminals.”

“Exactly!” Barbara laughed. “Where did you study criminal justice?”

“Criminology.” y/n corrected. “At NYU. I moved here a few months ago hoping to get a job as a journalist, but apparently they’re all booked up.”

“Figuratively or literally?” Dick asked, quirking a brow. Y/n and Barbara laughed in response. “I’m not surprised that you weren’t brought on at the Gazette, if that’s what you applied for, but we could always use you at the PD, if you’re interested in some additional training.”

“Recruiting me? For the police? No offense, Detective, but I’d rather stay here in the sweltering heat.” y/n waved her hand.

“Don’t like the grunt work?” Barbara asked, intrigued.

“No, I love that stuff,” y/n sighed, “I just don’t… like the cops, y’know? Feels dirty." She looked around at the floor beside her, covered in old gum, trash, and remnants of rodents. “Dirtier than this place, I’m afraid.” Y/n realized what she said and quickly added, “No offense.”

“None taken.” Dick replied. “Seems like you should meet my brother. He is, for lack of a better word, ashamed of what I do for a living.”

Barbara nodded in agreement. “I’ve been over at their place for holidays a couple of times, and Jason hates him for it. It’s kind of funny, actually.”

“I don’t know why he doesn’t hate you! I don’t get why it’s just me!” Dick’s voice is irritated, half-laughing at his own words.

“I know, I know.” Barbara rubs his back soothingly. “We’ll get going soon, but we didn’t catch your name. What was it?”

“Oh, it’s y/n.” Y/n replied.

“If you want,” Dick’s chest rose as he took a sharp breath, “you can stop by at the station, and I can take you to the criminologist. I dunno if she needs an apprentice, but I do know that she needs help with a couple of cases.”

“Or you can just stop by Wayne Manor next week for the gala and introduce yourself to the PD.” Barbara interrupted. “It would be bold, but that way you can meet them, and possibly Dick’s brother, whom you might just like.”

Dick side-eyed Barbara, swallowing a smirk. “He might not even show up. He doesn’t like parties, and he doesn’t like cops. It’s like his worst nightmare.”

“I can stop by. Is it black tie?” y/n rested her hands on her knees as she watched the pair shake their heads almost in unison. “Okay, I’ll do that, then. I don’t like parties as much, but fuck it, I could use a better job than this.”

“Okay, we’ll see you then.” Dick smiled, holding up his coffee cup.

…

You wake up in the hospital and for once, you don’t panic. By now, it’s a familiar, almost like home. The white walls, the steady beeping of a monitor, the murmured chatter. In a twisted way, you feel calm, relaxed, peaceful. Because no matter how isolated you are, how lonely it is when no one is there to welcome you back, at least you are no longer in pain.

Maybe it’s the drugs they’re pumping into your blood stream or maybe, maybe you’ve been out for so long that you’ve healed, come back to earth good as new, or as good as you can be. Chipped, cracked, but not broken beyond repair, not yet.

But you know it won’t last long, that the pain always comes back.

If you didn’t know the cause of it, you’d almost think you were cursed, that maybe you had offended some deity or witch. Because this pain is different from before. Before, the pain only took your breath away, stopped you in your tracks. Sometimes, it knocked you out, but you’ve only ever woken up with a headache after. Nothing some Advil couldn’t fix. But now, now it feels like a joke, like you’re somebody’s plaything. The pain inflicted is like a test—a little experiment to see how much you can take, how far the human body can go before it gives up.

There were days when it felt like you were being electrocuted, your body crumbling to the ground, convulsing, and you’re left with nothing to do but scream while the people around you call for help, watch in horror as you’re attacked by an invisible force. Other times, you’re knocked out of your seat, head flung back, nose bleeding, jaw aching.

And maybe if it was just that, shocks to your system, blows to your face, your gut, that would be okay, because if the scars on your body had anything to say, it would show that you’ve survived at least that much.

But this, this constant torture, makes you think that you only have so much fight in you, and you’re tired and afraid. You’re scared to leave your room, scared that some outside factor could hurt you, too. That maybe you’d feel a hit in the ribs so hard, so strong, that you’d trip down the stairs, fall into traffic.

And maybe the impact on your side would push the other person over the edge, aggravate what already fatal injuries they have, and it could be the last straw.

Because this, this phenomenon—blessing? miracle? voodoo? curse?—is rare, almost unheard of, a fairytale, and there’s no telling how it works, the extent of it, the connection. What once was just simple doodles across your skin was now a black eye, broken bones, a burst appendix, internal bleeding.

And from the pain in your chest, the way it’s become so obvious to you that you’re breathing, that something that’s supposed to be reflex, natural, now feels like a great effort to do, you think that this, this could be the end. That any more of this and you’re not going to make it to tomorrow.

“Do you want us to call somebody?”

“It’s alright. I can make it back on my own.”

“No, I mean, should we get someone from the police to come? Are you safe at home?”

The doctors and nurses look at you in sympathy, concern, making up their own stories in their head. You tell them that you’re clumsy, that you were probably born under an unlucky star, but there’s only so many injuries that you can pass of as consequence of losing your balance, of not looking where you were going, of the natural misfortunes of living in Gotham City.

You don’t want to get anyone involved, don’t even know what to say to the police if they asked, even the doctors can’t figure it out, how a person’s body can just hurt itself the way yours does. How can you explain the scars around your chest, wrists, and legs, the way it looks like you’d been tied down with rope and barbed wire? The bruises on your back? The way it looks like you’d been beaten with a bat, maybe even something stronger, with sharper edges? The scar on your check, the raised skin spelling the letter J?

Even you don’t know how to cover that up, in all sense of the word. You stare at it in the mirror and somehow it glares back at you as if it’s supposed to mean something, remind you of something. It feels like a label of sorts, a brand.

And of all the stories the scars on your skin can tell, this is the one you want to hear the most. And yet, you’re scared to know what’s behind it. Because it can’t be good. Surprisingly, it’s the worse of the marks on your skin, worse than the gash down your leg, the new bullet sized one on your chest.

Because this, this simple letter, somehow carries a weight to it. It’s heavy on your face, distorts your features. And maybe that’s why it’s ugly. Because it’s taken something from you, made it difficult to recognize yourself, to remember the person you were before it was forced upon you.

And it’s this stupid J that made a connection that once brought you comfort, made you feel less lonely, dirty, tainted it in ways that you feel like it will never be clean again, never be the same, never be beautiful again.

_____________________________________________________________

After Part I

Jason knows what to expect with cheap apartments in Gotham City—a shitty living experience.

The shower water is cold, if there is even any coming through the pipes at all, the floorboards are creaky, and the walls are thin. Which is fine. Jason prefers that he knows what the people around him are doing anyway, would hate to be caught by surprise. And, he won’t admit it, but nowadays, silence unnerves him, leaves him with his thoughts, which, haven’t been good to him recently, for a while now.

And frankly, it’s entertaining, listening to the petty squabbles happening in the apartment to his right, how they argue over the trash piling up, and why the TV only seems to be broadcasting porn. The drug dealers living above him were a talkative bunch, too, always laughing, bragging about some kid they recruited last week, how fast he was, how easy it was for him to get away from the cops. There were talks about bringing along his sister, someone less inconspicuous. At least, that was before Jason took care of them.

Again, there is some benefit to the lack of privacy his apartment building provides. In this part of Gotham, people tend to keep to themselves anyway, have learned that it’s better to mind your own business. So, the other tenants may choose to ignore the kind of activity that happens in the back alley, turn a blind eye at sketchy neighbors, the kind that walk funny, smell a little weird, but Jason’s always been able to handle himself, always knew how to fight people so much bigger than him.

All things considered, after everything, Jason has been doing okay for himself.

Sure, he isn’t great. He still has his nightmares to keep him company at night, still has this rage bubbling inside him, the feelings of hurt and betrayal still leave a bad taste in his mouth, but he’s okay. He’s alive, at least.

It helps that he can keep himself busy. That the criminals on the street, no matter how many guns they carry on them, no matter how much armor they have on, are still scared of things that go bump in the night. And Jason has been trained to work in the shadows, knows how to use them to his advantage.

…

It was like a mouse was living next door.

Jason knows that the apartment to his left is occupied, hears the quiet signs of life through his living room wall, but he’s never seen them. They shuffle around their room, their footsteps light, careful, almost deliberately silent, the music they play is always just a soft hum, gentle vibrations that lulls Jason to sleep when he’s staying on his sofa, beat from the night out. Sometimes he hears them when they’re about to cook, pots and pans being placed on the stove. Other times, he hears them rearrange the books on their shelf, the sound almost therapeutic, and in the early hours of the morning, he can hear the typing of a keyboard, the clicking of, well, a mouse.

But other than that, Jason’s never heard them speak, never heard the front door open the entirety of his stay. Chances are their times have never matched up, that they leave and come back while Jason’s out, but still. If Jason didn’t know better, he would think that maybe the apartment next door was haunted by a ghost cursed to go about the motions of its previous life.

Which is why, he’s uncharacteristically caught by surprise when he sees his neighbor in the hallway, arms wrapped tightly around a brown grocery bag. It’s late, Jason’s just about to head out to follow up on a lead, and his neighbor, a girl no older than he is, is just coming in.

She looks up at him when she feels his stare and the first thing he notices is that half her face is covered by a surgical mask. The light blue fabric somehow highlighting the dark circles under her eyes, the fading bruise on her temple. Jason thinks he should probably avert his eyes now, go back to what he was doing, leave before she does something he’ll regret, like strike a conversation.

But something about her keeps Jason in his place.

It’s probably because she’s looking him over too, her tired eyes studying him from head to toe. And Jason has to wonder what she sees. Because like everyone else, she looks at him warily, sees his large size, the scowl on his face, the bruises on his knuckles, and knows that he’s bad news. There’s this aura about him that tells people that they should keep their distance, to mind their own business. And somehow the scar on his face helps seal the deal, makes him look like someone you don’t want to associate with.

