#pt4

Jason was knelt on the floor of the main room, a mountain of his own dark, practical gear sorted into two distinct piles. The system was simple, honed by years of solo survival: the 'Tolerable to Wear Again' pile—items that maybe had another day's wear in them—and the 'Needs Washing' pile, reserved for things that were stiff with dried sweat, grime, or the occasional, stubborn speck of blood that hadn't been scrubbed out in a sink.

Danny, who had recently graduated from being a permanent fixture on the couch to shuffling around the apartment with the careful, hesitant gait of a newborn fawn, paused in the doorway. He watched for a long moment, his head tilted, observing the ritual with a quiet intensity. Then, moving with a slow, deliberate pace that spoke of both lingering pain and firm resolve, he limped over and sank carefully to his knees beside the piles.

Without a word of explanation or request for permission, he reached out and began to re-sort Jason's world.

His slender, pale fingers—still bearing faint, greenish-yellow bruises along the knuckles—plucked a heavily stained Henley from the 'Tolerable' pile. He held it up, the fabric standing almost rigidly on its own. This, he deposited with a soft thump onto the 'Needs Washing' pile with finality.

Jason, who had been watching this silent coup with bemused tolerance, finally raised an eyebrow. "Hey. I was going to wear that."

"To a chemical weapons convention?" Danny asked, his voice a study in deadpan. He didn't look up, his attention already captured by a pair of socks that had seen better decades. "Because the smell might be a viable deterrent." He picked one up between his thumb and forefinger, holding it aloft as if it were a radioactive specimen discovered in a forgotten lab.

A surprised snort escaped Jason. He leaned back on his heels, crossing his arms. "It's called building up a protective layer. Gotham's air is corrosive. This is adaptive camouflage."

"Your laundry basket is a registered biohazard, Jason," Danny countered, his tone utterly flat, but a faint glimmer of amusement in his eyes betrayed him. He continued his quiet, methodical work, his movements slow but sure. He was like an archaeologist carefully cataloging artifacts, his touch surprisingly gentle. He found a black tactical t-shirt that was only marginally worn, its scent still clinging to gun oil and Jason's particular brand of soap, and after a moment's consideration, he left it in the 'Tolerable' pile—a silent, surprising concession.

Jason watched him, this kid who had been cradling his own insides in a dirty alley, now meticulously organizing his laundry based on a hygiene standard that felt both foreign and… embarrassingly necessary. Sunlight, weak and diluted by the grime on the window, caught the dust motes dancing in the air between them. The scene was so profoundly bizarre, so utterly and disarmingly domestic, that the last of Jason's resistance bled away. He couldn't stop him. He didn't want to.

"Fine," Jason grumbled, the sound rumbling from his chest as he pushed himself to his feet. "But you're folding it. All of it." He gestured vaguely at the now-significantly-larger 'Needs Washing' mountain.

"Deal," Danny said, and a small, victorious smile was clear in his voice even if Jason couldn't see his face. He held up a pair of cargo pants and patted down the pockets. "But if I find any live ammunition in these, I'm keeping it as a hazard-pay tip. I'm thinking of starting a collection."

Jason just shook his head, a reluctant grin tugging at his own lips as he retreated to the kitchen. It wasn't a debate about principles or a screaming match. It was just laundry. But as he listened to the sound of the washing machine humming to life from the other room, a sound he usually associated with mundane chores, he realized it felt different. The steady, rhythmic thumping wasn't just cleaning clothes; it was weaving a new, quieter rhythm, it felt, unmistakably, like a place where two people lived.

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A couple of days later, the safehouse was steeped in the deep, velvety silence of a Gotham night, broken only by the distant, mournful wail of a siren several blocks away. At the small kitchen table, under the warm pool of light from a single hanging bulb, Jason was engaged in a familiar ritual of maintenance.

Before him, disassembled into a constellation of intricate components, was his Red Hood helmet. The stark red shell was upturned, looking for all the world like the carapace of some strange, mechanical beetle. With a set of precision screwdrivers and a soft, lint-free cloth, he worked. He cleaned the internal lenses, wiping away the faint smudges of grit and smoke that accumulated every night. He checked the delicate wiring of the internal HUD, his large, calloused hands performing the task with an unexpected gentleness. The scent of isopropyl alcohol and ozone from the electronics mingled with the ever-present undertone of gun oil that clung to his gear.

