#killxz

The first thing you notice when he walks into the kitchen that morning isn't the faint smell of gunpowder still clinging to his jacket or the slight limp he's pretending doesn't exist-it's his hair.

More specifically, what's not in his hair.

You blink once. Twice. Rubbed both your eyes to make sure you weren't hallucinating. The coffee mug halfway to your lips stills midair as you narrow your eyes. "Jay," you say slowly, "what happened to your hair?"

He glances up from rummaging through the fridge, voice muffled behind the door. "What are you talking about?"

You set your mug down with purpose, eyes narrowed. "Don't play dumb with me. The white part. Right here." You point to your own temple, the spot that usually gleams like silver when the light catches it. The place you've carded your fingers into a hundred times while brushing your hands through his hair.

Jason emerges from behind the door holding a carton of milk and the (cutest) guiltiest face you've ever seen. "Oh. That."

"'Oh, that' ?" you echo, eyebrows shooting up. "What did you do?"

He shrugs, trying for nonchalance, but the corner of his mouth betrays him with a twitch. "Nothing. Just… fixed it."

"Fixed it?" You echo, staring at him like he's just declared he joined a boy band. "It wasn't broken!"

He sets the milk down, looking sheepish now. "It looked dumb, sweetheart."

You scoff. "Dumb? It's you. It's your little-thingy."

He tilts his head, smirking faintly. "My 'thingy'?"

"You know what I mean."  You cross your arms, huffing. " You knew I liked it."

Jason rubs the back of his neck, eyes darting anywhere but meeting yours. "Yeah, well. It made me look old."

"You are old," you shoot back, lips twitching into a grin. "At least compared to me."

He raises an eyebrow. "Wow. Brutal."

"Brutally honest," you correct, standing to cross the room. You reach up, fingers brushing through the now uniformly dark strands. "You dyed it, didn't you?"

He winces, caught. "Maybe."

"Jason."

He huffs out a sigh, muttering like a kid caught with a hand in the cookie jar. "Fine. Yes. I dyed it. Happy?"

"No," you reply immediately. "I liked that streak. It made you look-" You hesitate, searching for the right word. "-like you. Like the Jason that came back from the pits of hell just to annoy Bruce again."

He lets out a soft laugh, low and rough, and the sound vibrates against your chest where his hand now rests. "Sweetheart, it was just a stupid patch of hair."

"Was," you correct, tapping his temple lightly. "Now you look like every other brooding idiot with black hair in this city."

He smirks. "You saying I blend in?"

"I'm saying you're less interesting."

He gasps in mock offense. "Less interesting?"

You grin. "Uh-huh."

"You wound me."

"Good. Maybe next time you'll think twice before erasing the one part of you that looks like you're from an emo band."

He chuckles, leaning down until his breath brushes your forehead. "You like that part, huh? The emo aesthetic?"

"Maybe I have a type," you murmur. "And maybe it includes white hair and very questionable life choices."

His thumb grazes your jaw, eyes gleaming. "Guess I'll have to make it up to you somehow, then."

You hum thoughtfully. "You can start by admitting you look better with it."

"Not happening."

"Coward."

He laughs again, pulling away and shaking his head. "You're unbelievable."

"And you," you say, poking his chest, "are going to regret that box dye. Mark my words."

He rolls his eyes, muttering under his breath, but you catch the way his lips curve upward.

The rest of the day goes on as usual. Mostly. You catch him glancing at mirrors a few times too often, running his hand through his hair like he's half expecting something to change. You don't comment, just smile knowingly when he pretends not to notice you watching.

That night, he falls asleep beside you like he always does, arm draped lazily over your waist, breath steady against your neck. You brush your fingers through his dark hair one last time, tracing the spot where the white streak used to be, and whisper, "Miss you already."

When morning comes, you're the first to wake.

And what greets you nearly makes you cry out in laughter.

There it is. Gleaming against the black like a stubborn ghost, white as snow, shining defiantly in the early sunlight. The streak. Back in all its infuriating, beautiful glory.

You clap a hand over your mouth to stifle your laugh, fumbling gor your phone and taking a picture.

Jason stirs beside you, groaning. "What's so funny?"

You try to compose yourself but fail miserably. "Oh, nothing. You'll see."

He blinks blearily at you, rubbing his eyes. "Why're you smiling like that?"

You just hand him your phone, camera app open, picture already taken.

He looks at the screen. Then at you. Then back at the screen.

"What the-"

"Told you," you sing-song, trying not to wheeze with laughter. "The old-man-hair is back."

He sits up, running both hands through his hair in disbelief. "No way. I dyed that thing. I cut that thing!"

"Magic says hi," you tease, sipping your coffee.

"Magic can kiss my-"

"Language."

He scowls at you, but the corners of his mouth twitch like he's trying not to grin. "This isn't funny." He stands up and walks to the bathroom, scrutinising his hair in the mirror.

"It's hilarious."

"I'm being haunted by my own hair."