And people in the halls, on the street tend to look away once they see the pale, puckered flesh, their eyes twitching to look at anything but him. And he waits for her to do the exact same, waits for the widening of her eyes, the sharp intake of breath before she scrambles to get back into her apartment, away from him.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, the moment her eyes land on the J, a series of emotions play on her face, and none of them fear. He doesn’t have much to go on, the mask obscuring most of her tells, but her eyes, her eyes are expressive despite being worn out. They’re sad at first, almost weepy, and Jason knows this look, loathes being pitied, but in the next second, there’s a fire in them, anger. And that’s familiar, he’s seen that same look in the mirror more than once, which is probably why he should have seen it coming.

But honestly who would have expected his mouse like neighbor to attack? To go absolutely feral?

…

There was so much you wanted to say, to ask, and you always thought that when you meet them, you’ll know the exact words that would come out of your mouth. You figured you’d introduce yourself, maybe even explain this connection you have, ask if they want to be friends because something as special as this cannot be ignored, dismissed.

But what comes out is a snarl, a sort of inhuman noise that perfectly fits your actions.

You didn’t think you could actually take him down, he’s so much bigger than you and obviously stronger, but if you could maybe get a scratch in, wrinkle his clothes, rip a bigger hole in his jeans, then you’d feel better. Never mind the fact that whatever pain you inflict on him would come back to you, at least this time, you tell yourself, this time you’ll see it coming, this time it’s going to be your choice.

But of course, things don’t go your way. Because of course this man’s reflexes were quick, catching you and twisting your arms in such a way that they were now behind your back, immobilizing you. His grip is strong, almost painful, but you don’t care. You’ve had worse and frankly if he hurts you, then that would be the best wakeup call he could have. Because you’ve been so careful over the years and he probably didn’t even know you existed, how strong this link between you two is, and if he breaks your arm then you’ll get to laugh in his face when the same thing happens to him.

“What the fuck is your problem?” He growls out.

“You are!” You bark back, pulling against his hold. He only tightens his grip to an almost bruising extent, and you feel yourself smile when he lets out a hiss. “Painful, isn’t it?”

“What the heck are you doing?”

“Pretty sure you did that, big guy.”

And he’s quiet after that, probably confused, you can’t tell with him standing behind you, but you feel him test his hold on your arms, varying the strength of it. And it hurts, sometimes, but you let him figure that out on his own. When it goes on for too long, you take matters into your own hands. You twist your wrist so that you can pinch the skin of your forearm and he yelps, releasing you.

“Stop that.” He says with a sour look on his face.

“You stop it,” you retort childishly. He obviously doesn’t appreciate your tone, but you don’t care. You have bigger problems, like the fact that he looks like he’s leaving for the night. Which isn’t good news. “You’re going out again aren’t you.”

He turns his nose up. “What’s it to you?”

And you really want to hurt him, but again, you can’t, which is getting more frustrating the longer you’re in the same vicinity.

“Do us both a favor and don’t get your ass kicked, will ya?” You gesture to the bruise on the side of your temple, the hit you felt knocking you out of your seat while you were working. You had seen stars, almost missed a deadline because of it.

You don’t give him a chance to respond, reveling in the almost guilty look on his face, and you march back to your door, unlocking it with little difficulty, thankfully. You don’t know what you’d do if you somehow messed that up in front of him.

It’s only when you’re in the comfort of your living room that you realize that you left your groceries on the floor outside.

“Asshole.”

…

Jason doesn’t realize how lonely he’s been until he had someone else’s welfare to think about.

Back then, before…before, he had a partner, a family, and he made sure they didn’t get hurt, tried his best not to get hurt either if only just so they don’t worry about him, have to take care of him when he can’t do it himself. And, it was good, back then, he remembers how nice it felt to have people to depend on and to be depended on as well.

But it’s been so long. And he’s been on his own for years, the people he worked with were nothing more than colleagues, employees, only there because they were beneficial to him and vice versa. Now, recently, he’s been going out without caring about what happens to him, not really. Yes, he’ll make damn sure that no low-level goon gets the best of him, and he won’t let the likes of Batman’s ex-rogues get away without a fight, would make damn sure that if he’s going down, they’re going down with him, but he’s only human and although there was a time he felt like after all he’s been through, he was invincible, maybe even thought that he could live forever, he has a clearer mind now, a better grasp at reality.

Not the best, but thankfully better than before.

Which is why after a moment of confusion, of disbelief, of denial, he can now admit what his mouse of a neighbor is to him, what she’s supposed to be, and he’s trying to be better now, doesn’t want to hurt innocent people, so he’s a little more careful at his job because of it, because of her.

Which is a good thing, all things considered. He dodges quicker, that’s for sure, thinks of better, sneakier ways to subdue criminals, to keep the fight from getting too big, too chaotic, and really, it’s all he can do to avoid the worst of injuries. He really can’t say the same for his fists. The guns are more efficient, sends a better message, but really, when someone gets too close, punching the daylights out of them is more of a reflex than anything.

Bruised knuckles are ten times better than a black eye or a shot to the knee so he’s not going to be picky about it, tells himself that she would know that it could be worse.

And for the past few weeks he’s been good, comes home whole, the heavy-duty stuff in his first aid kit mostly untouched, but he’s not made of stone. When he gets shot in the arm, he bleeds. A lot.

It’s really the voice of Alfred in his head that forces him out of his sofa to get the first aid kit from the bathroom. It says a lot about his injury, the amount of blood he’s lost, that that wasn’t his first instinct when he got back. Really, he’s just so tired that all he wants to do is go back to sleep.

And although he isn’t psychic, doesn’t know shit about what his future holds, he knows that this isn’t how he’s going to die, alone in his apartment, swimming in his own blood, so, he moves, sluggishly, but he’s further from the sofa than he once was so that’s progress.

It’s the series of knocks on his door that stops him halfway through his journey. He thinks to ignore them, that whoever’s outside is going to grow tired, probably think that he’s not even home, but the knocks continue, there’s an insistence to them, a demand that he open the door.

And Jason would hate for that noise to be in the background while he patches himself up, thinks that it would probably make things worse somehow, agitate him. So, he drags himself over, angles his arm in a way that the person on the other side won’t see it, and opens the door with a glare.

It’s her. The mouse.

“About time,” she says by way of greeting, pushing past him easily. Jason sees that she has her own first aid kit in her hand and her arm is wrapped in bandages. It’s the same arm as his, almost like looking in the mirror, only he’s still bleeding all over his floor.

And maybe, maybe that’s why she’s here. She knows he needs help, knew the minute he got hurt, and she could have ignored it, dealt with her own injury, and call it a day. Yet she’s here now.

And Jason sags in relief, glad to know that he isn’t alone tonight.

…

It would have been easier to pretend he was still some stranger on the other side of your link, some faceless figure, if he wasn’t so nice to you.

But he just had to leave new groceries by your front door. He just had to fix your broken lock when he saw you struggling with it the other day. He just had to glare down the creepy tenant on the fifth floor, the one who looked at you for too long whenever you passed by, threatened him, told him to mind his own business, to not bother you.

He just had to be careful.

It doesn’t escape your notice that it’s been a while since you’ve been hurt, since you’ve felt a punch in the gut, a hit to the head. So long that your bruises have finally had the chance to fade and your skin looks almost like it did before. It’s never going to be the same, time cannot heal the scars, but at least you’re no longer black and blue.

That’s why when you’re jolted out of sleep with a scream inducing pain, you know something’s wrong. The blood no longer scares you, no longer makes you sick, but your hands still shake when you gage the damage, clean it up, and wrap it. And it’s supposed to end here. There’s nothing you can do now but go back to sleep, hope that you’re not woken up by another mystical attack.

But you can’t. The apartment next door is quiet, empty, and you find that you won’t be able to rest until you know he’s back.

So, you don’t care about the ruckus you’re making in the early hours of the morning. You don’t care that the parents down the hall are glaring at you through the crack of their door, the sounds of a baby crying are quiet compared to your knocking. You don’t care. Because he’s on the other side of this door and he could be dying and no matter how angry you were, are at him for getting the both of you hurt, you can’t just leave him now that you know he’s right there.

“I have so many questions,” you say when you’ve finished your wrapping. It took longer than you would have liked, but he aggravated it on his way back from wherever he was, and you had to make sure that it wouldn’t get infected. You don’t know what would happen to you if it did. “But something tells me I won’t like the answer.”

“Smart girl,” he rasps out. He’s tired, that much is obvious, but he doesn’t let himself rest. He watched you the whole time you worked, probably making sure that you did it correctly.

“But I feel like I deserve it. You don’t know how it was like, getting hurt without seeing what it was that was attacking you.”

And it’s obviously the wrong thing to say. Because although he wasn’t relaxed, at least he wasn’t angry. He seemed all too happy to let you patch him up, probably delirious from the blood loss, unable to turn you away, but now that he’s no longer bleeding all over the floor, he has the strength to glare, to scowl. And you should probably be scared. But you know he won’t hurt you. Can’t. So, you stand your ground.

“Are you in some sort of gang?”

“I don’t have to answer you.”

“I don’t think you work for the police. You have that lawlessness to you. So, what is it? Drugs? Mafia? One of those costumed freaks outside on the street?”

“Shut up.”

“You don’t look like a follower though. I doubt you’re some goon. Maybe you’re new, been training for this moment. Are you some up and coming villain here to take over Gotham now that Batman’s de—”

And you choke, his hands wrapped around your neck, squeezing. It’s not enough to kill you, no, of course not, because then that would be counterproductive on his part. It’s just supposed to scare you, to keep you quiet, the way his fingers tighten. And you think that the connection you share somehow dampens the effects the receiver gets from the original source because he doesn’t look the least bit affected by his hold. That, or he’s been through worse. Which wouldn’t surprise you.