On the couch, Danny was a still, quiet presence. He had found a pad of graph paper and a charcoal pencil in one of Jason's drawers, and for the last hour, he had been sketching. His brow was furrowed in concentration, his hand moving with a slow, sure grace. The only sounds from him were the soft, rhythmic scratch of charcoal on paper and the occasional shift of the cushions. This silence wasn't empty or charged with unspoken tension. It was a living, comfortable thing, woven from the shared understanding that neither of them required conversation to feel less alone.

After a long while, the scratch of Danny's pencil paused. He didn't look up from his drawing, his voice soft enough not to shatter the peace he’d just broken.

"You don't have to, you know."

Jason's hands stilled for a moment, a tiny micro-screwdriver poised over a nearly invisible connection. He didn't look up from the helmet's intricate guts. "Don't have to what?"

"Stay in here with me," Danny said, his tone matter-of-fact, as if commenting on the weather. "I know you've got… stuff. Patrol. Or just… stuff that doesn't involve babysitting." He finally glanced up, his eyes catching the light. "I'm okay by myself. Really."

It was a simple offer of an out, a quiet acknowledgment that Jason's world was far beyond the confines of these four walls. A few weeks ago, the past Jason Todd who had clawed his way out of the Pit would have taken it without a second thought, using the excuse to retreat into the city's embrace, where rage was a simpler language than this quiet companionship.

But present Jason looked down at the helmet in his hands. He saw his distorted reflection in the dark red polymer—a fractured, monstrous visage. He saw the careful, meticulous work of his own hands, maintaining the very thing that hid him from the world. He thought of the cold, isolating weight of it on his head.

He finished securing the connection, the soft click sounding deafening in the quiet. He set the screwdriver down with a definitive tap.

"I know," he said, his voice a low rumble, devoid of its usual defensive edge. He still didn't look at Danny, focusing instead on reassembling the helmet's outer shell. "I'm good here."

He didn't need to see Danny's face to feel the shift in the room. From the periphery of his vision, he saw the subtle, almost imperceptible relaxation of the kid's shoulders, a slow release of a tension Jason hadn't even realized was there. 

A moment later, the soft, rhythmic scratching of charcoal on paper resumed. Jason slotted the final piece of the helmet back into place, the familiar weight solid and whole in his hands once more. But instead of putting it on and heading out into the night, he simply set it aside on the table. He picked up the soft cloth and began methodically polishing the red finish, wiping away the last traces of fingerprints.

The quiet stretched on, but it was different now. It was warmer. It was a choice. And in the safe, lamplit stillness, with the city's distant heartbeat their only soundtrack, that choice felt more like a victory than any street-level brawl ever had.

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It was the screaming that jolted Jason awake. Not loud, terrified screams, but choked, desperate sounds. He was on his feet in an instant, a knife in his hand before he was fully conscious, scanning the dark living room. The sounds were coming from the couch.

Danny was thrashing, tangled in his blanket. "No, no, please… not again…" he whimpered, the words barely audible.

Jason’s blood ran cold, this wasn’t someone breaking in, this was a treat that he was woefully unequipped for. What was the protocol for this? A splash of cold water? Shaking him awake? He remembered his own nightmares in the League, the disorientation and violence that followed being startled out of them. He couldn't do that to the kid.

He stood there, hovering uselessly, the knife feeling heavy and stupid in his hand. He felt a surge of shame. He could dismantle a criminal empire, but he couldn't figure out how to help a kid having a bad dream.

Just as he was about to retreat, to give Danny privacy in his torment, the thrashing stopped. Danny’s eyes snapped open. He didn't gasp or jolt. He just… woke up. His chest was heaving, but his eyes were clear, scanning the dark room until they landed on Jason’s frozen form.

"Sorry," Danny rasped, his voice rough with sleep and remembered fear. "Didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't," Jason lied automatically, lowering the knife. He felt like an intruder. "You, uh… you okay?"

Danny pushed himself up, running a shaky hand through his hair. "Yeah. Yeah, just… the usual broadcast from the memory bank. All repeats." He offered a weak, tired smile that didn't reach his eyes.

Jason didn't move, rooted to the spot by his own inadequacy. "I… didn't know what to do."

"Nothing to do," Danny said, his tone matter-of-fact. He pulled his knees up to his chest. "I'm used to riding them out on my own. It's… fine."

The word 'fine' hung in the air, a transparent lie. Jason knew all about lies like that.

But then Danny looked at him, really looked at him, and his next words were softer, genuine. "But… it's easier when there's someone there after. Makes the quiet feel less… loud. You… you make it feel safe."

