#piegon

Jason Todd POV

This.

This was not how his night was supposed to go.

He was supposed to stop a few weapons runners, maybe intimidate a low-level thug into giving up intel, and then hit that grimy diner on 9th Street for a terrible cup of coffee and a sandwich full of regret. Simple. Standard Red Hood schedule.

Not…

Whatever the hell this is.

Jason revved the engine and took a hard turn, the bike growling under him like it wanted to bite the road. Trash flew up from the street corner, and the lights of Gotham blurred by in flickers of sodium yellow and neon blue.

And sitting right in front of him on the metal bar of his custom-built, definitely-not-designed-for-passengers bike?

A pigeon.

A fat, smug, slightly molting pigeon.

Just sitting there.

Crook, apparently.

The bird didn’t flinch at the wind. Didn’t budge when the tires screeched around a corner. Just fluffed up, looked left, then back at Jason like he was bored of going only 85 mph.

“Bird’s got a death wish,” Jason muttered, eyes narrowing behind the red lenses of his helmet.

Crook cooed, slow and nonchalant — like he agreed but wasn’t bothered.

Jason was going to lose his mind.

And then there was you.

You, clinging to his back like he was the last tree in a hurricane, arms locked around his chest. Your robes billowed out behind you like a kite about to be ripped in half. He could feel your breath against his armor — short, shaky, and very, very close.

Oh — and your tail?

It was wrapped around his ankle.

At first, he hadn’t noticed. Then he tried shifting his foot and nearly drove into a mailbox.

“What the—?!” he growled under his breath, looking down for a split second.

Yep. Still there.

Smooth and sinuous, a prehensile tail looped around the bottom of his boot, holding on like a seatbelt with opinions.

“This is insane,” he muttered, jerking the bike onto a side street. “This is so far past insane.”

But the pièce de résistance?

Your horns.

They’d scraped against his helmet at least six times now.

At first it was subtle — a bump as you leaned too close when he accelerated. Then it happened again. And again. And again.

Now it was just a whole situation.

Scrape.

Jason gritted his teeth.

You made a soft noise behind him — maybe an apology, maybe a prayer.

“Okay,” he muttered to himself. “So I’ve got a magical wounded blue lady with a giant stick, horns, and a clingy tail on the back of my bike. And her rat-with-wings pet is riding shotgun. Totally normal Gotham night.”

He swerved around a pothole the size of a small child and tried not to think about how warm you felt against his back. Or how even after getting shot and bleeding all over a rooftop, you’d had the guts to summon a literal bird to chat about the city.

Who was this woman?

Another bump — another horn tap.

Jason exhaled sharply.

“Lady,” he called over the engine, “I swear if you chip my helmet—”

“It is not my intention!” your voice called back, distressed. “I am very much holding on for my life!”

Another bump.

Scrape.

“…Yeah. I noticed.”

Another turn. Another horn scrape. Another little tail squeeze around his ankle. Jason had resigned himself to this chaos. This ride was cursed. Gotham was cursed. He was cursed.

And then, it got worse.

Or better?

No. Definitely worse.

You shifted, just slightly — a flinch maybe, when he hit a rough patch of road — and suddenly, Jason went rigid as he felt you press even closer to his back.

And not just in a clinging-for-dear-life way.

Oh no.

You had, as he was very suddenly and physically aware, a lot going on up front — and now it was all flattened firmly against his back armor. Jason clenched his jaw.

His grip on the throttle tightened.

Don’t you fucking think about it. 

The smooth curve of your body, the warmth of your chest molded against him, even through his suit—

“Focus on the road, Hood,” he growled to himself through gritted teeth. “Don’t die because of boobs. That’s not how you go out.”

You shifted again, clearly trying to stay stable — but your movement just made it worse, and your breath hitched right by his ear.

Jason swore internally.

Crook, still perfectly unbothered up front, turned his head and gave Jason a long, blank look.

“Don’t judge me,” Jason snapped.

Crook cooed. Judgingly.

Jason nearly took a turn too fast just to throw him off.

Behind him, you made a soft, pained sound — a little sigh, followed by a whispered, “Forgive me, warrior… I am most unpracticed in taming such violent beasts of iron and fire.”

Jason blinked. Violent beast of iron and—? Oh. The bike.

“It’s a motorcycle,” he said, loud enough for you to hear.

“My apologies… this ‘cycle’ doth snarl like a wyvern with a stone in its talon.”

Jason snorted before he could stop himself. “Wyvern. Right.”

You pressed even closer.

Jason stared straight ahead, absolutely not reacting.

“Are… are you alright?” you asked, voice a little weaker now, like your wounds were creeping back into your attention.

No. He was not alright.

But for very different reasons than you meant.

“Peachy,” he muttered.

This is fine. Everything is fine.

You loosened your grip just slightly to adjust your position, which only made things worse, somehow. Jason exhaled hard, cursed under his breath, and made the next turn fast enough to rattle even Crook’s feathers.

You yelped and clung tighter.

Jason’s helmet knocked forward a bit. Scrape. Scrape.

“God—” He let out a breath like a volcano that needed therapy. “Almost there. Just hold on.”

You nodded against him, voice soft and a little dreamy: “I… I am grateful, kind knight.”

Jason’s eye twitched.

He gunned the throttle.

Y/N POV

The beast roared beneath you once more.

A snarl of metal and fury, of clattering chains and grinding rage — you held on to the leather-clad warrior before you as though your very soul would be cast into the void should you let go.

Which, truthfully, was not far from what this experience felt like.

You pressed your cheek closer to his back — which, thankfully, was broad and solid — though the strange, armored leather made for an unkind pillow. Still, the sheer terror you felt outweighed the discomfort. Your arms clung around his middle, your clawed fingers digging into his chest, gripping him as tightly as you could.

The scent of metal and smoke bit at your sensitive nose. Your tail wrapped around his leg, squeezing with each wild turn. You feared you would be flung from this terrible creature of speed and fire.

And your body — oh gods, your body— You were far from composed.

Your bosom, ample and heavy from your kind’s generous form, had flattened firmly to the man’s back as you pressed in closer and closer for safety, and still he gave no reaction, only grunted occasionally beneath that strange red helm.

It was not as though you noticed. Not truly. Your mind was far too occupied with not dying.

Your breath came in gasps, your eyes squeezed shut, and your legs had — at some point — latched fully to his sides.

“By the stars,” you whispered, “I shall never ride such a beast again…”

The man — Jason, you recalled — made a strange, tight sound in his throat, something between a growl and a sigh.

You whimpered as the beast beneath you jerked again and you pressed even harder to him, your fangs clenched, one of your claws clinging to the edge of a strap over his heart.