You really should have kept your mouth shut. The original plan was just to take care of him and leave, a sort of repayment for the groceries, the door, the creepy tenant, but you’re angry, have been angry for so long. Because all his good deeds these past few weeks don’t erase the hurt you’ve experienced the past two years. Old feelings of resentment bubble to the surface and you don’t care that your life is in his hands right now.

“You don’t know anything, little mouse.” His words are low but the stillness in his apartment makes it easy to hear him, to feel the impact. “You think just because we have some voodoo link, I won’t hurt you?”

“You won’t kill me.”

“No, of course not, mouse. But I can make you regret ever speaking to me like that.” His grip tightens slightly. “You think I’m scared of a little pain? I’ve crawled out of hell myself.”

And you imagine that this sneer shakes people to the core, the way it twists the simple letter on his face. But you have the same thing on yours and you feel pity instead. Because along with all the anger, there is hurt, and sadness, and confusion, and loneliness.

Because this link was supposed to be a gift, a miracle. At least that’s what the books said, the old folktales, and it was, it was something to celebrate, to cherish. Until the years tainted it, mangled its magic in such a way that something that was supposed to be, had potential to be, love left you broken.

“D-don’t underes-estimate me.” You say between struggled breaths. “Y-you may not ha-have se-en me b-but I, I was there, t-too.”

You don’t expect to be let go so you crumble to the floor, knees taking the brunt of your fall. You see him twitch slightly but other than that, he seems fine. Physically. He’s staring you down like he doesn’t know what to do with you, what to make of you, and you can’t blame him. You don’t know what’s happening either, what’s going to happen. Because everything’s a mess and you don’t know if the two of you are tied together because you’re supposed to be together or you’re supposed to ruin each other.

“It—It wasn’t my fault.” He grits out like the words are painful to say, like they’re tearing through his vocal cords. “I, I didn’t choose to be tortured.”

And you want to say that neither did you, but you have enough tact to keep quiet because this, this is one of those things that you’ve wondered about for so long.

“You think you understand, but you weren’t there, not really. You didn’t see these monsters, what they did to me. You didn’t see the looks on their faces. They—they were angry with me, hurt me for things I didn’t do. And for the things I did, they did so much worse. And, and they were happy to do it. Glad that I couldn’t fight back, that I wasn’t in my right mind, that I was bound. Helpless. For all my training, I couldn’t do shit.”

“So don’t you dare put this on me, mouse. I’m not to blame here. I’m as much a, a victim as you are.” he spits the word out like he hates the fact that it’s the truth, that it’s a part of him as much as anything. Because you can see now that he’s built to fight and although you don’t know him, not really, not at all, you know that he was made to protect. That for all his anger, his glares, his scowls, his brute nature, he was someone who could do so much more, that he was someone who once never thought of hurting anyone who didn’t deserve it.

And maybe it’s the link, maybe it’s the way you can see him clearly now that his walls have been kicked down, burned, but you can see why his presence, the very idea of him existing somewhere in this world, once brought you comfort, peace.

And you remember.

You remember the writings on your skin, the way they tickled with every stroke that appeared on your your arms, the palm of your hands. You remembered the lists he’d make, the little reminders. The doodles you can imagine him doing in class when he simply couldn’t be bothered to pay attention. You remember the quotes, the poems, the song lyrics. And you wonder how you could ever think that someone who was so gentle, who seemed so kind, could ever think to hurt you. And you think that you always knew about him, but never once did you make yourself known. You never wrote back to him, never completed his songs, never drew anything for him.

And you think that although he had kept you company, you had left him alone.

…

Jason expected the tears. He has that effect on people he’s threatened, verbally attacked. But this, this is different.

Because there’s something almost childlike to her crying, the way she curls up and just sobs, screaming like she can’t find the words to express whatever it is that she’s feeling inside, the frustration, the hurt, the anger. And, Jason understands, knows what it’s like to just want to scream at the world because it’s done nothing but hurt him. But he’s never had to luxury to do so, not really, could never bring himself to openly sob, let his emotions out as freely as she does.

Because it’s a sign of weakness. It shows that there’s a breaking point. That some things can be too much.

And he’s jealous. Jealous that she can be weak, that she can break, that she can show that there is only so much she can take. So, he lets her. He lets her cry in the middle of his apartment until she goes hoarse, until there’s no voice left in her, no tears, only harsh breathing, and the shudder of her shoulders to show that she’s hasn’t passed out on him.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers when she’s finally calmed down. She hasn’t moved from her spot, from the little ball she’s made herself into, and Jason thinks that maybe she can’t look at him.

“You’re not the one who did this to us,” Jason says, feeling exhausted. It’s been a long night and all he wants is to just go to sleep. Lately he’s been too tired to dream or, at least, too tired to remember his nightmares, so he’s been getting some rest. It’s not much, but it’s better than before.

“Neither did you. So, I’m sorry I blamed you.” She looks at him now. Her cheeks are soaked, her hair and the mask stick to her skin but she doesn’t do anything about it. “This link, this connection, I thought it was like a fairytale come true.”

And Jason snorts. Because he once thought so, too. When he was younger, he had found a book in Bruce’s library about links like this, the different varieties, the way it brought people together. It was nice knowing that there could be someone out there specially for him, someone who would love him. Because for so long he went without anyone on his side, without anyone who wanted him. And the idea that someone in the universe was made to love him? Well, he couldn’t be that lucky.

But he wished he was. He really wished that he was part of that one percent that had this link.

And here she is, his little mouse, and he’s done nothing but hurt her. Even if he didn’t want to, didn’t mean to, the damage was done. To both of them. And Jason has to wonder if a link can break, if the people on either side were too hurt, too angry, too broken to be put together.

“I bet it looks like a horror story right now.”

“I think I could have loved you,” she begins, and Jason feels what little of his heart that’s left twinge, ache. “I wanted to love you. But, but the pain…it was so much. I was so scared. And I didn’t know what was causing it, not really. You had your monsters. I only had this connection to you.”

She pushes herself up to sit, to look at him without her hair in her face, without tears in her eyes. And Jason, Jason doesn’t know what to do. Because what can you do when someone tells you that they wanted to love you, that the thing you wanted the most, the thing you prayed for as a child, was right there in front of you, broken?

“I’m, I’m sorry,” Jason whispers, not knowing what else to say. He’s sorry that he wasn’t careful when he was Robin, he’s sorry that the Joker put them through torture, he’s sorry that even when he got out, he only fought harder, didn’t care what happened to him as long as he got his revenge. But again, it wasn’t, isn’t his fault. Not all of it, really. He didn’t know she was there, that she existed. “Why…why didn’t you try to contact me? If, if I knew you were there… I…”

I would have been careful. I would have fought harder. For the right thing. I wouldn’t have been alone.

“It’s not your fault. Don’t, don’t apologize. I…I should say sorry—I am sorry.” She traces the skin of her arm with her fingers in an almost comforting manner. Like how you’d stroke a puppy, lightly, gently, with love.

“When you grow up and no one wants to listen to you, you start to think you don’t have anything important to say at all,” she explains. “I was happy when I found out you existed. I, I didn’t know who you were, of course, but I was happy you were somewhere out there, you know? I just, I didn’t want to scare you away with…me. No one really wants to stay with me.”

“What was the universe thinking, putting us together?” Jason breathes out. “What? We’re both fucked up that’s why we’re perfect for each other?”

“Misery does love company,” she says with a shrug.

But she doesn’t look as hopeless as Jason feels right now, doesn’t look betrayed. Because Jason thought this link was supposed to be good, pair him with someone who was going to love him in a way that he’s never felt before. Unconditionally. But how can she love him when he’s hurt her? How can he love her when there’s no love in him to give?

It all just seemed like another middle finger the world just loved to send his way.

“Maybe we aren’t supposed to be fucked up together,” she says breaking the silence, taking Jason out of his thoughts. “Maybe, maybe we’re supposed to heal. Together.”

And Jason hasn’t been one half of a duo in so long and, and he’s so tired. So tired of all the pain, the anger, the loneliness. And here’s someone the universe is saying could love him, is supposed to love him, and all Jason really wanted was to be loved, to be seen, and he’s broken, she crumbled to pieces right before his eyes, but maybe together, they can build something, make something that would turn all the ugliness they have into something beautiful.

_____________________________________________________________

After Part II

No matter how magical the link seemed, how the stories described it as something that brought two people together, made people fall in love, you and Jason aren’t friends. Not yet.

You don’t hate each other, don’t glare, or spit out poisonous words at one another, but you aren’t friends. It’s hard, after everything, to be anything more than neighbors, but at least you aren’t strangers. Not anymore. You can’t pour your heart out, scream into the heavens in someone’s apartment and remain strangers.

So, neighbors.

It’s an interesting relationship to have. In all your years living in Gotham City, you don’t think you’ve ever looked at your neighbors let alone talk to them in the hallway, have them help you bring your things up the staircase when you run into each other in the lobby. And. It’s nice. After being on your own for so long, it’s nice to have someone welcome you back when you’ve been gone, to ask how you’ve been even if it’s just a question to fill the silence, to seem polite.

It's nice to know Jason, to have someone make you feel that you aren’t alone.

…

It’s late.

You’ve always found that you work better in the night, that editing videos with all the lights turned off, with nothing but Gotham’s city noise to keep you company, was so much easier than it was in the daytime. Maybe it’s because you know no one would disturb you this late, that you wouldn’t receive any phone calls or expect to answer emails at this time so you can work uninterrupted, get into the zone of putting videos together, find out the best transition between clips, to make them more interesting, more engaging. Or maybe it’s the aesthetic of being dressed in your pajamas, headphones on, sitting on your swivel chair in a way that you can’t do in an office that makes you think that this, this is how an editor should work.

Either way, the point is that you’re awake and maybe that’s why he comes to you, drags himself through your open window, landing on your floor in a heap.

It’s a miracle that you don’t scream.