The admission was a punch to the gut. ‘You make it feel safe’. The Red Hood. A source of safety.

The last of Jason's hesitation crumbled. He walked over, the floorboards creaking under his weight. He didn't sit on the couch, but on the floor, leaning his back against it, right beside where Danny was curled up. It was close, but not imposing. A presence, not a cage.

He felt Danny relax behind him, a slow release of tension.

For a few minutes, they just sat in the dark, listening to each other breathe. Then, Danny started talking. About the stars, about how he missed seeing them properly in a city like Gotham, about a stupid theory he had about constellations being the ghosts of ancient heroes.

Jason didn't say much. He just listened, his head leaning back against the couch cushions. The kid's voice, steady and calm, wove a shield against the lingering dread of the nightmare. The words eventually drifted off into soft, even breaths.

Jason stayed there on the floor, his own eyes growing heavy. The knife was still on the table across the room. For the first time in a long time, he felt no urge to reach for it. The only weapon he needed tonight was the sound of a kid finally sleeping peacefully, and the newfound courage to simply sit and make sure it stayed that way. He didn't move until the gray light of dawn filtered through the blinds. 

Only when he was sure Danny’s breathing was deep and even, the nightmares held at bay for the rest of the night, did Jason finally rise from the floor, his body stiff and protesting. He looked at the kid, asleep and finally peaceful.

That newfound calm, hard-won in the quiet of the night, was put to the test just a few evenings later on a rain-slicked Gotham rooftop.

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The comms in his helmet were a live wire of controlled chaos. A weapons deal between the False Face Society and some upstart gang from the Bowery was going down in the shadow of the old clock tower. 

"Hood, I have four hostiles on the north side, armed with automatics," Oracle’s voice was calm in his ear. "They're your primary bottleneck."

"Acknowledged," Jason growled, already moving. The old, familiar script was right there: crash the party, break bones, leave them in a heap for the GCPD to scoop up. The green itch was right beneath his skin, eager for the release.

He dropped into the midst of them from a fire escape,. The first two went down easy—a dislocated shoulder, a shattered wrist—their weapons clattering to the wet concrete. The third lunged, and Jason caught his arm, twisting it back at a brutal angle. He heard the pop of the shoulder separating, the man’s scream cut short as Jason slammed his face into a brick wall.

The fourth, the last one, was just a kid. Maybe nineteen, twenty at most. He fumbled with his gun, his hands shaking, eyes wide with terror behind a cheap plastic mask. He was backing away, tripping over a discarded crate.

The madness under his skin whispered, One more. Just one more. He’s nothing.

Jason took a step forward, his own fist clenched, ready to deliver the final, crushing blow. But, for a moment, he didn't see a nameless thug. He saw a different kid—pale, bruised, and trusting—telling him in a raw whisper that he made him feel safe.

The memory was a bucket of ice water. The green haze receded so fast it left him dizzy.

So, he didn't strike, just stopped a couple of steps away, his boots scraping on the gravel. The kid with the gun was sobbing now, frozen in place and looking terrified at him.

"Drop it," Jason commanded, his voice a low, controlled thrum.

The gun immediately clattered to the ground.

"On your knees. Hands behind your head." The kid complied, trembling violently.

Jason zip-tied his wrists with efficient, practiced movements. He didn't break another bone. He didn't offer a single threat. He just left him there, kneeling in the rain, as he melted back into the shadows.

The silence on the comms was deafening. He could feel their confusion, their held breath.

It was Oracle who broke it, her voice carefully, professionally neutral. "All hostiles contained. Good work, Hood."

The channel clicked off. A moment later, a private line buzzed. It was Tim.

"Hood." There was a long pause. "What was that?"

"Cleanup," Jason replied, his voice flat. He was already grappling away, the city lights smearing in the rain on his visor.

"That wasn't your usual 'cleanup'," Tim pressed, his detective brain unable to leave the anomaly alone. "You just… stopped. Since when do you take prisoners that can still walk?"

Jason swung onto a new rooftop, landing silently. He looked out over the city, the memory of a quiet dawn and a sleeping kid a shield against the old urges. "Since it was the right thing to do. It was just a kid Timbit, you really expect me to beat the shit outta him?" he said, and for the first time, he actually believed it.

He cut the comm before Tim could respond. He didn't need their suspicion or their analysis. The validation he needed wasn't out here in the violent symphony of Gotham or in the expectation of the other bats. It was back in a quiet safehouse, where, for one night, he’d helped another kid keep the nightmares at bay. 

And that was a victory no body count could ever match.

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