“Please, great warrior,” you choked out, “may this torment end swiftly…”

You felt him stiffen.

“...or I shall surely perish of dread and shattered dignity both.”

He muttered something incomprehensible over the roar of wind, and you dared to peek one eye (e/c) open. Metal towers blurred by in streaks of gray and shadow. You saw great glowing signs, strange glowing runes you could not read, and the flash of lights like lanterns possessed.

“What manner of realm is this…?” you thought to yourself.

Whatever sort of place you were thrown into it was clearly a place of chaos and strange machines.

And you had fallen straight into the arms — and now lap — of one of its brooding armored warriors.

You gritted your teeth and prayed silently to whatever druidic spirits might hear you:

Please let the metal beast stop soon. Please let my stomach stop twisting. And please do not let this human notice how scandalously I cling to him…

The world continued to blur.

Not through tears — though surely, you were not far from weeping — but from sheer speed. Buildings passed like wind-blown ghosts, their shapes warped by velocity. Light flared and faded in dizzying flashes, and the monstrous thing beneath you howled its fury across the city’s steel veins.

You were quite certain your soul had left your body at least twice already.

“By the antlers of the Elder Stag,” you whispered breathlessly, your voice lost to the roar of wind and machine, “by the moss-woven throne of the Forest Queen—if I survive this madness, I shall never step foot on another of these cursed wheeled demons.”

The man—Jason—said nothing, but you felt his chest shake slightly beneath your fingers. Laughter? Or perhaps just the tremors of the beast you both rode. You dared not open your eyes again. The last time you had, your vision had been filled with streaking lights and a metal box on wheels that nearly scraped you in passing. Your shriek had surely drawn the attention of all nearby spirits.

Jason—said nothing, but you felt his chest shake slightly beneath your fingers. Laughter? Or perhaps just the tremors of the beast you both rode. You dared not open your eyes again. The last time you had, your vision had been filled with streaking lights and a metal box on wheels that nearly scraped you in passing. Your shriek had surely drawn the attention of all nearby spirits.

Your claws digged into Jason's chest even deeper when a particularly hard tremor made the bike shake. You feared slicing through his strange armored leathers, yet you feared far more what would happen should you let go. 

You felt your heart lurch. You felt your horns scrape lightly against the back of his helm.

Again.

Gods help you, again.

“Crook!” Jason suddenly barked, clearly not to you. “If you peck my damn jacket one more time—!”

You blinked in confusion—your eyes still closed—then realized he was speaking to the pigeon.

Oh. Yes. Crook.

Somewhere in front of the warrior, the little bird must be making themself quite comfortable somehow.

Jason grumbled again.

“Stupid rat-with-wings… You got feathers in my damn visor. Know what I'm going to do, I'm gonna turn you into soup.”

You gasped. “He is only a humble creature of the sky!”

“Yeah? Well the humble creature of the sky just took a dump on my throttle hand!”

You would’ve laughed if you weren’t too busy contemplating death. As it stood, you merely let out a strained sound—half whimper, half broken prayer—and clung tighter to Jason's sides, your cheek pressed flat to his back, breathing in through your nose in shaky huffs.

It smelled like leather. oil. Sweat. And that sharp metallic tang of a strange smoke.

It was nothing like the pinewood groves or the clean air of the Everdeep Glades.

“Please,” you whispered, voice nearly lost to the rushing wind, “Oh gods of grove and stream, hear this frightened daughter of bark and star. I beg thee… still this beast of shrieking steel. Let me survive this trial, and I vow I shall kneel at every glade, plant a hundred trees, never mock the song of the wind again. I shall speak to no mushroom out of turn…”

Jason let out a sound—perhaps a grunt, perhaps a scoff—and shifted slightly beneath you. You took the movement as a terrible sign and braced harder.

“You know I can hear you, right?” he shouted over his shoulder, voice wry. “Mushrooms?”

You flushed, horror washing over you.

You had spoken aloud.

All of it.

Still clinging, you hissed through your clenched fangs, “You were not meant to hear my oaths! That was a sacred entreaty to the forces of nature!”

“Well tell the forces of nature,” Jason growled, swerving around something with expert precision, “that you’re squashing the circulation out of my ribs.”

You gasped and tried to loosen your grip. Immediately, the wind roared past your face harder, and you clamped down again.

Jason groaned. “Great. Back to koala mode.”

“I do not know what a ko-ah-la is,” you chattered, voice thin with panic, “but if it is a creature that clings in mortal terror to something it cannot understand, then yes. I am such a beast.”

Another irritated pigeon-squawk echoed faintly ahead, followed by Jason snapping, “Crook! I swear if you fucking shit on me again—!”

“I shall knit you a new tunic!” you cried over the wind, hoping to salvage peace between the man and bird. “One of woven vines and blessed moss!”

“Lady,” Jason shouted back, “unless it’s bulletproof, I don’t want it.”

You buried your face into his shoulder with a pitiful groan, your tail twitching as the monster-machine slowed.

At last—finally—the beast’s howl began to dim, the vibrations under you less violent.

You peeked.

You were descending into some dark alley, winding into a narrow corridor of stone and shadow, and the war-cries of the machine faded into a low purr.

Had you survived?

Had your prayers… been answered?

Jason eased the machine to a halt, boot touching the ground. You were still clinging like your life depended on it.

“We're here,” he said flatly.

You opened your eyes fully, blinking against the light of a distant flickering lantern.

“We… live?” you whispered in disbelief.

He snorted.

“Yeah. For now. You gonna let go, or you wanna stay glued to my spine the whole time?”

You felt it.

Air

Not the kind that rushed you and made you pray for safety.

 Real, unmoving, blessed calm air — met your lungs. You gasped it down like water in the desert, your face still pressed to the armored back of the warrior who had become your unwilling anchor through this torment. Your knees gave a final wobble of protest as you released him, and before you dismounted the infernal hell steed, you slowly reached behind your back with stiff, clawed fingers and pulled your staff from where it had been lashed.

It hummed softly with the spirit-bound power within its ancient grain.

"Be still now," you whispered to the runes carved into its bark. “Thy mistress hath endured a grave peril… but still she draws breath.”

The spirit within flickered faintly in agreement. You leaned the staff gently against the side of the great metal beast, which still hissed and pinged with residual heat, then slid down from the seat—

And collapsed.

Crook let out little coos as he continued to stay perched on the red beast. 

The ground met you with a solid thud, though your knees had buckled long before that. You slumped down in a tangle of robes and limbs, your chest rising and falling with ragged heaves.

