vigilantes weird girlfriend

League of Comic Geeks [TBA--still editing and adding...]

virgo / intp / philosophy major

I collect subaru imprezas and I'm permanently banned from r/shroomIDs. I like fish, plants, drawing & road trips.

If a request interests me, I will do it. I do not write smut--sometimes I write suggestive content.

Follows, likes and sometimes, accidentally, replies come from Planetastoria.

I like writing angst, fluff, pre-relationship shenanigans.

I like to write about readers that are academics, mercenaries, artists or in GLAM--any job I think is interesting. I love a good barista reader, but I also love front desk agent! reader lol.

Jason was nodding along with her ranting, watching the gesticulation of her hands as she grew more passionate. 

He wasn’t entirely paying attention, but noticed the silence in the moments that she would stop, stilling to take a sip of her coffee before continuing. Her prior pattern was the reason that it took Jason a few more seconds to realize that she was no longer talking, choosing to stare blankly ahead at the lid of her drink.

 Jason tilted his head slightly, an iced white mocha with toffee cut according to the sticker that her hand was half covering. She had gotten Jason the same drink, but hot and he had to admit—it wasn’t the worst but he definitely would’ve  preferred a Frappuccino. 

He tried to remember the last five minutes of their primarily one-sided conversation but found himself drawing a blank and deciding to choose the safest option: 

“Sounds toxic.” She replied in a gesture of ‘so-so’ 

More of her rant was coming back to Jason now, “I also liked Barbara Gordon, though. She makes it hard not to.” She scowled, throwing her hands up and sinking into the couch “Step in line, I guess.” she mumbled, then, as if finally fully processed what Jason said, she shot up to face him, “Liked?” there was a twinkle of hope in her eyes that Jason thought would’ve been better for her to extinguish. 

“I left a note on her door confessing my feelings and she never replied.” Jason left out that he had wanted to be a better person for Barbara, or that she had flirted with him first–seemed a little bit like rubbing salt in the wound.

“Pussy.” 

He tossed one of her pillows at her head with enough force it lightly knocked her head backwards before bouncing onto the floor.

She was uncaring, moving as if Jason hadn’t thrown the pillow as she leaned to pick up the pillow and rest it in her lap. 

There were traces of her everywhere—her pillows on his couch, an egg rug in front of his tub (Jason hated it, but she reminded him about how she had slipped and busted her ass first time she showered. Jason had insisted it was a skill issue, yet hadn’t removed the ugly thing.) 

She had an overflowing tote bag of tufting materials next to Jason’s couch that she had claimed with her cartoonishly oversized comforter folded neatly at the end. Her laptop, notebook and pens resting on top of it. That was something Jason took particular note of: there were only traces of her, small signs to notify that she had existed there, rather than a complete overtake of his apartment or anything to tether her.

His temporary roommate could leave at any time she wished to. She had no furniture to haul, her shelves of books were safely in storage. She just needed to gather her tufting supplies, shove her most used stationary into her backpack, roll up her egg rug and her clothes were already shoved her into a duffel bag she kept stashed in the hallway closet. Jason imagined the comforter and the pillow would go back into the white garbage bag she had brought them in. He had checked the cabinets for more of her; a cup that for sure wasn’t his, a coffee that Jason had never tried, but his roommate simply adjusted to his life, his routine. She used his plates, his cups, his coffee (replenished one a week, rather than one a month now.) 

“How's the apartment hunt going?” He wasn’t in a rush to have Dick’s toxic situationship out, though he would never admit it. Jason enjoyed having her at his safe house—something he would also never admit to her and more importantly, never thought he would feel—the thoughts came as a surprise to Jason, a feeling deeper than casual acceptance that he would’ve never fathomed could come from his original apathy towards her. 

He liked how she kept his safe house cleaned, he enjoyed her cooking, she was there to talk to him. He appreciated her, valued her input. 

Jason was stubborn—he had put particular emphasis to ask her about how apartment hunting was progressing, it had transformed into a habit—a way for him to remind himself that he didn’t want her here. 

She sighed,  “Well, I couldn’t find a better rent price before the murder.” Her shoulders were slightly slumped, “I just need to finish my masters.” Jason moved to question her father, but then one of her oven timers went off and she immediately jumped up to tend to it, changing Jason’s course.

“What are you making?” Jason moved her laptop, notebook and pens to the coffee table before he propped his sock covered feet on top of her folded comforter–part insolent child and part asserting some form of dominance: this was his home and if Jason wanted to do something, he would. 