“Jason?” You ask dumbly, scrambling to grab your mask from your table, hiding your face from him. It seems almost fair seeing as he’s currently concealed by a red helmet. “Is that you?”

“Hi there, mouse,” he groans, stretching out on your floor, hands petting your fluffy rug. “This is nice. Where’d you get this?”

“I ordered it online—What’s happening? Why are you dressed like that?”

“Just took care of some business. Nothing to worry about.” But the way he hasn’t moved from his   spot on the floor makes you worry anyway. “You got some ice here?”

“Sure, let me—” And it hurts. You feel it when you stand, the way your ankle throbs when you put your weight on it. You didn’t notice while you worked, too focused on adding animation to the video to make it funny, to emphasis a joke, but now, now it hurts. It’s not blinding, not to the point that you can’t walk. It’s the link, you think. Whatever injury Jason has, you get the dampened version of it, which says a lot about how much pain he’s really in, what he isn’t showing you. “It’s broken, isn’t it?”

“Nah. I doubt it. I just landed wrong.”

“You don’t normally make that mistake,” you say.

“I’m only human.”

And it’s the way that he says it, the edge in his tone, that makes you drop the subject. You limp out your room and make quick work getting the things you need to ice and wrap both your ankles. When you pass by the mirror outside your room, you pull your mask down to check if Jason has any other injuries he isn’t telling you about. Luckily his helmet shielded him from most of the damage, but it seems like he’s bit his lip. You lick the blood off your own before slipping your mask back on.

“I can do it myself,” Jason says when you reach for the clasps of his boots. You see the guns he has strapped to his thighs but think that like any gun wielding person you see in Gotham, it’s none of your business. “Mouse. Stop.”

“Let me help you.” you say, suddenly tired. Your own ankle is nagging at you now, your position on the floor isn’t doing it any favors, and you wish you had at least finished your draft because you don’t think you’ll be getting back to your computer tonight. “Please, Jason, let me at least do this.”

“You’re hurt, too.”

“Not as bad as you.”

And, finally, he lets you take care of him. And you think that it’s been a long time coming. That you were always the first person to know when he was hurt, when he needed help, and finally, finally you’re here to do so. It’s not much, he’ll definitely be better off at a hospital, but something tells you that he isn’t going to go to one even you have to drag him there yourself. So, you do your best. He helps you remove his heavy-duty footwear, and you wince at the swelling.

“This is more than a bad landing,” you say, icing the ankle. You have a timer for twenty minutes already counting down on your phone.

“It’s two years’ worth of bad landings.”

You know that can’t be true, that there’s more to that statement. That the weeks you’ve been bedridden because you couldn’t walk was because of his monsters. That wherever they kept him, they made sure he couldn’t leave. But you keep quiet, knowing that Jason doesn’t do well when prodded for answers, that he’ll tell you things on his own time.

“Well, you better decide what we’re watching this week because we’re not leaving the bed for some time.”

And Jason laughs, a low chuckle that makes a shiver run down your spine. You look at him through your lashes and you hate that you can’t see his face right now, that you don’t know what he looks like when he laughs.

“Now, mouse, if you wanted to get me into bed, you only had to ask.”

“Oh my God. Shut up. You’re the worst.” And your glad that he can’t see your face either. That he doesn’t see how affected you are by him.

“You love me.”

He doesn’t mean to say it. You see the way he stiffens after the words leave his mouth and you don’t have to see his face to know that he’s cringing, grimacing. And you should ignore it. Act like you didn’t hear him. It’s the polite thing to do. You’d probably want him to do the same if the tables were turned.

But, at the same time, you think that maybe, just maybe, this is a chance. That maybe this link between the two of you hasn’t twisted in such a way that it can’t go back to how it was before, that it can still be fixed, cleaned, brought back to its former glory.

“Not yet,” you tell him quietly, almost like it’s a secret, something that only the two of you should know. “But I could, Jason Todd. I want to.”

…

“Hey, you didn’t forget the dog food, did you?”

“How could I? Your reminder took up my entire forearm.”

“I wanted to make sure you got my message!”

“Well, I did. So, congrats. What do you need dog food for? I thought mice only ate cheese.”

“Haha. Very funny. It’s for the puppy that stays by the back door. She makes me want to cry.”

“Oh. You should have said so. I could have gotten some toys, too.”

“And a bed? And treats? Wait, I’ll write it down.”

“Paper! Write it on paper!”

…

Jason hears the scream in his dream.

It breaks through the scene, distracts him from what’s happening, and it tears him out of the dream almost violently. He shoots up from his place on his living room floor, his breathing quick, gasping, almost panicked, and he has to tell himself—out loud so that it’s real, that it’s not just wistful thinking—that it’s over, that it’s all over and he’s free. That by some miracle he’s okay, he’s safe.

But the screams weren’t from him, weren’t caused by his nightmares. It’s coming from next door, his little mouse’s apartment, and he’s moving before he knows it, practically tearing out his door in the process to get to her.

(It’s a good thing that her apartment is practically baby proofed, her table’s corners guarded with soft padding, because Jason hip checks into one in his rush. It’s something he’s been meaning to bring up for a while, how her apartment is carefully designed to keep her safe from those small accidents people have with their furniture—stubbed toes, bumped hips, pinched fingers. He doesn’t want to be cocky, to think that this thing between them is more than it is, that the link is just that, a connection, doesn’t dictate what they are to each other, not really, but he wants to think, believe that maybe, just maybe, she did it for him. That she tries her best to not get hurt so that he wouldn’t either.)

She’s awake when he reaches her room, knees to her chest, hands covering her face, shoulders shuddering with every exhale. She looks smaller like this, somehow, more vulnerable, and Jason, Jason has never been good at handling things that were fragile, breakable, but he wants to try.

He thinks that she was with him in hell, and she survived, so she won’t fall into pieces just from his touch.

But honestly, it’s Jason who’s having a hard time reaching out. It feels like he’s going to fall into pieces because it’s been so long, too long since he’s touched somebody without it hurting. And maybe, maybe it would be the same for her, maybe she’d rather he just stay in the same room, comfort her with his presence, maybe he’ll even find the right words to say.

But he remembers the way her fingers trace over her skin when something’s bothering her, when she’s distressed. Thinks about how she grabs hold of her own hand, squeezing it to ground herself. And he thinks about how his writings used to bring her comfort, how she said they always made her feel less alone.

So, he grabs a pen from her table and slowly, carefully, writes the first thing he thinks of on his arm.

I’m here for you

I’ll always be here

…

“So, you edit videos for…vloggers?”

“I do commercials for small businesses, too. But yeah, vloggers.”

“Vlog…gers. Video bloggers.”

“It’s not that strange.”

“Why would you want to watch what people do in their life?”

“I don’t know… maybe it’s entertaining to see how people live outside Gotham City? I edit for a Metropolis vlogger. I saw Superman in the background of some of her shots.”

“I just don’t get it.”

“You watch reality TV.”

“That’s only because I lost the remote and you know it.”

…

It’s easy to forget with how he carries himself, confidently, dangerously, like he’s bigger than everyone else, that Jason slouches, that he walks with a hunch in his shoulders, that his back curves in a way that can’t be comfortable.

It’s not so bad when he wears his brace, when there’s something to support him, but some days, some days he can’t bring himself to put it on. That he’s just so tired from the night before—maybe even consecutive nights when things in Gotham City get too hectic, when the bad people get cocky, in over the heads— that he just chooses to be in pain. Or he just can’t help it. That maybe staying on the floor, on top of his new rug that you ordered for him, was better than moving.

Which is frustrating. But it’s not like you can wrestle him into one when he doesn’t want to wear it. You learned quickly that you can’t force Jason to do anything, that it’s a surefire way to end the day in a bad mood, so you think that there must be another way to help him because no matter how much he brushes it off, no matter the fact that pain is something he’s used to, he doesn’t have to deal with it.

“No, mouse. No drugs.” Jason says weakly when you kneel beside him, warm compress, massage oil, and some pain relievers in your hands. The internet said it should help. You even looked up some stretching exercises.

“You sure?”

“Definitely. I hate that shit.”

And you don’t ask. You think that it’s related to his monsters, to those two years, so you tuck the pills into your pocket and gently coax Jason back on his stomach. It would probably be better if he were on a bed, someplace more comfortable, but he’s never been able to relax on one, not really. He’ll sit with you, sometimes long enough to finish a movie, but he’ll never stay, never let the pillows cushion his head, never tuck himself under the duvet.

Jason visibly sags in relief when you apply the warm compress on his back, lets out a low groan. His eyes flutter close, and you think this, this is what he looks like when he’s at peace, when he feels safe and, well, warm. You think that Jason Todd deserves to rest, that he of all people needs a break.

“How is it you’re not in pain?” He mutters out after a few minutes, one eye cracking open to look at you.

“Maybe it’s like a loophole in the link,” you say. You move the warm compress away when the timer rings. “Like how you don’t feel my period cramps.”

“Are they really that bad?”

“Nothing compared to what we’ve been though, no. But they’re inconvenient. How are you feeling?”

Jason stretches a bit, and you hear a pop. He lets out a sign, melting into the rug once more. “Better.”

“You think you can get up? Want to put on your brace?”

“It’s better if I do.”  

“I’ll go get it.”

You don’t remember when Jason’s apartment started becoming familiar. You think that it’s normal to think so, that your apartment has the same layout, but it’s different. You know Jason’s apartment, every nook and cranny of it, the things he keeps on display and the things he prefers you don’t know about, or at least see.

You know where he keeps his medical equipment, all the places where he’s tucked a first aid kit, where he keeps his everyday braces, the ones he has for his back, his knees, his bad ankle. They’re different from the ones he wears to “work.” The more heavy-duty ones are in the room you try to stay away from, scared that you might touch something the wrong way, set something off.

You know how he likes to keep his books organized, putting away the paperbacks he’s forgotten to tidy up when he leaves, making sure the bookmarks don’t slip through the pages. You know how he likes to put his groceries away, how he organizes his pantry so that the items close to expiring are in the front, so they don’t get forgotten, don’t go to waste.