Your horns ached from clacking against his helm. Your tail had cramped from coiling about his leg like a desperate vine in a storm. Your ears still rang from the wind’s screeching cry.

You were, to put it plainly… undone.

"Oh blessed Mother of the Moonlit Canopy…" you groaned as you pressed your forehead to the earth. "Oh Windfather… Root-Keeper… Flame-Watcher... or whate’er divine ears may hear me—thank thee. Truly. I swear it, never again shall I scoff at the rituals of spring. I shall sing every dusk-song. I shall bless each sprouting acorn. Just—just never again allow me upon such a cursed creature as that."

You heard a low scoff above you.

Then, flatly: “You done?”

You peeled open one eye. Jason stood beside the demon-borne steed — helmet still on, arms crossed, stance relaxed in that infuriating way of his. As though the tempest you’d barely survived was nothing but a midday stroll.

Still sprawled upon the cold earth, you breathed out slowly, then gave a weak nod.

"Aye," you rasped. "I believe... I believe the storm has passed."

“Good,” Jason muttered. “Because this is the part where normal people get up.”

With a grunt, you tried.

You truly did.

But the moment your knees unbent and your weight shifted to your legs… they refused.

Completely.

The exhaustion, the adrenaline, the sheer spiritual offense you’d endured from the beast beneath you had left your limbs as stiff as timber. Your clawed hands splayed against the concrete for balance. You let out a whimper as you trembled, ears beginning to droop.

Jason watched.

“…Are you serious right now?” he asked, somewhere between exasperated and tired.

You cringed and bowed your head.

“I… I beg thy pardon,” you murmured. “Mine legs… betray me. It seems the fear hath rooted itself deeper than I knew.”

He let out a groan and dragged a hand down the front of his visor.

Crook, still perched on the handlebars of the beast, gave a self-satisfied coo.

Jason ignored him.

“You’re telling me you survived flying over Gotham’s skyline, clinging to me like a backpack, while the feathered menace, molested my visor and shit all over… and now you can’t walk?”

“…That is an accurate summation, aye,” you said, mortified. “I—I am grievously sorry for the trouble, sir knight.”

You flinched again as Jason sighed deeply. For a moment, he was quiet.

And then — with startling suddenness — you felt arms beneath you.

Strong ones.

Firm and sure, sliding beneath your knees and shoulders in a single smooth motion.

You gasped as your body left the ground, weightless once more — though this time not from a flying beast, but from Jason himself.

You startled, blinking up at him as your body curled instinctively into his hold. Your tail gave a twitch but did not grip. Your ears twitched as you tried not to stare. You had never been carried like this before — not even in your youth, when your people saw such displays as indulgent. Yet now…

Now, this mortal warrior of leather and metal cradled you with ease.

“You were never gonna make it up the stairs,” he muttered, his voice low and irritated, though there was no heat behind it. “You weigh less than my gear bag, anyway.”

You were certain your face flushed violet.

“I—I assure thee, I am stronger than I appear. I am simply… momentarily undone.”

He was already walking toward what you assumed was a stairwell carved into the building beside them. The alley was dark, the air heavy with the stink of rain-soaked stone and faint city oil. Yet in his arms, the shadows seemed… less cold.

“Yeah,” Jason said dryly. “Undone. That’s the word for it.”

You pressed your hands awkwardly to your chest, trying to steady your hammering heart.

“I am deeply shamed to burden thee thus. I… I did not mean to become so feeble.”

Jason’s grip shifted slightly as he adjusted your weight, making the climb up the stairs without strain.

“Relax. Not like you’re the weirdest thing I’ve ever carried.”

You blinked. “I beg thy pardon?”

“Had to haul Killer Croc’s tail outta the East End once. You? You’re a pillow compared to that.”

“…Who is this Killer of Crocs?” you asked, eyes wide. “Did he offend thee with his garments?”

Jason gave a soft snort of laughter.

“Something like that.”

You, dizzy and flushed from warmth, fear, and shame, dared to rest your head gently against his chest.

“I vow,” you whispered softly, “that when my strength returns… I shall craft for thee the most sacred of salves and soothing balms. No hero who bears a wounded soul should go unblessed.”

Jason said nothing for a moment.

Then, with a shrug: “Sure. Just don’t put mushrooms in it.”

You give the red helmed man a gentle smile. 

Jason walks a few moments getting farther and farther from the damp and dark alley and with a small amount of effort you lifted your head, your eyes — slitted and luminous in the darkness — settling once more upon the gleaming frame of the metal beast where it rested, exhaling heat and menace like some demon stabled for the night.

And near it your staff. The gem glowing faintly as it rests upon the floor.

“Oh—!” you breathed, ears flicking upright. “Wait, kind sir—my staff! I—I left it by the cursed beast!”

Jason paused mid-step, his boot resting on the first of the alley's winding steel stairs, forged more for utility than grace. He turned his head just enough to glance over his shoulder at the monstrous machine behind you both, and loosed a tired exhale.

“I’ll grab it when I come back down,” he said. “Right now, you and I need to get out of the streets.”

Your ears flattened with shame, and you gave a small, embarrassed nod.

“I… aye. I trust in thy word. Forgive me. The staff is precious to me — carved from the limb of a mother-tree in the Glen of Thisteldown, blessed by moonlight and the winds of home. But I shall leave it to thy safekeeping.”

Jason blinked once beneath his helmet, probably having understood only two of those words, then gave a grunt of reluctant acknowledgment.

“Yeah. Glen of Glitter-what-the-hell. Got it.”

And with that, the climb began.

The stairwell was narrow and of cold, rusted iron, bolted into the side of the brick building like a forgotten fire escape. The metal creaked faintly beneath his boots, but his steps were steady, practiced. You watched the ground fall further and further below, the misted alley swallowed by the night air and the thick shadows of surrounding rooftops. From up here, Gotham sprawled like a slumbering beast — glittering eyes of streetlamps blinking through a haze of fog, veins of neon and car lights tracing its snaking roads.

Crook, ever brazen, flapped overhead and landed halfway up the stairwell, perched on the rails as if to mock your earlier terror. He gave a smug little flutter of feathers and let out a warbled coo, puffing his chest like a conquering king.

Jason muttered, “Yeah yeah, you’re so brave.”

Jason looks at your face for a moment before speaking once more. 

“Then again Crook wasn’t clinging to me and praying to mushrooms.”

You flushed and narrowed your eyes.

“I was not ‘praying’ to mushrooms, I merely prayed for safety to the spirits and deities of nature.”

“Uh-huh,” Jason said dryly, adjusting his grip on you without even breaking stride. “Sounded more like a whole lot like screaming and horn-bonking to me.”