“Well, when I saw that you had a Le Creuset I just knew I had to make a stew.” Came the shouting from the kitchen, he heard the timer bouncing around as it continued to beep and she struggled to turn it off. 

“Le Creuset?”  When had Jason got a Le Creuset? He heard her shout something back at him, but was too focused on trying to remember where he had got one, before briefly panicking when he realized that it had been a gift from Barbara and he chose to keep that to himself.

 “I’m gonna add some potatoes and maybe some broccoli. I think, I’m not too sure, right now I’m just trying to get this finished.” Her voice grew increasingly muffled voice now, as if she was talking while being wedged in a cabinet.

The smell of her cooking wafted through the safehouse and Jason relaxed further into the couch, closing his eyes and listening to her distant movements from the kitchen as he tried to remember the last time that someone had cooked for him before her.

It had become their daily routine since he had helped her ditch the shitty Bludhaven apartment. An arrangement that neither discussed, but fell into naturally. 

Jason would came home from his patrols to the pleasant smells of her cooking breakfast, she made him lunch if he was home, or mentioned he was going to do something non vigilante related. Then she always made extra portions for dinner, always made extra to fill containers of Tupperware for him to take on the go. Jason had been eating from Tupperware that he hadn’t even known he owned.

She seemed to always be finding utensils, pots, supplies that Jason hadn’t touched once and sometimes, he found himself reminded of Gabby. 

“Has Dick asked about me?” Jason leaned over to the coffee table, the small shelf where his most recent book rested as he listened to her chop the aforementioned vegetables . 

“Dick doesn’t even know I’m back in Gotham.” The water was running, he heard the tumble of vegetables,“So he hasn’t.” She wiped her hands off on the new and improved paper towels she had purchased for him, “Where does he think you are?” 

“Floating through Greece.” Jason turned to look into the kitchen, seeing her slouched shoulders and could imagine the glazed over look in her eyes, the empty stare that she had met him with he showed up at their agreed upon time. “Dick never appreciated my food as much as you do.” 

“Well, Dick can cook.”

“Yeah.” her defeated tone matching her posture.

“I can cook too.”

“Probably not well.” 

This time, when he threw a pillow at her and it hit her square in the back of the head, causing her to jump and drop the bell pepper she had moved onto washing.

His almost sister-in-law kicked the pillow back into the living room, her aim was horrible and the force behind her kick was weak—the pillow didn’t even reach the coffee table. Jason turned back to his book, grinning. Then, as if he realized how unbearably domestic this entire situation was, he forced the smile down. 

“I set up a weekly menu.” pointing towards the large chalk-sign on the fridge that was completely empty. Jason shot a quick glance towards where she was pointing, “Doesn’t look set up.” Internally, his heart was constricting at how horrifically domestic the act of creating a weekly menu was. Panic was beginning to set in, not because of how much Jason wanted her gone, but because of how desperately Jason found himself wanting her to stay. 

In response, she held a piece of stained printer paper up that she had drawn a fancy border around the lettering on the inside. “I kept forgetting to ask you to buy chalk.”

“Buy yourself chalk.” He turned the page, “I’m in my reclusive era.” Jason didn’t even know what she meant by that. He closed his book, unable to fully focus on the pages when he was listening to her move around in the kitchen, lightly humming, sometimes cursing. He tucked the book back into the coffee table shelf and turned towards the remote where he browsed through the channels until he found reruns of The Sopranos “If I see some, I’ll pick it up.” 

Translation: He was going to be looking for chalk immediately after leaving tonight. 

“Thank you, okay so here’s the menu. Today is Monday, so you already know what we’re having.” She had placed the paper down and was moving onto chopping Broccoli.

“Tuesday is going to be Reeses Puff cereal for breakfast, lunch is going to be turkey pinwheel sandwiches and uhhh dinner I think is tied between Pork Carnitas and homemade pizza. I was to ask you what you wanted more.” 

Jason rested the remote on his chest, “Pork Carnitas.” 

“Great, so then Wednesday is gonna be homemade pizza, what kind of toppings do you think I should use?” she stepped out of his view and he heard the fridge opening.

“Surprise me.” Jason listened to the clicking of her setting another timer, “Gotcha. Thursday I’m making homemade bagels for breakfast, buffalo chicken wraps for lunch and then cheese tortellini for dinner.” 