What you don’t know is how long ago you and Jason have moved on from simply being neighbors, how long it took for you to know his life as intimately as you do now, to know how he lives in his little world on the other side of yours.

“What do you say we get out of here?”

Jason asks when you come return to the living room, still lying on his stomach, not in a rush to move, to disturb the comfort he’s found himself in.

“Like, outside?” You look out his open window, see that the sun’s behind the clouds but it’s still bright. It’s been a while since you thought Gotham as bright, having lived in its shadows for so long. “I heard the park has been renovated.”

It reopened last week and you’ve seen nothing but good news about it online. People were excited to see something nice, something new, untouched by the incident.

“We can,” Jason begins, pushing himself off the floor. You reach out to help him, but he holds up his hand, stopping you. Somethings, he prefers to do by himself. “But that’s not what I’m talking about.”

He looks nervous. Almost shy. Which is cute if not a little unnerving.

“How about we move? Move out of this apartment?”

“Together?” You’re surprised that you’re not opposed to this idea. In fact, you like it. A lot. “That’s, uh, are we ready for that?”

“We’re at each other’s place all the time anyway and I’ll feel better knowing you’re safe. With me.” He scratches the back of his head, eyes darting away from you, blush crawling up his neck. “This place is a shithole, mouse. We can get some place better—better plumbing, better ventilation, better security.”

And you smile. “Getting sick of the cold showers, huh?”

“I just wanna feel clean, mouse. I miss hot water.”

“Well, if you put it that way.”

And Jason, you always thought Jason was good-looking, beautiful in that rugged way of his, but when he smiles, looks at you like you’ve given him something he’s always wanted, he’s breathtaking.

…

“So, how do you propose we move our things?”

“You have a car in the garage don’t you? Why don’t we just use that?”

“Oh yeah? Who’s going to drive it?”

“You? Mouse, it’s your car.”

“No. It was my dad’s. I don’t know how to drive.”

“How can you not know how to drive?”

“I’m barely out of high school, Jason. Why can’t you drive?”

“Bruce and Alfred never got around to teaching me.”

“Well, I guess I’ll have to look up moving companies then.”

“…You’re, you’re not underage, are you, mouse?”

“I’m nineteen. Twenty this August.”

“Oh. Good, good. Same.”

…

This, this is difficult.

The bed. He’s not used to it. There was a time when he was excited about it, after living on the streets for so long, the bed at the Manor was godsend, never believed he’d ever touch something so soft yet firm with such a high thread count. He imagined that his old bed was something Goldilocks looked for, the exact bed baby bear had.

And there’s no doubt about it. This bed in their new apartment is good, comfortable, one of the best that they could afford. It’s just, Jason can’t sleep on it, can’t get himself to relax, to allow his body to accept the comfort. Because it’s been a long two years with nothing but wood or concrete to pass out on. Jason’s even found himself hanging on a meat hook once or twice, dozing off from the blood loss, the beatings. And maybe back then he’d give anything to be back on his bed, even the one he had before he was on the streets, the old lumpy mattress with the springs sticking out.

But now, now all Jason wants is to move to the living room floor, to sleep on the rug they brought over.

“Jason?” She asks from outside her bedroom door, voice sleepy, barely above a whisper. She has her hands up to cover the lower half of her face, probably not expecting to see Jason out this late at night. “Is that you?”

“I have to ask, mouse, what would you do if it wasn’t me?” Jason asks from the shadows, from his place on the floor in front of their sofa.

“Scream. Then you’ll come out and beat the intruder’s ass.” She shuffles closer, her bedroom slippers muting her footsteps. “Are you okay?”

And isn’t that the million-dollar question? Jason thought he was. He thought he was getting better. He thought he’s moved on from the worst of what’s happened in the abandoned wing in Arkham Asylum. He thought he’s moved on from that Halloween, moved on from the Arkham Knight. Yet here he is, on the cold living room floor, unable to fall asleep in his own goddamn bed.

“Y’know, I never thought about it, but this is pretty comfy.”

All of a sudden, she’s next to him, the throw blanket over her shoulders, corners held up to cover her face. She’s made sure that there’s still space between them, that she doesn’t sit too close, but it’s enough, enough to feel her warmth, to know that she’s there.

“It sort of feels like a sleepover, doesn’t it?”

“Have you ever been to a sleepover, mouse?”

“Don’t be rude. You know how much people scare me.”

“Not so much anymore though, right?”

And although he can’t see it, he knows she smiles. Because she’s still his little mouse, still a bit skittish around strangers, but she’s trying, she’s getting better at meeting people’s eye, at returning greetings. She’s even made friends with the kid across the hall, helps her with her homework sometimes.

“Not so much, no, but I live in fear of the water bowl trick.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s the worst. I see it in movies all the time. So, you wait for someone to fall asleep first, right? And you warm some water…”

Jason doesn’t realize what she’s doing until it’s too late. Doesn’t realize the way the gentle tone of her voice lulls him to sleep, her steady speech providing some comfort he didn’t know he needed, wanted. And Jason never really liked the silence, not like before, no longer found comfort when all he could hear were his own thoughts. So, this little story, some nonsensical tale about warm water and waking up in a wet bed, allows Jason to relax, allows him to succumb to his exhaustions, allows him to sleep.

…

When Jason wakes in the morning, the first thing he realizes is that he feels well rested, his nightmares decided to give him a break for once, finally let him experience what it’s like to not wake up tired. The next, the blanket she was using was now thrown over him, tangled in his legs. Last, she’s cooking.

It’s nothing extravagant, nothing like the breakfasts he’s had at the Manor once upon a time. But it’s enough. Jason’s been having trouble with food again. Some days it’s hard to stomach the heavy stuff, the greasy kind of food he used to salivate over when he was younger. He’s glad that she somehow knew this, predicted that he needed something light after last night.

And he’s grateful. Thankful. Thinks that this, this is what he read about in those books all those years ago. Thinks that this is what the link promised him.

…

“I know it’s none of my business but…”

“But?”

“But you should know that, that it’s okay. It’s okay to show your face around me.”

“I, I didn’t think you’d want to see it.”

“I have it on my own face, mouse. It’s not like it’s going to surprise me.”

“I know. I, I just thought it would be harder to look at when it’s on me.”

“Mouse. You’re always going to be easy on the eyes.”

“Flatterer.”

“It’s true. Just, think about it, okay? I mean, I’m no stranger to masks. I get it. I just wanted you to know that it’s okay. You’re okay. With me. I, I’d like to see your face if you’d let me.”

…

It’s quiet tonight.

Gotham, for once, is quiet in a good way.

It’s almost like everyone decided that tonight, tonight was going to be a break from, well, everything, and for that, Jason is grateful.

He’s tired. He’s been tired for so long. And it’s nice that he gets this moment of peace. With her. In the quiet.

And it’s different than usual. Because although it’s quiet, Jason’s thoughts aren’t hounding on him, aren’t reminding him of what he’s done, what’s been done to him, aren’t telling him that this peace he’s found with her is temporary, that this link they have is too weak after all its been through, that sooner or later it’s going to break and she’s going to leave. Because of course she’s going to leave him if there’s nothing tying them together. Because they always leave. Because why would anyone want to stay—

And.

And Jason can finally tell his thoughts to shove it, to go back in that dark corner of his mind and to stay there. Because he knows, he knows now that this connection is stronger than they thought, that no matter how much they went through, no matter the bruises, the scars, the trauma, it only got stronger, only held them that much tighter. And Jason knows that she isn’t going anywhere, that she’s here to stay. With him.

“I think this link is getting stronger,” she says in a whisper, almost like she’s afraid to disturb the quiet. “I can hear your thoughts from here.”

“Oh yeah? What am I thinking?”

And she smiles, a shy little quirk of her lips that makes Jason want to shield her from anything and everything that can threaten to take it away from him. Because he earned that smile, longed to see it, and if he could keep her smiling, keep her happy, keep her at peace, then he’ll know he’s doing something right.

“Why don’t you tell me what you’re thinking and I’ll let you know if it’s the same thing I know.”

And what is Jason supposed to say? Is he supposed to tell her that after so long he now feels safe? Warm? Wanted? Is he supposed to tell her that he’s dreamed of her since he was a child, that he’s longed to have someone out there who was meant for just him? That the universe saw the two of them and thought that there is no way that they should not be together?

And Jason thinks that the answer is yes, yes, he should tell her that. Because she deserves to know. But, but can he really? Is he really capable of the feelings he has swirling inside of him? He’s been angry for so long, hurt for even longer, believed that he was broken. Could someone like him feel this way about her?

“Hey, Jason, why are you crying?”

He thinks of the way she was once curled up in his living room, screaming, tears running down her face. He remembers thinking that she cried in almost a childlike way, the kind of cry you do when you don’t have the words to express everything that’s in your heart. He remembers being jealous. Jealous that he couldn’t do the same.

But maybe, maybe he can. Maybe that’s what he’s doing right now. Maybe the child in him just couldn’t sob openly the way she could. Maybe, just maybe, the child in Jason could only cry quietly, could only cry without gaining attention so he wouldn’t get into trouble.

And isn’t it a relief that when the tears slide down his cheeks, wet the pillow he’s lying on, she doesn’t scream, doesn’t get angry. She only coos, speaks to him in a gentle way, in a way that makes him know that this, this is okay.

“It’s okay, Jason. You’ll be okay.”

“Can, can I, is it okay for me to feel this?”

“Feel what?”

“Because, for…for so long, all I wanted was to be loved. And, and I thought that I didn’t deserve it, that after everything I’ve done, no one could love me and…” The words are difficult, almost painful to say, but he has to, he has to try because she has to know. “And I thought maybe, maybe I was too fucked up, too broken to love, but mouse. This, this feeling. These feelings I have for you, what else could it be? How can someone like me feel this way? How is it even possible?”