“I wailed in accordance with ancient custom!” you said, indignant despite yourself. “To cry out is to honor the ancestors in times of dire peril!”

“You’re welcome, then. I gave ‘em a concert.”

You huffed and turned your face toward his chest to hide the heat prickling your cheeks. The slow climb continued, a winding spiral up the backside of the building.

Wind brushed your cheeks the higher you went, tugging at your hair and sweeping the lingering scent of oil and fire from your robes. The air carried hints of distant rain, of wet stone and ozone, of flowers in some unseen window box, wilting in the Gotham night.

Jason moved as though he’d done this a thousand times, unbothered by your weight or the climb. The rise of his chest was steady. His arms remained strong beneath you. His presence — though gruff, sharp-edged — had grown oddly comforting.

Finally, you reached the top of the stairs.

Jason moves quickly, briefly stopping before a narrow iron balcony, barricaded by a tall rusted gate with a flickering motion sensor light above it. He gave the gate a kick, and it creaked open with a groan.

The balcony was long and narrow, affixed to the top floor of the building like a crow’s perch. Beneath you, Gotham’s rooftops stretched in patchwork formation, antennas and chimney stacks dotting the skyline. The chill air brushed against your skin, tugging your robes about you like phantom fingers.

Jason walked to the glass door at the far end of the balcony, reached one hand out without setting you down, and punched a short code into a security panel. A soft beep answered, followed by the metallic click of a lock disengaging. He slid the door open.

Warm, amber light spilled out like a sigh.

And then — with one quiet step — you were inside his home.

The change was immediate. Gone was the damp, flickering chaos of the alleyways below. Gone is the oppressive hum of the metal beast, the scent of burning oil and storm-wet concrete. Here, within this oddly still apartment, was a strange peace.

You blinked rapidly, eyes adjusting.

The space was open and lived-in, minimalist yet cluttered in curious ways. The walls were dark, exposed brick, partially covered by shelves of books, loose gear, and other foreign objects you have no name for.

This was a home built for one who never stayed long.

Crook flapped past and landed with a smug thud on a lampshade near the couch, ruffling his feathers proudly.

You, still cradled in Jason’s arms, stared wide-eyed at it all.

"This… this is thy dwelling?” you breathed, voice hushed.

Jason closed the balcony door with his foot and finally looked down at you properly, his helmet now casting only half his face in shadow.

“For now,” he said simply. “It’s nothing fancy but it's something at least.”

Jason stared at you fora beat longer. Then he stepped toward the couch, crouched, and gently set you down.

You sank into the cushions with a soft gasp, body still weak and limbs trembling from your ordeal, but grateful beyond words to be resting upon something soft — something real.

You looked up at him, blinking.

“…You have my thanks.”

He gave a grunt and stood back up.

“I’ll go grab your stick.”

“Staff,” you corrected faintly, already curling into the throw blanket Crook had now commandeered.

“Whatever.”

And with that, Jason was gone again — back down the endless stair to retrieve the sacred relic of your people… and perhaps steal one last glance at the infernal beast he had, against all odds, managed to tame.

Jason Todd POV 

Jason grunted as he took the first step back down the stairwell, boots heavy on the steel steps that creaked louder than they had any right to. The sound echoed in the alley below, like Gotham itself was mocking him. He adjusted his jacket, muttering under his breath.

"This night is goddamn cursed."

He pinched the bridge of his nose under his helmet. “Should’ve just gone to the manor like Alfred asked. At least then I’d only be dealing with Bruce’s passive-aggressive silence and not—whatever the fuck this is.”

Jason groaned, scowling at his own words. “Don’t be that guy, Todd. She’s injured.... Might not even be into humans.”

Finally at the last step and rounding the corner and stepping into the alley where his bike rested, he finally spotted her staff — still leaning against the side like some eldritch relic from a fantasy epic. Jason came to a slow stop, tilting his helmeted head as he stared at it.

The thing looked like it had been pried straight from the hands of a forest god who’d spent too much time hanging out with Tim Burton. Vines coiled along the dark wood like veins, shimmering faintly even in the dim alley light. Thorny growths twisted around the upper half, forming jagged loops and open floral carvings. A giant green crystal — at least, he hoped was a crystal — pulsed faintly as it was warped by limbs of the bark, embedded like bruised stars in bark. 

Jason gave it a slow blink. “...The hell am I looking at?”

Jason cautiously reached out and picked the staff up. It was surprisingly light, yet warm to the touch — like it had its own damn heartbeat. The moment his fingers curled around the carved shaft, the vinework twitched. Actually twitched. A leaf slowly unfurled like it was greeting him.

“Nope. Nope.” Jason pulled it back like it might bite him. “Okay. This thing’s alive. Great. Of course it is.”

He tilted it side to side, examining it closer. One side looked like the handle of a wizard’s cane. The other looked like it could summon birds, devour souls, or maybe open a juice bar in the Feywild. It was a cursed tree branch. It was a nature priest’s murder stick. It was... it was...

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “It’s like Gandalf and Poison Ivy had a baby. And that baby dropped acid.”

A spark of red flickered near the top, and Jason instinctively recoiled.

He pointed at it. “You do anything weird in my apartment, you’re going in the dumpster, you hear me?”

The staff didn’t respond.

Of course it didn’t.

It was a stick.

Sort of.

He twirled it slightly, testing its balance. “Light. Flexible. Could probably beat the shit out of someone with it. Guess that’s a plus.”

With a final glance down the alley to make sure he wasn’t being watched by any more falling druids, Jason sighed and turned back toward the building. The weight of the staff felt unnatural on his back as he secured it beside his gear. He could practically feel the thing pulsing against him — like a plant that really, really wanted to be friends. Or maybe invade his bloodstream.

This was fine. Everything was fine.

He trudged back up the stairs, muttering the whole way.

“I’ve got a pigeon with an attitude problem, a blue girl who speaks like she’s been summoned from a damn Renaissance fair, and a sentient stick that probably judges my Spotify playlist. I hate tonight. I hate tonight.”

The wind picked up as he reached the balcony again, brushing through the crimson tufts on his helmet. Crook — that little traitorous bird — was nestled comfortably on the druid girl’s shoulder, chirping like he owned the place.

Jason scowled. “Great. You made yourself at home.”

Crook gave a low, unimpressed coo and turned his back.

Jason held up the staff. “You forgot your overgrown toothpick.”

The Tiefling girl blinked slowly, eyes wide with relief and something close to reverence. She held out a hand for the staff like it was a long-lost lover returning from war.

He grunted and handed it over. “There. Now try not to pass out.”

The staff purred when it touched her fingers.