You tilt your head innocently. "Maybe it's a sign. The universe wants you to stop fighting your aesthetic."

He groans. "You're enjoying this way too much."

"I'm just saying, Jay… maybe the Lazarus Pit decided your hair needed to match your personality."

He narrows his eyes. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

You flash him a sly smile. "Chaotic. Emo. A little unholy."

He stares at you for a moment before chuckling softly. "You're ridiculous."

"And you're stuck with me."

He huffs, glancing back at his reflection in the mirror. The streak glows under the light, smug as ever. He sighs, resigned. "Guess it's here to stay."

You wrap your arms around his waist from behind, resting your head against his back. "Good. I like it that way."

"Yeah?" he murmurs, voice lower now, amused. "You that attached to it?"

"Mhm. Makes you look like you've seen some things."

He smirks. "You saying I'm mysterious?"

"I'm saying," you whisper against his ear, "that I can still pick you out of a crowd."

He laughs under his breath, leaning back into you. "You're too good to me, sweetheart."

"Maybe," you say, smiling into his back. "But don't let it go to your head. Or your hair."

He groans, rolling his eyes. "You're never gonna let this go, are you?"

"Not a chance."

"Fine. You win."

"Good boy."

He pauses, then looks down at you with a lopsided grin. "Say that again."

You laugh, swatting his chest lightly. "Don't push your luck, Todd."

But he's still smiling when he turns back to the mirror, brushing a hand through the rebellious streak. You catch the faintest hint of pride in his reflection, like maybe, just maybe, he's starting to see what you've always seen in it.

You and Jason were inseparable as kids.

The kind of pair where everyone teased. ‘You two are always together, where one goes the other follows.’ 

You shared secrets, comic books, childish, hopeful plans for the future and the pastries that Alfred made whenever you slept over.

Then he died.

Or at least, you mourned him like he was.

You carried that grief for three years. Losing him felt like losing a piece of yourself, a piece that left a gaping void where your heart used to be. You were furious at Bruce. Furious that he had let Jason go into that warehouse alone. Furious that he pushed Jason into a life of a soldier. Furious that, after everything, he still refused to kill the Joker.

You held all that anger and grief close to your heart like it could fill the void that his death left. You ignored all of Bruce’s attempts to reconcile with you. You tore all of the scholarships you received from the Martha Wayne Foundation. You shut the window whenever Dick tried to talk to you during patrols.

You held on to all that anger for him because letting go felt like betraying him a second time.

So when he returned–not as the boy you knew, but the angry and hard Red Hood–it broke something in you.

He avoided you at first.

Pretended that you were a stranger.

Spoke to you like every word tasted bitter.

Every time you tried to reach him, he pulled back, colder and harsher.

And the worst part?

He wasn’t doing all this because he hated you.

He was cruel because he remembered you. You were his lighthouse in a dark, hungry sea of anger and betrayal. 

And it terrified him.

He knew what he was capable of. Knew what he had done. And nothing terrifies him more than the thought of him doing the same to you. 

But you didn’t stop trying.

Even when he refused to even look at you.

Even when his voice, once warm, once yours (even though it felt like it had been decades since his voice felt yours), turned clipped and short.

Even when his actions made you feel that a part of you was dying again whenever he turned away.

You kept reaching.

And he kept pulling away like the tide on the shore.

But even as he pushed you away (turned his back on you, swallowed his voice, clenching his fists so hard that his knuckles went white), Jason still found himself being pulled towards you like something divine (you) had its hands around his heart.

He kept his distance from you.

Or at least that was what he told himself.

Yet he still found himself lingering.

You noticed too.

A shadow two rooftops away.

A red helmet perched on a fire escape on the nights when things got too heavy and you couldn’t sleep.

A shadow trailing you when you walked home alone at night.

He told himself that it was just a coincidence.

He told himself that he DIck would have wanted to make sure you were safe. 

But the truth?

He was starving for you.

Not in the simple, childish way from before, but in the way broken things tend to gravitate towards the hands that once knew how to hold them.

He would follow you during patrols, cursing at himself under his breath.

Stop. She doesn’t need you. Please look at me. She’s fine. 

Walk away, Jason. Walk away.

But when you pause on the sidewalk and turn to look at his silhouette in the dark, he would freeze like someone had punched the breath out of him.

He hated it.

He missed hated you.

He hated that he still remembered the sound of your laugh even though you rarely shared it anymore.

Hated that the world felt loud and wrong on the nights he couldn’t check on you.

He wanted distance.

He needed distance.

But every time he tried to pull himself out of your orbit, something dragged him straight back in.

He didn’t want wanted to let go.

He didn’t.

Other nights, when you were asleep, he would slip into your room and brush his fingers against your cheek reverently, like he was touching something he wasn’t allowed to have.

And every time he turned to leave, guilt crawled down his spine like barbed wire.

He was supposed to stay away from you.

He couldn’t.

He was supposed to pretend that he had forgotten you.

He could never.