And she’s quiet. Thinking. She wipes his tears with the soft pad of her thumb, traces his cheeks like he could break if she pressed too strongly. And it took a while before he allowed her to touch him like this, allowed her to treat him with such kindness. Because he’s gone too long without it and it scared him. But now, now he looks for it some days. Craves her touch, the warmth, the kindness. And he revels in it.

“I think,” she begins, her voice shaky, like the words are trying to come out all at once and she’s trying to get control of them. “I think you are love, Jason. For so long you had to be tough, you had to be cold and hard and unfeeling, but I think, I think if you were only given the chance, you would have been nothing but love.”

“I was made to fight. To protect.”

“No, Jason, you were built to love.”

And there’s no way he can keep it to himself now. No way that he can keep it from pouring out when she tells him that, looks at him like that.

“I love you,” he rasps out. “Is that okay? Is it okay to love you?”

“It’s more than okay, Jason. I love you, too. So much.” And she laughs, a weepy sort of laugh, but she looks happy, so happy, and Jason has a hard time believing that it’s because of him, that he can make someone as happy as she is right now. “Even without the link I think I would have found you and I would have loved you. You make it so easy to love you, Jason. And I love you. I love you. I love you.”

…

When Jason wakes up, the first thing he realizes is that he’s in bed. He’d fallen asleep next to her, wrapped his arms around her in his sleep, pulled her close so that her back was pressed against his chest. It’s a first. Sleeping in bed. Sleeping with her. The next, he realizes that he’s in love. So, in love that it almost feels like a dream, but he knows dreams and this, this isn’t one of them. This is real. Last, he’s okay. More than okay, really. He’s finally happy.

...

author’s note: the conversation about jason not knowing how to drive is inspired by scaryscarecrows post. also jason's broken ankle and bad back is from lananiscorner

.

.

.

How could he?

He promised today would be our day. Only our day.

I clench my jaw. " You're lying. He's coming. He has to come! He-he fucking promised me, Gar. He promised. "

This has to be some stupid joke. A really unfunny stupid joke.

" Y/N..." Raven places her hand gently on my shoulder.

I brush it off, trying to regain my composure. " He's coming. We're waiting until he gets here. "

I don't have to look up to see the looks of pity. The feeling of their eyes on my body is enough to cause my stomach to twist.

We're going to be here a while.

______

The guests left.

One by one they slowly trickled out of the double doored chapel. I didn't miss the looks of pity and whispers of what might of happened as they walked past.

I still waited.

He'd show up sooner or later. He has to. He promised.

Eventually most of the team left as well with promises to check in on me. They had lives to get back to. People to go see.

Finally the doors open.

He's here.

Heavy footsteps run through the hallway, echoing off the tall walls. " Y/N...."

I don't respond.

His breath is shallow, like he's been running for a while. " Shit, I'm so sorry, baby. "

Of course he is.

" I-I didn't think the job'd last that long-"

" You promised. " I spit, finally looking up at the man. His hair is slick with sweat. He's still in his suit, blood splattered in numerous spots. " You fucking promised me Jason. "

" I know but- "

I don't let him finish. " No. You're always doing this. You're always putting me second. Do you know how humiliating it was to sit here and wait for you? You left me at the alter. " I stand up, anger seeping through my pores. " You never think about me. You're-you're addicted to the praise. You live for high of danger. What about me? I asked for one day. One fucking day! And that was too much for you! "

Guilt floods Jason's features. He swallows harshly.

" I've stood by you through everything. You've missed my birthday, our anniversary, my fucking graduation and now you've missed our wedding. You will never put me first. " I take a deep breath. Tears sting that back of my eyes. " So I need to put me first. I'm done, Jason. I can't do this with you anymore. I need someone who gives a fuck about me. "

Jason's eyes widen in realization. Panic floods his face. " What? Y/N-Baby please! We can-I can fix this. I swear to god I'll fix this. "

I shake my head. " No. We're done Jason. " I harshly brush some tears from my face.

" Y/N! Please. " Jason begs, taking a step towards me.

I blow past him towards the door. " Take care of yourself Jason. Hope your job's worth it. "

The large wooden doors of the church clatter behind me. With every step a small pinch of relief floods my body.

Maintaining eye contact, Jason began his slow walk toward you. Rolling your eyes, you spun around in the barstool back toward your drink. Inside, your heart was pounding. No, you thought, it’s just because you’re all dressed up as his dream girl. Pretty, shiny expensive jewelry, perfectly straight, long hair… it’s all fake. He is a son of Bruce Wayne, after all, he has a type. A small tap on your shoulder calmed your wandering mind. Like a mouse bumbling straight into a trap, he came to you. Slowly, you dragged yourself around to face him. “Can I help you?” “You looked lonely, I thought I could help if you like.” His words were slow and sloppy. This was a good time to catch him. You played into the lonely girl ideal he seemed to desire. “My friends have all found someone tonight, so I guess I am. But I wouldn’t want to be a bother. I’m sure you have tons of people lined up for you.” “No,” he answered quick and rough. “No, I don’t have anyone lined up.” You smiled demurely and pulled the sweater that was draped on the stool beside you. “Take a seat then. What’s your name?” “Jason, but you can just call me Jay. What’s yours?” He put an elbow up on the bar and rested his flopping head on top of his fist. You imitated him, and he let out a small chuckle. “I Y/N. What are you drinking, Jay?” “Vodka, straight.” His light blue eyes drilled into yours. The rest of him seemed so gone, but his eyes were so bright. Your lips curled into a tight smile as you flagged down the bartender. “Ma’am, can we have two shots of vodka? On my tab.” She nodded and reached under the bar for the glasses. “Oh my god, no, I’m here to help you not be lonely.” “Mmm, it’s the least I can do for your company.” He grinned like a dope and snatched the glass up from the bar. You copied. Jerking and splashing some of the alcohol over the edge he clinked his glass to yours before you both threw the drinks back. Neither of you winced at the taste. “Would you like to find someone tonight?” He asked, reaching out to place a hand over your thigh. “Ya know, I had my eyes on this amazing looking guy with white and black hair, but now he’s just sitting with a lonely girl at the bar.” He bit his lip. The action shouldn’t have made you inhale as sharply as you did. With painful slowness, he dipped in to whisper in your ear, his lips grazing your skin. “That guy would make her less lonely if she wanted.” Your heart was pounding. Usually, you were more controlled, but there was something about Jason Todd that pushed you. He dragged his face away from yours and kept a tight distance. One of his eyebrows cocked up, asking. “Yeah.” You answered, breathless. “Yeah?” His mouth wound into a grin. Your hand found its way to his stiff, denim jeans and rub hard circles into his muscular thighs. “Yeah.” “Let’s go then, Y/N.” “We can go to my place, it’s just around the corner.” You shot in quickly. He needed to be at your ‘apartment’, the boss had demanded every detail be pristine. Business aside, you were excited. You rushed to pay your tab, as did he, and you dipped out into the night. His strong hand clamped around the small of your back as you led him. You let him take lead with the conversation. “Are from Gotham?” “No, I grew up a little bit outside of the city, went to college out near Central City, and then moved back. What about you?” “Born and raised.” “You’ve probably seen some wild stuff, huh?” He laughed. “You don’t even know.” “It’s amazing how a city can be so successful yet so on the verge of collapse all the time.” “Bad people doing bad things.” He whispered. The conversation lulled just as you reached the steps to your apartment. You grabbed his hand and dragged him up behind you, pulling out your keys from your purse as you did. It was as if a switch turned on in him. His hands began tracing the outline of your body. He leaned in to wrap his arms around your front in an affectionate embrace. The stiff outline of his cock pressing into your back made you fumble with the keys as the door unlocked. You realized just how much larger he was than you at that moment. The two of you had barely stepped over the entryway before he was slamming the door shut and locking it behind him. Both of you rushed to kiss, not bothering with the lights. Shirts were thrown off as you led him toward the couch. The loud necklace and bracelets you had been forced to wear clattered to the ground. He pressed a knee between your legs and threw you down on it. With one hand he pinned your wrists above your head. Jason straddled your hips and turned his attention to your chest and neck. His mouth found your ear a nipped, making you let out a small squeal. “I know who you are and you know who I am. There’s been a misunderstanding between me and your boss. I will happily explain to him what happened and tell him he doesn’t need to send spies. And you won’t tell him about me.” Your mouth was gaping from shock and lack of breath and your eyes grew twice their size. “How did… you didn’t see me in the warehouse… I was--” “Not well hidden?” He leaned back to look at you. “I won’t tell him if you can make sure he doesn’t kill me. I could lose everything for this. Nothing bad was going to happen to you.” “What did he want?” “To make you feel something and then hurt me so you felt hurt.” He sighed, letting more of his body weight down on you. “You’re not good at being a spy.” “Maybe not, but I’m telling you this because I think you were right to kill that man.” “Hmm,” he smirked, “Nothing to do with how soaked you are right now?” Your words caught in your throat. He got what he wanted and you had failed. “We can finish this conversation later if you want me to help you.” Sound barely escaped your mouth. “Uh-huh.” “Tell me what you want.” He was taunting you now, you could feel it. “I want you to fuck me.” Jason looked around, still taunting. “This couch is a little small for me.” He looked pointedly down at the floor. You sucked in your cheeks, trying to hide the flush of color that rose up in them. Pushing up hard with your thighs you rolled the two of you onto the ground. You straddled his thighs now. Sinking hard you let yourself grind into his hard cock. He sucked in air through his teeth and moaned back out as you unbuttoned your jeans and slid them off. The carpet braided carpet was rough on your knees but you grinded your barely clothed pussy on him. “What do you want, Jason?” You whispered, leaning over to press into him. The thin bralette you had on did little to hide anything and with a little help from his roaming hands, your breasts popped out from the lacey fabric. “I want to hear you scream my name.” “Well that all depends on you.” He groaned and began unbuttoning his own pants with one hand, the other ripping your bra off. “Take that fucking wig off.” He huffed between sharp breaths. “Let me see you.” His hands grasped at the long tendrils of hair that fell to your back. You, with some regret, pulled the glued lace away from your scalp and ripped the wig cap off with it. Jason’s lids lowered and his soft moan turned into more of a growl. Gripping your waist just under your tits he moved you to the ground. He kneeled above you, mouths meeting once again in feverish excitement. He laid between your legs, thick cock straining against his underwear and pressing into your core. His hands kneaded at your chest, tightly pinching your nipples until you cried out. Finally, he leaned back to sit on his heels. Jason pointedly looked down at the large wet spot on his dark boxer briefs. “Look what you did.” You swore his voice was an octave lower now. He shook his head and clucked his tongue. “Aww, they’re ruined, you should take them off.” You sat up on your elbows and reached out for the waistband. “Oh yeah?” He smiled and eased your hands down to let his cock spring out. As you laid below him, mouth agape, he pulled the underwear down the rest of the way. He was large. Much larger than anyone you had been with recently. A drip of precum slid over the edge of his tip. “My eyes are up here, princess.” It was impossible to tell whether the nickname or the joke made you heat up a little more. You tried to keep yourself composed as your eyes dragged up his chiseled body to meet his eyes. He was lean, but every muscle was so well defined. “I know.” You answered coyly. Jason dipped back down to trail long kisses down your neck and chest. He kept going down until he was mouthing over your clothed cunt. “Uhh, Jason, I want…ah, I want you…” “What do you want?” He peered up. You couldn’t answer as he roughly pulled down your soaked panties. His expert tongue lapped against your dripping center. Calloused fingers found his way into you. “Shut up, just fuck me.” You gasped for air. Jason grinned and put a hand on either side of your head. He leaned in close, nose to nose. “You wanna get on your knees?” His tone was not questioning. Still, the softness in his eye betrayed the commanding tone. You nodded, unable to answer coherently. Wanting all of this and all of him you kissed him hard and slow. He gently moved a hand under you to help as you turned yourself over. You propped yourself up on your hands and knees, getting more excited with every second. The carpet dug deeper into your knees. His hands clamped onto your hips and dragged you toward him. He gave one and then another hard smack to your ass. Each time you cried out in ecstasy. “Jason…” You moaned. He responded by lining up his tip with your entrance. He ran his cock through your slick folds, teasing. You clit throbbed impatiently. Involuntarily, your hips wiggled back, attempting to get the message across to him. He slapped you again. Just as you were about to bemoan his teasing, he slid inside of you in one go. A strangled gasp clawed its way out of your throat. “Fuck, you’re big.” You sighed. You did your best to relax as he thrusted harshly, but it was nearly impossible to not clamp down around him. He continued pounding into you. Every time his cock slide in and out a small gasp escaped your mouth. You sounded like am overdramatic porn star at this rate. Jason’s name was on your lips like a chant. He reached underneath while still pounding into you to play with that sensitive bundle of nerves. You were already so dripping and swollen it didn’t take much of his feather-light touch to send you over the edge. “Jason!!!” You cried. “Just a little bit longer.” He grunted, your moans and twitches sending him close to the edge. “Yes, please, cum inside of me!” You had just barely come down from your own high, slumping further down into the floor, when his hips began to snap jaggedly. Knees, raw and near bloody, started to wobble to keep you upright. He pulled out abruptly. Before you could cry out in protest he flipped you over and entered you faster and harder. Jason’s eyes were clouded with lust as they bore into yours. His face was flush and glistening. He slowed and sped up once again finally cumming into you with a low deep moan. After a moment he laid down upon you, breathing hard. He slid his limp cock out of you. The cum seeped out of you, mixing with your own juices. He just barely propped himself up and reached down to your sensitive pussy and dragged two fingers up it. His hand came up to your mouth. You happily obliged, sucking the salty-sweet mix the two of you had created. Jason let his hand fall from your mouth and rolled off you. The two of you laid there, unsure of what to do or say next. 