Jason took a step back.

“I need a drink.”

Y/N POV

Jason then sighed heavily as he turned toward the adjoining space he had named “the kitchen.”

You knew not what a “kitchen” truly entailed, but you supposed it to be some sort of alchemical chamber, where concoctions of this realm were brewed with heat and fire rather than mortar and pestle.

 He grumbled something beneath his breath as he departed, boots echoing faintly across the wooden floors.

You, meanwhile, remained sunk into the plush, uncomfortably soft contraption he’d called a “couch.” You had finally relinquished your stubborn clutch of his cloak, and now leaned against the backrest with a panting sigh, your ribs aching beneath your bindings and your legs trembling as though they had never known solid ground.

This world, this maddening realm of steel towers and roaring beasts, had tested you in ways your world never had.

Yet despite all the strangeness and exhaustion, your heart lifted as your (e/c) gaze found it—your staff.

Jason had, true to his word, retrieved it.

It now stood propped neatly against the side of the couch, precisely where he had placed it with a rough sort of care.

A small smile tugged at your lips—though your fangs ached from clenching them earlier—and your heart gave a steady thrum as you beheld it once more.

Ancient wood, dark and smoothed by what seemed like centuries of your touch, curled upward toward its crown. The roots, gnarled and twisted as if frozen mid-reach, formed a cage about a singular green gem—the heart of your staff.

The stone glimmered softly, pulsing in perfect synchrony with your breath, as though sensing your relief at its return. Magic lived in that rhythm—ancient, wild, and ineffably yours.

“My friend,” you murmured, reaching out with aching fingers to brush along the haft. The moment your fingertips grazed the bark, a wave of calm passed through you. A spark of primal recognition surged between the staff and your skin, and the pain in your bones quieted.

From your shoulder, Crook shifted his tiny talons and gave a pleased coo before leaping from your perch. His small wings fluttered as he alighted upon the staff’s roots. He gave an inquisitive chirrup, head tilting, then bent to tap his beak against the glowing gem.

“Tread gently, dear Crook,” you said, your voice still hoarse from pain but tinged now with fondness. “It is bound to me, however it’s power may yet startle thee.”

Crook puffed up his feathers indignantly, as if affronted by the suggestion he might be startled by anything. “I was just chekin it out doll,” he replied with an exaggerated fluff, his voice a soft whistle in your mind. “It’s hummin... Like a bee or somethin.. Is that normal.”

You chuckled, breath catching slightly at the motion, and placed a hand gently over your middle. “Aye. it sings again, now that it hath returned to my side.”

Crook nudged the gem again with more care this time, then nestled himself right atop the curl of roots as though it were his rightful perch. You watched him fondly, his head turning this way and that, tail feathers twitching. The tiny avian was curious to a fault, and you had grown used to his commentary.

“Gotta say, this nest is weird,” Crook commented. “Everything smells... stale, and burned.”

“‘Tis likely due to the fire-wrought lanterns,” you murmured. “The light here burns without wick nor flame. I know not how the mortals of this land have managed such feats, but they are resourceful—if mad.”

Crook let out a soft, amused warble, his beak clicking against the wood. “So... we stayin here with the Mr tin head?”

You sighed, allowing your head to tilt back against the couch. “Mayhap. At least for the eve. I am too battered to change mine own shape once more and too weak to walk the wilds of this city. For now, we will graciously accept his hospitality .”

Crook fluffed himself proudly. “ He's got issues... But I like his threads. Shiny. Reflects the sky… Still the dude seems weird.”

You smiled, eyes drifting closed for a moment. “Aye. He is as strange as he is grim... but he did not strike the final blow when he could have. I owe him that much.”

The staff pulsed again, a slow, warm thrum beneath the green gem. You reached out and rested your hand upon it again, allowing the rhythm to calm your soul. The ache in your limbs dulled slightly, and you felt magic begin to hum low in your bones—just a trickle, but enough to ease your breathing and lift the fog behind your eyes.

“I pray this sanctuary is true,” you whispered to the staff, to the gem, to the unseen spirits who had guided you across realms. “Let me rest without blade or fire at my throat.”

Crook let out a quiet coo, and you opened your eyes to see him nestled now entirely between the curling roots, his wings half-draped over the gem protectively. The green glow bathed his feathers in an emerald sheen.

Jason’s voice echoed distantly from the kitchen—a curse, a clang of metal, and what sounded like a loud gulp. You suspected he was consuming one of the realm’s strange elixirs—perhaps from that cold, humming box.

Your ears twitch as you hear movements and you turn your face toward the sound. 

Jason. 

His presence, dense and simmering like the calm before a summer storm. The air shifted as the man entered, and with him came a strange blend of scents: metal, bitter herbs, something sterile and alchemical, and a faint trace of leather and smoke.

 You blinked, your weary eyes adjusting to the low lighting, as he walked toward you, a small white box cradled in his gloved hands. Crook gave a suspicious squawk from where he perched atop your staff, still pecking absently at the glowing green gem.

Jason sank down beside you onto the wide, worn couch, his movements surprisingly gentle for a man who exuded danger like a second skin. He set the box upon his lap and began to unlatch it with quick, practiced fingers. You tilted your head as you peered at it, nostrils flaring as your keen senses caught the odd smells wafting from within.

“What is that?” you asked softly, voice still slightly hoarse from the pain and exertion of the evening. “It reeks of… potionless alchemy and strange salves.”

“It’s a first-aid kit,” Jason replied without looking up. His tone was dry but not unkind. “It’s got stuff for patching people up. Antibiotic ointment, gauze, antiseptics.”

Your brows knit. “Anti... biotic? That sounds as though it wars against life itself.”

“Close enough,” he muttered, pulling out a small bottle and a roll of bandages.

And then, for the first time, your eyes beheld his face.

Gone was the red helm, the hardened mask he wore into battle. In its place was a man.

And gods above, what a man.

You found yourself staring. Truly staring.

His skin was the shade of warm alabaster kissed faintly by sun—pale, but not sickly. Upon his brow and just between his dark brows rested a faint scar, like a mark from a story you’d never heard. His jawline was sharp, as though carved from fine obsidian, and his cheekbones were high and regal. But it was his hair that first captured your attention—a mane of black as rich as raven feathers, falling in waves about his face, disheveled from the removal of his helm. And amidst all that darkness, a single bold streak of white—strange and enchanting—fell forward onto his brow.

It was the stuff of legend.

But nothing could compare to his eyes.

Green. Not the gentle green of springtime moss nor the playful gleam of forest light through the canopy—but sharp and vivid, like emeralds forged in flame. Those eyes stared down at the contents of the box, focused and unaware of the effect they were having upon you.