Jason closed his eyes, listening to the sound of her footsteps around the kitchen, then out of the kitchen. He cracked his lid open just enough to see the vague shape of her stepping over the arm of his couch, settling into the cushion and pulling her knees to her chest, then just before Jason closed his lid again, he watched as she must’ve decided it wasn’t a comfortable enough position and tossed her legs over the arm, looking towards the TV.

Jason closed his lid.

“The Sopranos?” Jason didn’t look, but pictured her puzzled expression–raised brows, maybe a light grin on her face as if a joke was told. The clarity that Jason pictured her with was startling. 

“I also like Paternity court.” a guffaw from her, as if it wasn’t believable. Jason was alarmed at the comfortable silence they fell into—he was growing increasingly uncomfortable with the ease that she had intertwined herself with his life, adapted to his home and his routine. 

“What about Friday?” 

Jason decided the silence was too much. There it was again, that terrifying word, it was all too domestic. 

“Friday is gonna be spinach-artichoke flatbread for breakfast, lunch is leftover and then C-ca-cassoulet for dinner.” He laughed at her terrible pronunciation. 

“Saturday is leftovers and then Sunday is leftovers too, but I’ll make chili dogs for dinner.” Jason forced himself to think of negatives to living with her: Dick’s ex-girlfriend, not a vigilante sometimes she left her shoes in the middle of the walkway and Jason tripped over them.

Jason cracked a lid just in time to watch as she brought a pillow to her chest, resting her chin on it. 

For someone who had side-eyed him for watching The Sopranos–she was invested. 

Sometime during the middle of The Sopranos rerun (and most importantly, when it was safe) Jason opened his eyes to look at her: she had the audacity to have fallen asleep, slumped in the couch cushion and never having let go of the cushion.

Jason turned away just as quickly, turning the volume down slightly and when his phone vibrated, he only half-heartedly checked it.

His eyes widened when he realized who had messaged him, as if summoned: Dick

Dickiebird 6:10pm: 

Have you ever been ghosted before?

Jason 6:15pm (he didn’t want Dick to think he deserved an immediate reply):

No.

Dickiebird 6:15pm:

She literally moved out without telling me.

Jason 6:17pm: 

Who?

The ‘who’ was now snoring loudly just a few foot away. 

Dickiebird 6:18pm:

You fuck, just my long-term girlfriend. You know, just someone I’ve spent like 25% of my life with.

Dickiebird 6:25pm:

I walked into her old apartment and right into some naked old-man booty. I’m traumatized 

Dickiebird 6:29pm:

C’mon man, not you ghosting me too. 

Dickiebird 6:34pm:

???

Jason shoved his phone into his pocket with a huff. 

He would tell her later—maybe. Jason didn’t want to imagine her crestfallen face that Dick had taken so long to check in on her, that someone else had moved in. 

“I’ve never seen you text before.” Her voice was hazed with sleep, eyes half-lidded and at any moment, he bet that she would fall back asleep. 

“Not many people text me.” 

She yawned, “Was it Dick?” Jason had a choice here: he could tell her the truth, that it was Dick and the contents of their text, or he could say that it had been Roy. 

Then, he decided that the truth wasn’t his to withhold, “Yeah. Complaining about being ghosted.” She burrowed herself deeper into the couch, “That’s all he cares about, huh?” her sleepy expression marred with thinly veiled bitterness. 

Jason moved his feet and she leaned forward, half unfolding the comfortable but not shaking it out, choosing to fight with the lopsided mess that she had created for herself instead. 

 Jason leaned over, pulling the other side out for her to avoid having to watch the pitiful sight of her growing frustration.  “He wasn’t even worried about me.” more of a statement than a question.  Jason let the silence settle between them long enough that she began settling in to go back to sleep before one of her kitchen timers went off.

“Ugh!” The comforter landed in a heap where she had been, standing quick with mouth tightened into a thin line, muscle in her jaw tense and defined before speed walking to the kitchen while mumbling about Tinder. He watched as she tossed her earlier chop of.. broccoli into the boiling pot, turning the oven down, all traces of sleep gone.

-

A pair of annoyingly familiar cowboy boots were tipped over at Jason’s entry way. Judging from the way that one of the boots was almost a foot away from the other, it appeared that they had been taken off in a hurry, quicker than Jason’s gradual realization that he had walked in on something that he wasn’t supposed to—half hoping that he was wrong but knowing that he wasn’t. 