“I’m sorry for spying on you. I won’t tell, that would only get people hurt. I don’t want to hurt people.” 

Say the Word (Practice Makes Perfect) [Jason Todd x Reader]

As you stare down at the single pink line on the tiny display your feelings are mixed.

On the one hand you’re hardly ready to raise a child, not when you still feel like a kid yourself most days, and that’s saying nothing of Jay’s chosen profession. Vigilantism is hardly conducive to home and hearth, after all. But despite knowing all of this you still feel… oddly crushed?

In the hours since your shaky murmur of “I’m late” was breathed into the crook of his neck, visions of little girls with inky ringlets and toddling boys with irises the color of a Caribbean tide had embedded themselves in your mind’s eye. With each minute that passed you allowed yourself to dream up a whole new life with Jason, one full of tiny giggles and toothless smiles and scabby knees. You saw your son seated aloft his broad shoulders, content and happy; your daughter on his knee as he read her his favorite Doctor Seuss book; you saw a future filled to bursting with things you’d never knew you wanted, knew you needed until that moment.

Hours to build up that new life in your head, and only two minutes to see it collapse around you.

“Is it weird that I’m a little disappointed?”

You finally tear your eyes away from the line, but you still can’t bring yourself to face the man that hovers behind you. “No,” you start after a few long seconds. “But it’s for the best… Right?”

You don’t know what Jay sees in your eyes when you finally meet his in the bathroom’s mirror, but you do know what you see in his—that same future that had shone so brief, but brilliant.

There’s a gentleness in his gaze, a fragility that leaves you choking on a sob. Before the first tears even fully form you’re being spun around and gathered up into his arms. Jason’s hands trail the length of your spine in long, lulling strokes even as you dig your nails into the muscles of his back and pull yourself flush against him. Your grip is firm bordering on bruising, but if it hurts him he doesn’t show it. He whispers words of comfort that echo in his chest, and reverberate through you. The feeling registers more than his voice, and while it’s calming in a way it still not enough.

“This is so stupid. Why am I crying? I’m not pregnant so I can’t even blame my hormones!” The sentences come between heaving breaths and gasping sobs.

“It’s not stupid,” he assures you, hands still working at soothing your quaking frame. “If you want a family with me honey, you say the word and I’ll give you one. But it’ll be on our terms, and not the result of a bad batch of birth control or a faulty Trojan.”

You laugh a bit at that, sniff loudly, then look up at him. You know you must be a sight—eyes and nose red and wet, face splotchy and puffy—but he still looks at you like you’re the most beautiful thing in the world. Your answering smile is a small thing that trembles a bit with the last dregs of your breakdown, but it’s there and it’s real and it’s hopeful. You don’t know when the pair of you will be ready for a family, if ever, but just knowing that the option is there enough for now.

Jay returns your smile as he wipes away the wetness on you cheeks with soft motions and gentle hands. In the face of such tenderness and care there’s only one thing to be said—“I love you.”

“I know,” he says, and there’s no cockiness behind the words, only confidence in what the two of you share. “And I love you too.”

“That’s good to hear, especially after what I just did to your shirt.”

“What? You mean the scratching? Don’t get me wrong, you’ve got a hell of a grip babe, but it’s not nearly enough to do any real damage.”

“No, not that—but also sorry for that.”

“No harm, no foul, doll. Hey, that rhymed! Aww, come on now! Don’t roll your eyes baby—respect my flow.”

“Whatever,” you say around a laugh as you push away from him. “Go get some real bars and change your shirt.”

“Pssh. Please woman, my bars and my shirt are both tight as hell.” He pulls at the compression material then and releases it; how he manages to avoid pinching himself in the process is a mystery, but the audible pop of it snapping back in place leaves you with the impression that the action has the potential to be just as painful.

“Tight or not, I’m pretty sure that the Absorbent Tip TM was pressing into your back for a while there sooo... yeah. You might want to take care of that.”

It takes a second for him to realize what that means, but once he does…The look of mild disgust that flashes across his face leaves you snickering even as you apologize.

“You could at least pretend to feel bad about this, you know,” he says with a shake of his head. “But hell babe, if you wanted me to lose the shirt all you had to do was ask.”

The laughter dies on your lips as he reaches behind himself to grab a handful of the black tee; a tug and what has to be an unnecessary amount of flexing sees the clingy scrap of material removed and tossed away. Your eyes narrow as you take in your stupid, sexy, smirking, cocky cock of a boyfriend, but there’s no denying the wicked gleam in his gaze or the way it affects you.

You might not be ready to make a baby right at this very moment, but there’s nothing wrong with a little practice…

You and Me Both, Babe [Tim Drake x Reader]

Your home smells amazing right now.

The warm, hardy scent of fresh baked bread is cut through by the tang of herbs simmering in a tomato-based sauce. The meatballs—recipe compliments of Alfred—adds a richness to it all, while the lemon rinds that’re left over from the vinaigrette you’d whipped up earlier adds a nice, citrus-y note that, while not readily identifiable, does help to lighten the dense canopy of the more cloying aromas.

Though it smells divine, the spread is far from elaborate. Spaghetti and meatballs, breadsticks, and salad—hardly the meal one would expect the wife of the heir to the Wayne Enterprises throne to prepare for dinner, but then again one would hardly expect you to cook for yourself at all.

Driven by paranoia and practicality in mostly equal measure, both you and Tim decided against hiring someone to help around the house. Paranoia because, even if the dangers of his night job could be ignored, there's still a certain amount of caution to be exercised just from bearing the family name; practicality because, despite the square footage, your high rise apartment's easily maintained by the two of you. Keeping yourselves fed is a bit trickier given your schedules, but between Alfred occasionally dropping off pre-made meals (with heating instructions simple enough that even your husband in his base, half-sleep state can follow) and honing the magical skill that is meal prepping (this too is a gift imparted by the aging man, bless him) you have a solid, home-cooked meal at least four days out of the week.