Your heart fluttered against your ribs.

You hadn’t even realized your hand had moved until it touched him.

Your claws—dulled, though still curved elegantly at your fingertips—curled ever so slightly against the line of his jaw. Your other hand rose, cupping his cheek as though sculpted by instinct alone. His skin was warm beneath your touch.

Jason froze.

Those brilliant eyes flicked to yours, startled.

You gasped softly, your cheeks heating in shame, but you could not pull away just yet. You studied the lines of his face, your breath catching as you whispered:

“…Thou art… beautiful.”

There was a beat of silence. Crook made a surprised little noise, something between a squawk and a strange burp.

Jason blinked.

Your clawed fingers—careful, reverent—were pressed against the sharp angles of his jaw, your thumbs brushing over the high plane of his cheekbones, as if you could memorize his face by touch alone. His skin was warm beneath your hands, it looked as though it was kissed by battle and Gotham grime, yet somehow still beautiful in a way you did not understand. You tilted his face gently, peering up at the streak of white hair that fell like a rebellious banner across his brow.

“By the stars,” you murmured breathlessly, “I had not realized mortals in this realm could be wrought with such artistry.”

His eyebrows twitched upward, and for a moment Jason looked genuinely bewildered. Then his lip curled, the smirk slow and sardonic. “Is this how you greet everyone from where you’re from?” he asked, voice low and rough from the ride. “Grabbing their face and ogling them like a statue in a museum?”

You blinked, reality returning all at once. Your hands shot away from his face like you’d touched a coal. “Oh! I—pray forgive mine overfamiliarity!” you said, ears drooping in shame. “I did not mean to transgress thy person. I was… thou art… exceedingly comely, and I was momentarily bewitched.”

Jason laughed. Not a harsh one, but low and genuinely amused, the sound rasping from his chest like gravel shifting underfoot.

“‘Bewitched,’ huh?” He shook his head, bemused. “You’re a weird one.”

“I am a Tiefling,” you replied earnestly, “we are oft called worse.”

He only gave a faint snort at that, opening the small white box—some strange Gothamian contraption—and pulling out unfamiliar tools and vials. The scent from within was sharp and alien. Astringent.

Your nose crinkled slightly, head drawing back from the bitterness of it.

“What is that?” you asked, eyes narrowing warily. “It doth smell like the bile of a wyvern…”

“It’s just the antiseptic,” he said, already pulling a piece of cloth from the box and soaking it. “Disinfectant. Gonna clean you up a bit. You’ve still got blood dried along your side.”

You gave a small nod and leaned back against the couch cushions, your staff still propped up, Crook, who had been watching intently from atop it, pecked the green gem gently and squawked.

“You touchin’ the pretty boy now, huh?” the pigeon snickered. “He's one’s got a nice face, I’ll give ya that. Can’t blame ya.”

You eye the pigeon on your staff. 

“Crook the way of your tongue is very strange.” 

Crook let out a soft coo as his thoughts flood yours. “Born and raised in Gotham, baby,” Crook replied with a puff of his feathers. “We all talk too much. Even the rats curse you out when you step too close.”

You giggled softly, the first sign of ease in your expression since you had arrived. But the moment of lightness passed as Jason lifted the hem of your tattered robe to examine the deep bruise blooming along your side.

His brow furrowed.

“This the worst of it?” he asked.

“Aye,” you said, voice quieter now. “Before the portal opened one of the thieves struck me with their dagger, luckily I did not detect any poison or fowl magic or enchantment from the blade."

Your voice held a hit of exhaustion as you recall the events that took place to your current predicament. " As you bore witness, I used what magic remained in me to stem the bleeding and soothe the pain. Come the morrow, I shall be mended fully.”

Jason’s eyes flicked to yours. “Your magic can.. Do that ?”

“I am a druid,” you said, lifting your chin slightly with pride. “Though my powers are diminished slightly with my wounds, my bond with the earth and it's rhythms remains.”

Jason let out a slow breath and began to dab gently at the drying blood on your side. “Well… Not the strangest thing as far as Gotham goes.”

“Truly?”

“Nope.” Jason was quiet for a moment, his fingers surprisingly gentle as he cleaned the wound.

You watched him through half-lidded eyes. “Forgive me for asking but… dost thou always carry such items in thine home?” You nodded to the med kit. “Art thou a healer of some sort?”

Jason scoffed. “Not even close. Just… been in enough fights to know what to have on hand.”

Crook flapped his wings briefly and muttered in your mind, “By the way broddy acts, thats an understatement of the year.”

You looked at the strange little box with a thoughtful hum. “Mayhap I should replenish my satchel… If I am to endure more of these Gothamian perils.”

Jason arched an eyebrow. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

Your tail flicks behind you as you reply to him.

“I shall endeavor to stay out of harm’s path,” you replied solemnly. “Though harm seems determined to find me regardless.”

Jason didn’t argue with that. His eyes flicked to your face again—drawn, tired, but still with that glowing, otherworldly edge. He cleared his throat, recapping the bottle of antiseptic and tossing the bloody cloth into the small plastic bin inside the kit.

“You’ll be alright,” he said. “Just… don’t go passing out.”

“I make no promises,” you said wryly. “Your strange realm yet turns my stomach and rends my senses. ‘Tis like being struck repeatedly with invisible hammers.”

Jason gave a snort of something between sympathy and amusement.

“I’ll be back. Stay there.”

You nodded. “I am not keen to rise again anyway.”

As he stood and walked toward the hall, Crook fluffed himself up on your staff and muttered, “You gonna kiss him next time?”

Your cheeks flushed violet. “Silence, Crook!”

“I’m just sayin Doll... You gotta admit, 'Thou are beautiful' sounds like a kiss watin to happen.” the bird chuckled as he mimics your words you said mere moments ago.

You buried your face in your hands and groaned.

Jason Todd POV

He let out a deep breath, the kind that dragged from somewhere behind his ribs and took a bit of the weight of the night with it. His boots padded softly across the hardwood floor as he made his way down the hall. 

He had no idea what time it was anymore—late, obviously. Gotham always felt timeless when the sky was black and the buildings swallowed up the moonlight. Just another absurd chapter in his already fucked-up book of a life: a wounded, blue-skinned tiefling druid now recovering on his couch... and a damn pigeon that wouldn’t stop staring at him.

He stopped by the linen closet first, yanking it open with practiced impatience. The overhead light buzzed faintly. He grabbed the softest throw blanket he could find—gray, thick, freshly washed—and then hesitated. 