He was supposed to let you move on.

He didn’t want you to.

You felt him.

Even though he thought that he was invisible.

Even when he hid behind alleyways and rooftops.

You felt him like gravity, shifting, pulling and inevitable.

Because Jason Todd could run from he city.

He could run from Batman.

From Bruce.

From Joker.

From himself.

But you?

You were the one thing he could never outrun.

Because no matter how far he pulled away, his gravity still found you. He was your sun, and you were his moon.

Qifrey knew that he should have stopped weeks ago.

Perhaps months.

Any reasonable person would have recognized the warning signs.

Unfortunately, Qifrey had never been particularly reasonable when it came to the people he cared about. Every step forward seemed to uncover three more questions about the Brimmed Caps.

The evidence of his persual sat plainly before him: cups of tea that you made him went untouched and left to cool, the increasingly frantic arrangements of notes and maps on his desk, untouched meals, and most important of all, you.

He knows you know he was spiralling, the desperation of finding the Brimmed Caps catching up to him.

You know this. You've caught him hunched over his desk passed out multiple times this week. It's gotten worse ever since Coco came to the atelier. You're not blaming her, you know that poor girl has already seen things any kid shouldn't have to see.

If anything, that's exactly the problem.

Coco's arrival had made the Brimmed Caps impossible for Qifrey to ignore. Every new clue was another reminder to him that they were still out there with his memories and eye.

Qifrey likes to pretend that everything's fine in an effort to not worry anyone. It just makes you worry more. Coco and the apprentices still see a kind, caring teacher who makes amazing tea and bread.

You see a man slowly destroying himself.

You see the moments where he stares blankly at the wall during lessons. You see the untouched food he leaves behind after every meal. You see (and feel) the empty space he leaves in your bed in the middle of the night.

Tonight his space in your bed is cold and empty yet again. You sighed, abandoning sleep and sitting up, your bare feet touching the cool hardwood floor. You pad to his study adjacent to your shared bedroom. Light seeps through the cracks below the study door.

You push the door open.

He's there, of course. Hunched over the desk exactly as you knew he'd be, one elbow braced among the mess of papers, his forehead resting against his palm. The candle has burned down to a stub, wax pooling on the wood. He hasn't noticed it. He hasn't noticed you.

"Qifrey."

Your voice comes out softer than you intended. But it's enough. He startles, straightening so fast that a stack of parchment slides off the desk and scatters across the floor like wounded birds.

"Ah-love! I didn’t-" He blinks, his eye unfocused and rimmed with red. He looks at you like he's trying to figure out where and when he is. "You should be asleep."

"So should you," you fire back, not harshly. "You haven't been sleeping the last few days."

Qifrey dragged a hand down the side of his face. "That's different, love, I’m-"

"-you're what? Neglecting yourself in hopes of finally catching a whiff of what the Brimmed Caps are up to?" You crossed your arms over your chest. "You're human, Qi, you need a break too."

"I know, it's just that-" He cut himself off with a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. "-this is something i need to do, you know that."

You softened, walking over to his desk, stopping just shy of him. "I know, trust me, I do." You ran a hand through his hair, brushing some away from his face, revealing the scar tissue where his right eye should be. Qifrey leaned into your touch, closing his eye and nuzzling into your hand like a cat. Your thumb brushes the spot under his eye. "But what's the point if you wear yourself out in the process? Who's going to protect Coco? Tetia? Agott? Richeh? Olruggio and I may be good, but not that good."

You press a soft kiss to his forehead, the tip of his nose, and then his lips. “Don't wear yourself out, we need you. I need you."

Qifrey’s eye shines with unshed tears and he blinks it away quickly. The colour of his eye is lighter than when you first met him all those years ago. You're hit with a pang of sadness.

Qifrey's voice comes out rough, barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," you murmur, still carding fingers through his hair. "Just come back to me."

He doesn't move right away. His hand finds your waist, fingers curling into the fabric of your sleep shirt like you're the only solid thing in a room full of shifting shadows. "I keep thinking if I just find the right lead, the right piece of information, then I can-" His voice cracks. "Then I can rest."

His shoulders slump, his head falling forward to rest against your chest. You wrap your arms around him, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other pressed flat between his shoulder blades. You can feel his heart hammering, or maybe it's yours.

"I got you," you whisper into his hair. "I’ll always be here."

You don't know how long you stand like that, holding him while the candle gutters and dies and the room falls into silver moonlight. Long enough for his breathing to slow. Long enough for the tension to bleed out of his spine.

Eventually, you tug gently at his collar. "Come to bed."

This time, he doesn't argue.

You lead him through the doorway, your fingers laced through his. He follows like a man learning to walk again, unsteady but trusting. The bedroom is cool and dark, and when you pull back the covers, he sinks into the mattress like his body has finally remembered what exhaustion feels like.

You climb in beside him. He reaches for you immediately, pulling you close, his face burying into the crook of your neck. His breath is warm against your skin.

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