Your phone chirps an alarm that tells you it’s time to pull the pasta from the heat; after a quick drain it’s tossed with the red sauce and meatballs before being transferred to a serving dish. The whole of the meal is then moved to the dining table and then you’re hurrying off to the other end of the flat to change (because while eau de marinara might work for spaghetti it does very little for you).

As with the meal, there’s nothing fancy to be found in your chosen attire. The sweater you slip on was actually Tim’s once upon a time—though after finding you puttering around his kitchen in nothing but the over-sized garment he had decided that it looked much better on you…

  “Keep it.”

You’d grown used to his ability to move about in virtual silence, but knowing what Tim was capable of didn’t leave you any better equipped to deal with it. Breathing in sharply, you whipped your head towards the man hard and fast enough that whiplash was a legitimate concern. You had fully intended to threaten him with a bell collar yet again, but the smile he gave you was so dopey, so damn lovesick that all the fight bled right out of you. Suddenly shy in the face his unabashed adoration, you quickly turned your attention back to the omelet you’d been assembling. A few seconds passed before you remembered the words that had startled you in the first place.

“Keep what?”

“The sweater,” he said, voice sounding from far nearer as he made his way towards you. A few long strides saw strong arms wrapping around your middle and lips at your ear. “Looks good on you.” The sentence was little more than a whisper, a breath of a thing that would’ve went unheard had he not been so close. His nose followed the curve of your ear upwards until he was able to press a lingering kiss to your temple.

Your breath caught and the rose dust that stained you cheeks deepened. The sweater. You’d honestly forgotten that you were wearing it.

You hadn’t felt like wresting yourself back into the restricting clothing you’d worn the night before, but walking around completely naked wasn’t an option you were willing to entertain either. Silly, given that he’d already seen you in naught but your skin, but still—‘leave something to the imagination’ and all that jazz. The thing was big and warm, almost too warm in the heated apartment, and still smelled like him. The V of the neckline and the sleeves both hung down far lower than what was necessary for your purposes; there was nothing to be done about the former, but the latter was quickly remedied with several cuffing rolls. Over the course of you washing, chopping, and whisking the various ingredients those cuffs had slowly loosened—more so on your dominate arm; annoying but expected—and the collar had drifted off to the left leaving the shoulder there on display. Having to constantly shrug the thing back into some semblance of order was annoying, but when a pair of warm lips pressed against the once again exposed skin.

Well.

Tim might’ve thought the sweater looked better on you, but you both agreed that it was at its best left in a careless heap on the floor.

  The memory is an old one, but it’s just as warm and vivid now as it was when you made it. It was the first time you had spent the night at his place, and though neither of you actively acknowledged it then, that was the day that you both knew you’d found the ever elusive one. Moments like that could never fall prey to the dulling touch of time.

The sleeves, so used to being cuffed after years of the action, roll into place effortlessly. Joggers are exchanged for a pair of jeans and then you’re swapping out your fuzzy socks for ones not covered in rogue marinara drips. You don’t bother with makeup though you do spare a few minutes to sort out your hair from the messy style you’d thrown it into before cooking. Satisfied with your appearance, you go to your purse and pull out the paper that confirmed what you already knew.

An absentee period combined with the three EPTs you’d taken yesterday was enough to convince you that your body did indeed have a new tenant, but much like your husband you liked redundancy so off to the clinic you went. Two samples later and Doctor Thomas was sending you on your way with a promise to put a rush on the blood analysis, and she’d kept her word. An hour after Tim had left this morning you were getting a fax full of medical jargon about hormone levels and percentages.

You still can’t make heads or tails of most of it, but the gist is clear—you’re going to be a mother. And Tim—your sweet, precious, adoring husband—is going to be a father.

Any trepidation you may have felt over the matter is instantly quelled by just the thought of him alone. Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne is the most loving, caring, reliable man you’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing, and cliché though it might be, you know that there’s nothing that you can’t face so long as you’re together.

You fold the paper over and tuck it into your back pocket, all the while smiling so hard that your cheeks actually begin to ache. A mom. I’m going to be a mom. The thought leaves you full of a joy that can’t be contained. It manifests itself in the bounce of your walk and the childlike swing of your arms as you head back to the dining room to ready the plates.

You want Tim as relaxed as possible when you give him the big news, not out of fear, but rather so he’ll have the mental clarity to properly process it. Though he does his best to shake it off during his commute, work has a tendency to follow him home; sometimes in the form of actual tasks that still need to be seen to, while others its complaints about the Board and their “–total lack of insight as to how the world actually works.” You have no problem with letting him blow off some steam, welcome it even, as it’s better than him falling back on his old habit of bottling everything up. You’re his sounding board, his anchor, a tether that will always pull him back to calmer waters. To this end you have many methods at your disposal, and at least several of them involve food.

Feeling kind of fancy, you decide to try to plate the pasta using that neat little trick that Alfred had showed you with the tongs and the spoon; it takes a few tries, but eventually you end up with two perfect mounds of spaghetti. Unfortunately this leaves no place for the meatballs except for around said mounds. You place them as artistically as you can, but it still ends up looking like something that could potentially summon the Flying Spaghetti Monster.

Eh well, I married a nerd; if anyone can appreciate it, it’d be him. The musing pulls a giggle from already smiling lips. 

The salad takes a lot less effort, though you do make a mental note to thank Jay again for linking you to those vinaigrette recipes. Habit has you reaching for wine glasses and a nice vintage, but then you remember the little bean growing inside of you and stop. You’ve heard it said that one glass of wine a day is actually acceptable, but you’re not so sure. 

Better safe than sorry, you reason as you fill them with water instead. Though it is something to look up. A fair bit of research is definitely in your future—well, Tim’s more so than yours. The man never braves any new territory without first arming himself to the teeth with every scrap of intel available to him, and you know that your pregnancy will be no different. 

With the table now fully set there’s nothing left to do but wait, and so you grab your phone and slump down in your seat. A quick time check tells you that Tim should be home any minute, but you’re too restless to sit idle. Needing something, anything, to save you from yourself you pull up a game on your phone and start swiping. The first few levels you tackle are defeated easily enough thanks to the power-ups you’ve been hording like some techno-centric millennial dragon, but once you run out you essentially hit a wall. A courtesy hour of unlimited lives means you get lost to the menial task, so much so that you don’t even realize Tim’s home until he shuffles into the room. 

“Hey sweets,” he says as he leans down to press a kiss against your forehead. “I’m late, I know, I’m sorry.” 

“Ten minutes is hardly ‘late’, love.” 

“Yeah, but still…” 

The exchange is as familiar as anything else in your relationship. Early on in your platonic days you had learned that Tim offering up his time to you was among the most significant displays of affection in his arsenal. Hardly surprising given that between the day job that is his necessity and the night gig that is his passion, there’s not much of it to be had that isn’t already accounted for. Free time was more often than not a concept for the man, not a reality, but he had made it more than clear that what little he had was yours if you’d have it. 

The moment his forehead leans heavy against yours you know you’re going to have to abandon your initial plan; he’s clearly world-weary and in need of some good news ASAP. Besides, you’ll never be able to forgive yourself if you allow a setup as prime as the one he just handed you to pass by. When you retell this story to your future child years from now—hell when you tell it to your family and friends over the next few days—this one-liner will be a distinct a point of quipping pride.

Really, you owe it to you all. 

Your lips curl upwards in anticipation of the sentence that will leave people both within and without the Wayne clan face-palming for years to come— 

“It’s okay, babe—I’m late too.” 

For his part Tim just blinks a few times in confusion, clearly ignorant of the excellence he’d just bore witness to. With his brows draw inwards and a slight pout on his lips he’s pretty much the human equivalent of a puppy; the curiosity that tints the sapphires that search your face for clarity does nothing to dissuade the image. The wide smile you give him is returned in kind, though the arching of a brow is a silent call for an explanation; when all the reply he gets is the folded sheet the second rises to join the first. He gives you an expectant look then, but you just grin and a nod towards the paper in his hand. His gaze is probing as he pulls the thing back to size without breaking eye contact, but there’s nothing of substance to be found in the mirth that dances in your eyes.

“Okay then,” he says on a laughter laced sigh. “I guess I’ll actually have to read this—wait. What is all this? Lab workups… Results…” His mumbles become near silent as he works his way down the page. “Human chorionic gonadotropin levels—hCG, hCG… That’s the pregnancy hormone. And at 7,480 units per milliliter…” 

He looks up at you, eyes suddenly glassy as he breathes out your name. “Baby, sweetheart—are you– I mean you have to be… Right?” 

You nod hard, not trusting your voice not to crack under the weight of your emotions. Faster than you can process the motion you’re being gathered up and squeezed tight. A flurry of Oh my god’s and declarations of love pour out of him as readily as his tears and your replies ring out in kind. You stay wrapped around each other for several long minutes before Tim finally pulls away enough to look at you. That same dopey, lovesick smile that had brought you to this place in your lives is back as he leans his forehead against yours again.

“We’re going to be parents.” His voice is awestruck in that way that says he can’t believe he’s managed to land on the right side of luck yet again.

“Correction: we’re going awesome parents. Way better than all those scrubs that let their kids run around terrorizing the general populace.” 

He laughs even as he shudders. “That’s for damn sure. God, there’s so much to do. How many weeks along are you? For that matter how long have you known? Are you feeling okay? I’m pretty sure you haven’t been experiencing morning sickness, unless you’ve been hiding it from me—you haven’t right? We’re in this together, sweetheart, so–”

You pull him in for a proper kiss then, knowing it’s the only way to stop the deluge of worries and words. He’s resistant at first, still trying to speak even with your lips smushed together, but kneading fingers at his nape sees that nonsense meeting a quick end. It takes a few long moments, but under your expert touch the tension has no choice but to drain away. 

“We got this babe. Yeah?” It comes out as a question, but your expression says that you won’t accept any answer other than a solid yes. 

“Yeah. We do,” he agrees, nod resolute and voice steady. “So Missus Wayne, what now?”