He was alarmed, not confused when he stepped into the living room to see an uninvited Roy standing beside the couch, leaning over a too familiar form on Jason’s couch.

The scene was slow to register. Not because he wasn’t disgustingly aware of what he had almost walked into—He didn’t want to put the pieces together, it made sense; Tinder, rebounds, she had become an almost permanent fixture on the couch. She knew Roy but from a distance, so maybe it wasn’t a dating app that brought the pair of them together, but a recently discovered shared similarity that Jason hadn’t known existed. He was trying to place Roy, why Roy? What about Roy? He was trying to rapidly sort through memories of Roy and Dick—they had a semi-rocky relationship, teetering on the edge of friendship at times but in that moment, as Jason stared at their (thankfully) still clothed forms. Jason’s memories came to him slowly, he was wading through the peat bog that encompassed his memories that had buried the less savory aspects of Roy and Dick’s relationship. 

It felt like minutes before the scene in front of him registered, but it had likely only taken seconds—Jason was horrified at the absurdity of the situation that he found himself in: he was simultaneously disgusted with the pair and irritatingly, slightly annoyed that Roy was the one leaning over his begrudging roommate. He had the petulant thought—that should be him. 

“Jesus Christ!” Jason shouted, turning around from the pair, ignoring the stack of books piled on the coffee table, the prototype that Roy had been showing her. He immediately heard a high-pitched yelp, then a light grunt from Roy followed by the sound of a series of heavy thuds as objects repeatedly fell. 

“I didn’t know you’d be home so soon!” His roommate called, a higher pitch than usual. Then, a heavy thud that made Jason’s mouth twitch up at the thought of her falling off the couch. 

-

Jason told himself that the annoyance wasn’t jealousy. He did want to be the one leaning over his roommate, but it wasn’t like that it was just that. Jason decided that he was mostly annoyed that his poor couch had been victimized. There was no underlying meaning to the persistence annoyance that Jason felt. Yup. Yup. Not even a hint of underlying meaning. 

Roy was a flirt, his roommate was Dick’s ex-girlfriend. It was perfect revenge—she was single, Roy was too! And of course, Tinder had been mentioned. It would’ve been more surprising if she wasn’t fucking around with Roy. 

Jason’s leg was still bouncing as he glared at Roy, who couldn’t care less—he was nearly kicking his feet with excitement as his plate overflowed with cheese tortellini. The pile of books that Jason hadn’t looked at was resting in a haphazard, sloping stack on the floor—threatening to fall again at any point.

“I didn’t know you were such a good cook!” While she wouldn’t make eye contact with Jason, who decided to attribute his irritation to their interactions occurring on his couch, that this was how his unwanted, irritating room mate had been repaying his kindness–Tinder hookups on his couch, traumatizing him with the memory of Roy leaning over her. Sure, he was standing—but that meant nothing to Jason. They just hadn’t gotten that far yet. Yup. That was it.

Nothing happened. Jason reminded himself. Nothing, not a single thing. 

The horror of seeing Roy in his safe house was enough that Jason decided she had lived with him long enough. He resolved to see her out by the end of the week—Jason would find her a safe apartment cheaper than her Bludhaven one. He didn’t care if he needed to buy out the building to do it.

If. It. Was. The. Last. Thing. He. Did. Seeing Roy in tight clothing was already almost too much. 

Still, Jason didn’t feel his anger dissipating even after Roy had left, and the next day, as he found himself shopping for her annoyingly long list of specific groceries, complete with aisles and the recipe she was planning he found himself still seething. 

This particular grocery list was slightly more difficult for him to decipher, and not just because of her chicken scratch scrawl. He had been so frustrated that he had balled up the paper, crumbling it into a tight ball before he forced himself to admit his irrationality. 

 He was on ‘Pepperoni, aisle 12 - Hawaiian roll pizza’ Jason turned the cart accordingly, leaned to grab the pepperoni, agonizing for an extra second on what brand, before deciding it didn’t matter and continuing on. 

‘ Bacon, aisle 12 - Bacon bites ‘ 

Jason was drumming his fingers on the handle of the cart as he waited for the older ladies talking together and blocking the bacon to realize someone was waiting to get past them and disperse. 

They didn’t, Jason had to go around and his annoyance grew– this was why he never shopped for himself.