The gown she wore looked like it had seen better days, and now that he thought about it, if she was going to be sleeping in his home, maybe she needed something a little less… ceremonial and “goddess emerging from a sexy fantasy game” and more “I won’t catch a chill in this freezing apartment.”

With another sigh, he veered off into his bedroom. It took him all of five seconds to root through the top drawer and pull out one of his smallest black shirts—well, small for him. Soft, a little faded, but still in decent shape. Would probably hang off her like a dress, considering his the height difference and… her more dramatic curves.

He glanced toward the mirror above the dresser and grimaced. Bloodstains dotted his Red Hood armor in a Jackson Pollock nightmare. His gloves were still smudged. His arms are sore. His entire torso felt like one tight knot. Without ceremony, he peeled off the armored suit piece by piece, grimacing as bruises announced themselves in livid colors. 

He shoved the pieces into the closet, shut the door, and grabbed a plain pair of black sweats and a tank top. He tugged them on quickly and rubbed a hand through his mess of black hair.

His single white streak fell forward over his brow. He debated cutting it off every few weeks. 

Never did.

Blanket in one arm, shirt draped over his shoulder, Jason left the room and padded quietly down the hall. The apartment was quiet now. Unnervingly so. A few clicks from the kitchen—probably that damn bird again. His Glock was still in reach if it tried anything funny.

He stepped back into the living room, adjusting the bundle in his arms—and nearly dropped the whole damn thing.

There she was, exactly where he’d left her on the couch… and yet, not. Her cloak had been removed and was folded neatly to the side, revealing the full shape of her figure beneath that silky, enchanted but slightly torn gown.

The light caught on the sheen of it— silk clinging to her in all the places that made heat crawl up the back of his neck.

Her chest, full and high, was barely contained by the neckline of the gown, her posture unbothered by the obvious reveal. Her tail flicked lazily off the edge of the couch like it had its own set of opinions about everything in the room.

Her horns gleamed in the warm light, her indigo skin shadowed beautifully in dips and planes. She looked like something carved out of a myth. A creature meant for stars and being worshipped like a god, not his dingy ass apartment in Gotham.

Jason coughed into his fist and forced his feet to move again.

She looked up, her bright eyes glowing faintly in the low light. Her expression was soft, a little tired, still clearly in pain—but she smiled when she saw him.

“Sir Jason” She called out cheerily. 

He tried not to look directly at her chest as he spoke. “Brought you a shirt,” he said, holding it out like it might bite him. “Thought maybe you’d want something less… uh, ancient temple chic.”

She blinked at it, gently taking the offering in clawed hands, turning it over curiously. “’Tis… not a tunic?” she asked, lifting it like it was some strange fabric riddle. “Soft… but strange of cut.”

“It’s just a shirt. You can wear it to sleep or whatever. It’ll be long on you, but… yeah.”

She nodded solemnly and folded it over her arm like it was sacred. “I shall treasure it.”

God, he hoped she didn’t mean that literally. It was just cotton. Like, Target clearance bin level stuff.

Jason rubbed the back of his neck. “I, uh… I’ll give you a minute if you wanna change.”

Crook the pigeon fluttered down from the staff she had leaned against the couch and landed squarely on the armrest beside her.

The Bird seemed to give him a look and if the little rat-with-wings had eyebrows they would be going up and down almost as if to say, ‘You gonna watch’.

Jason narrowed his eyes at the bird. “I’m leaving.” He turned and walked toward the kitchen again, letting Y/N have the space. 

In a few short strides he makes it into the kitchen where he grabs himself a bottle of water from the fridge. Once Jason does he moves to the sink and lets his head thunk softly against the cabinet door.

“She’s gonna be the death of me,” he muttered.

From the living room, he heard her soft voice: “Sir Jason?”

“Yeah?”

“I believe… I have successfully don’d the cotton tunic of thine people.”

Jason shakes his head and sighs and takes a slow sip of the water. 

He puts the water down and when he turns he nearly spits the water out of his mouth at the sight of you. 

He did not expect to see that.

You were perched on his couch once more, legs tucked underneath you like some mystical creature out of a fever dream, your long tail lazily flicking across the cushion. That wasn’t the part that threw him—he was getting slightly used to the horns, tail, blue skin, and claws and fangs (barely).

 No, it was the fact that you were now wearing his shirt. The smallest one he could find. And somehow, it still swallowed you.

The shoulders of the black T-shirt had slipped halfway down your arms, exposing a scandalous amount of collarbone, and—Jason dragged his eyes away—the generous curve of your cleavage where the shirt hung low. 

The hem nearly reaching your knees, but the way it clung to your body, the fabric pulled slightly over your hips from how you sat—hell, he felt like he’d walked onto the cover shoot of some medieval fantasy pin-up calendar.

He cleared his throat—sharply—and made a beeline for the coffee table, tossing the folded blanket onto it. “Alright, Sleeping Beauty,” he muttered, avoiding your eyes. “You look like you’re about to pass out. Time for bed.”

You tilted your head at him, blinking slowly, a soft yawn escaping you as you rubbed your eyes. “Bed…?” you echoed sleepily.

Jason nodded. “Yep... Your taking my room, it's just down the hall, You need real rest and couch of yours truly sucks.”

"Plus Alfred would have my head if he found out I made an injured person sleep on the couch… Especially if they are a lady." Jason thinks to himself and shivers as he pictures the glare of the Wayne family butler.

Your voice no longer holding sleep spoke in a surprised tone. “Thou wouldst have me sleep within thy chamber?”

"That's what I said." Jason answers as he crosses his arms across his chest.

The light shines off your horns as you gently shake your head.

“Nay… I could not ask thee to forfeit thine own resting place upon mine account. I shall sleep here.”

Jason paused.

Counted to three.

Then spoke.

“I’m sorry but you seem to be confused here. I’m not asking. I’m telling you. Couch. Sucks. You’re not sleeping on it, end of story.”

You straightened, blinking at him. “But thou hast suffered a great many wounds to thine own pride and body this eve. Surely—”

“I’ve had worse,” Jason cut in, throwing up a hand. “And I’ve crashed on worse. I slept on a concrete slab in a warehouse in Jakarta once. This? This is fine.”

Your eyes narrowed, indignant. “If thou thinkest me some fragile blossom to be coddled—”

“Oh my god,” Jason muttered, running a hand down his face. “It’s not about coddling—it’s about logic. You’re the one who got yeeted by a portal and landed on me bleeding to death.”

“Yeeted?” you asked, brow furrowed.

He saw you blink in total confusion while the rat-with-wings bird gave a look like he was watching a soap opera.

Jason set his jaw. “Point is—you’re the one with magic rib bruises. You need a bed.”