It was easier for Jason to blame his frustration on old ladies with no spatial awareness, old ladies that Jason had to maneuver around to get his begrudging roommates requested bacon, old ladies who gossiped about his handsome, how polite and what a gentleman Jason was when he was walking away. He caught a particular line, ‘how lucky is wife is.’ Because according to the old ladies, a man as handsome as him couldn’t be single. 

It was less easier for Jason to shift blame onto the annoyance of having to buy a new couch so he wouldn’t be struck with the memory of what Jason had interrupted. Then, as he was heading towards the checkout line, he made a detour through office supplies and swiped a packet of Crayola multi-colored chalk. 

-

Jason stood outside of his door, hand hovering over the handle for a few extra seconds as he strained to listen for any unusual noise. When he was confident that the only sounds that would greet him would be cooking, of sizzling food and timers ticking, he turned the knob and stepped inside. He had challenged himself to carry all seven bags of groceries in one trip—light work. 

It was then that he realized the expected sounds weren’t there. He frowned, stepping into the kitchen and seeing that the oven was off. She didn’t even have the ingredients to begin cooking out, he had looked at the clock before turning off the Camaro: 4:23pm, she was almost always done with her cooking by 4:30 because she knew that Jason would typically be home by 3:50pm, and he needed time to decompress, to clean himself off and settle into his casual clothing.

He had the brief thought that she had left—pulled a reverse card on him and had Dick help her leave. There was a pile of dishes remaining from the breakfast that she had made earlier, a stack of unused Tupperware that waited to be filled with the extra portions she had cooked. Both of those deeply unusual—had she been kidnapped? Was his safe house compromised? 

Should he be looking for a ransom note? Jason allowed the grocery bags to slide to the floor, the pang in his chest wasn’t worry for his annoying roommate, it was about his safe house. It was annoyance at having to potentially abandon it, annoyance about having to reveal that he was back in Gotham when Red Hood inevitably went to search for who had kidnapped her. 

Jason called out to her, scowl deepening at the silence that greeted him as he began to walk through the safe house, footsteps cautious—he didn’t know if the individuals who had potentially kidnapped her remained, ready to jump out at any second,  ready to attack him because that was just the only reason that her cooking wasn’t ready. 

He could admit to having grown slightly spoiled, used to her care, her cooking and rigid schedule. It was comfortable, predictable, domestic. It wasn’t normal for her to be off schedule, in fact it was deeply peculiar and concerning: she was currently digitizing multiple archives of old, out of print books while simultaneously keeping up with her side hustle coffee roasting job and fighting to get papers published. Jason couldn’t go a day without hearing her complain about Article Processing Charges and per page charges. 

She was working from home while navigating her apartment search (half-hiding from Dick trying to make amends) Did she still work as a barista? Or was that just an aspect of the coffee roasting job? Jason couldn’t remember. Maybe, she was slacking? For once? 

Except that wasn’t her. She didn’t slack. She complained often that people who slacked off didn’t get their papers published, didn’t get to work with accredited universities or influential figures of their field. 

She had a stack of books once towering on the floor had collapsed on the floor by his coffee table, a sprawl of papers across the coffee table—messy enough that intruders could’ve grabbed her from the couch.

It could’ve been that Roy snitched, had told Dick where she was. They might’ve had an argument but she ultimately could’ve forgiven him. Jason frowned, deciding he preferred the intruder. 

Jason paused when he  saw the slightly cracked open door of his bedroom and the idea of an intruder became  the only reason she hadn’t been cooking—he hadn’t noticed any signs of tampering, of forced entry or a struggle, but he quickened his pace, stalling in front of his door to listen for movement, but only heard a faint, rhythmic breathing. 

Soft, light, slow, Jason relaxed—it wasn’t an intruder but Jason simultaneously found he didn’t want to open the door, to see what he was certain would be there. 

Jason inhaled, gently pushing open the door with his foot.

The first time that she had stayed at his safe house, drunk and lost with no where to go, Jason had left before she fell asleep. An intentional choice to create distance between them, he had wanted to stay, to see her sleeping, to make sure she didn’t die in her sleep but it had all felt too personal, almost affectionate. 

He had made the right choice, Jason would no longer need to wonder what she looked like sleeping in his bed, the image would be seared into his mind now. 