You stood up—well, rose gracefully like some kind of moon priestess with zero concept of personal space—and crossed the room to face him. Even in his too-big shirt, you moved like a noble about to duel a prince. Your chin lifted, (e/c) eyes silted and glowing slightly, tail whipping in agitation behind you, and blue skin glowing under the hallway light.

“Then let us barter, o armored one,” you declared, hands folded before you. “I propose we share the bed. Surely it must be large enough—”

Jason made a sound so offended it could’ve passed for a dying animal. “Absolutely not.”

You stepped closer, now toe-to-toe with him. Jason refused to look down. Refused to notice the way your shirt had shifted again. Refused to acknowledge the internal screaming happening in his frontal lobe.

“I insist,” you said firmly, tail flicking. “This is thy abode. I am but a guest, lost and stranded within thine realm. I could not usurp thine comfort.”

Jason threw his arms up. “It’s not usurping!” he cried, and for a moment he truly felt like he was losing a court trial. “It’s called being a decent person! You’re hurt, I’m not! You take the bed!”

“Then let me repay thy kindness by allowing me the couch.”

“That’s not happ—”

“Then once more I offer the previous proposition!”

Jason groaned and gestured at the hallway. “Go. To. Bed.”

You folded your arms across your chest, and Jason had to literally look away because your cleavage was now center stage and demanding full attention. “Nay,” you said, chin lifted defiantly.

“Nay?” Jason echoed, baffled. “Did you seriously just ‘nay’ me?”

“I did, indeed.”

He glared.

Your (e/c) silted eyes glared back.

The silence stretched.

Jason Todd POV-Current Location (Bedroom)

Jason lay rigid on one side of the bed, facing the wall like it owed him money. His arms were crossed. His jaw was locked. Every muscle in his body was pulled tighter than his last set of batarangs. And behind him, with your back also pointed stubbornly toward his, you were a warm, silent presence that made him want to scream into his pillow.

He regretted every choice in his life that led to this moment.

The bed wasn’t small, exactly. It was a decent queen. But the woman beside him was not a small person. Between your curvy figure, the way you radiated a surprising amount of heat for someone with blue skin, and your enormous cloud of (h/c) curls sprawled across half the pillow, Jason felt like he was trapped in some magical hostage situation.

And your tail.

That was the real enemy.

Every few minutes, it would move. Subtle. Innocent. A little flick across his lower back. A soft twitch brushing his leg. Once, it curled near his thigh and Jason nearly levitated off the mattress.

He gritted his teeth. “...you’re doing that on purpose,” he muttered under his breath.

From behind him, your voice floated softly through the dark. “I do naught but rest. If my tail offends, take it up with the gods who made me thus.”

Jason’s eye twitched.

He glanced toward the nightstand. Crook was there, already asleep, head tucked under one wing, looking like the world’s most judgmental paperweight.

“Little bastard.” Jason grumbled.

You sighed, a soft, weary sound. “I do not comprehend how a mattress so grand may still feel as though it is carved of stone.”

Jason scoffed. “That’s probably just your ribs. You hit the roof like a wrecking ball.”

“And yet thou art the one who curses and fidgets like a man atop nails.”

“I’m not fidgeting,” Jason hissed. “You keep whipping me with your tail.”

“My tail is not under my control whilst I dream,” you huffed. “Blame thine proximity.”

Jason turned his head slightly—just enough to glare into the darkness. “Maybe if someone had let me take the couch like a reasonable person—”

“Silence you stubborn fool of a man and sleep.” you shot back primly.

Jason groaned and flopped onto his back, staring up at the ceiling like it held answers.

And that was when your tail—traitorous, smug little thing—drifted again. Light as a whisper, it brushed against his side. His ribs jerked in surprise.

“Seriously?!” he hissed.

A long pause.

Then a sleepy murmur from your side. “Perchance the tail likes thee. It acts of its own will, oft led by instinct…”

Jason blinked at the ceiling, his face burning. “You’re telling me your tail has a mind of its own?”

You gave a drowsy hum. “Aye. Much like thine own pride, methinks…”

He glared into the dark again. “Was that an insult?”

“I am far too tired to insult thee properly,” you mumbled.

There was another silence.

Jason slowly turned his head again. You were still facing the opposite way, your back a soft silhouette against the moonlight spilling through the window. Despite everything, despite the bruises and the chaos, you looked… calm. Peaceful, almost.

The warmth of you beside him—your strange scent like moss and moonlight, the way your body curved softly beneath his shirt—it was doing things to his brain.

Jason groaned and rolled back toward the wall. “I’m never going to sleep,” he muttered.

From behind him: “Then perhaps I shall cast a spell of slumber upon thee.”

Jason chuckled softly. “Is that a real thing?”

“‘Tis possible,” you said vaguely, already halfway to dreamland.

Jason sighed. 

The room quiet again.

Your tail had stilled.

Your breathing had deepened. 

His body had started to relax, if only a little. The bed was warm, smelled like pine and woodsmoke and that soft, mossy scent that clung to you. There were still bandages taped under your borrowed shirt, and he could feel the rise and fall of your breath every so often from beside him.

But he wasn’t quite ready to close his eyes yet. Not with you here. Not with a literal horned druid lying in his bed, perfectly calm, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“…Hey,” he murmured quietly, not turning his head.

A pause, then your voice drifted up behind him, husky with the edge of sleep. “Mm?”

“How is it…” He hesitated. “How’s it comfortable? Sleeping. With horns.”

Another pause.

Then you exhaled slowly, voice soft and matter-of-fact.

“Mayhap thou shouldst ask thyself how it is comfortable to sleep without them.”

Jason blinked.

You continued, faintly amused, “For thee, ‘tis strange. For me, it is all I have ever known. I was born thus. Grew with them. Lived beside them, atop them, beneath them. Mine horns are of me—as thine skull is to thee.”

Jason stared at the ceiling, lips twitching slightly. “…Fair point.”

“‘Tis no great mystery,” you added. “My kind rest easy in such forms. We do not jab ourselves with our own heads in the night.”

Jason tried not to chuckle. “Didn’t say you did.”

“Mmm.”

He closed his eyes finally, nestling a bit deeper into the pillow, feeling the warmth of you behind him again.

Silence stretched. A peaceful one.

Until another thought nagged at him.

“…Okay but—” he turned his head just slightly, voice thick with near-sleep, “how the hell did you get that shirt over your head?”

Behind him, a quiet beat.

Then:

“…Sleep now, mortal.”

Jason smirked into his pillow.

“Right.”

A soft flick of your tail brushed his calf.

He let out a long breath… and finally, finally let himself drift.