She laid curled on his bed, only halfway under his covers with an empty bottle of Dovetail Whiskey he received as a cheap gift resting on his nightstand. She was wearing a thin, flowy camisole that disappeared into the sheets, likely a pair of over worn, baggy pajama pants underneath. He could picture them now: they could’ve been soft at one point, they probably had been, but now they were primarily covered in balls of lint with an odd scratchy texture that he had brushed against when she had been walking past him with an armful of her laundry.

Jason didn’t have to brush against the shorts then: It had been a conscious choice that he remembered making, a curiosity that stemmed from how often she wore them—they must be comfortable, he had thought. They must be made of the softest fabric that Jason had ever felt, then he was disappointed when they weren’t. 

There were tear strains trailing down her cheeks, wet puddles on his pillow. He should’ve felt relieved: no intruder. She hadn’t be kidnapped, she hadn’t moved out. His chest was still tight, Jason willed himself to unclench his fists, he flexed his hand, then promptly clenched his fists tighter. 

Why was she here? Should he move her? Wake her up? Jason stepped forward, trying again to unclench his fists, settling with them resting idly on his baseboard.

He wanted to touch her, a feeling reminisce of his reasoning behind brushing against her armful of laundry, having almost risked a collision with her that she had made some noncommittal sound of annoyance with him for the slight side-step she had done when overcorrecting with the assumption that Jason hadn’t been paying attention to his proximity to her. If anything, he would’ve preferred the head on collision, an excuse to grab her arms to steady her. For their hands to brush as she gathered her clothes, for her narrowed eyes and playfully biting remarks.

He knew how many exfoliating products she used, the lotions and balms pouring out of her tiny little shower caddy—a rotating selection of them, a mix of products that created something she called a ‘signature scent’ that he thought was various faux cherryesque scents but she insisted was ‘Shirley Temple’. 

Jason imagined himself slowly raising his hand to just graze the curve of her calf, the rising goosebumps across her skin where his fingers trailed. 

He could reach out and touch her now—though part of the appeal was seeing her potential physical reaction to his touch, which he wouldn’t see with the comforter covering her. Instead, Jason focused on the rise and fall of her chest, she shifted her arm, flexing, maybe to sleepily search for something, arm beginning to move in the motion of a lackluster sweep, the movement of someone who never really learned how to properly use a broom.

Jason didn’t dare get closer. Breathing was out of the question, Jason was focused on entirely on her movements. She was murmuring now, words he couldn’t make out initially before she continued to repeat them, growing more confident, her words less slurred. 

“Come here.” 

Jason looked over his shoulder, as if there was someone else she could be talking to. He should leave, he should spin on his heel and walk right out, don’t feed into this, he reminded himself. Nothing good can come of this.

Think of Dick. Think of him. Her hand raised, reaching for air, reaching only vaguely in his direction. Don’t do it.

Don’t do it. He stepped closer, one hand resting lightly on the baseboard as if it was spring-loaded to pull him away the moment they met contact. 

Jason raised his hand to meet hers, a light touch. Enough that she would lower her arm, knowing that he was at least close to her. He hadn’t expected for her fingers to lightly intertwine with his, a soft sigh of contentment from her as she began to lightly pull at him. 

She thought he was Dick, he decided. That was how Jason could explain her actions and he found himself annoyed, upset. He wouldn’t be a placeholder for his brother; she hadn’t called for Dick, but that was irrelevant, even worse— It could’ve been Roy that Jason stood as a placeholder for.

His thoughts spun from there: Why was she drinking?  Why was she in his bed? 

She was still tugging at his hand now, with slightly more force since Jason hadn’t immediately caved. 

She whined. Jason thought back to the first time he had found her drunk, when she hadn’t wanted to come home and had ended up sleeping in his bed the first time. He could count his wins—least she wasn’t wandering the streets of Gotham this time.

Jason found himself allowing her to pull him closer, he wanted to be dragged into her arms.

Jason was completely, stone cold sober and still ended up slipping his leather jacket off, tossing it bundled onto the baseboard as she scooted to the side to make room for him to lay beside her. 

Jason let her press herself against his chest, haunted by how well she fit--the perfection of her companionship with him. 

He listened to her contented sigh as she positioned his arm around her torso, her lightly damp hair was bundled in a tangled mess between them and Jason slightly lifted the strands up and behind her so neither would end up laying on them. 

He inhaled only the scent of cherries, trying to cement this moment to memory. 

Her soft humming reverberated against his chest, “So come on down and walk with me, and tell me I'm your man” Jason’s arm had rested limply over her, but in this moment he allowed himself to settle against her, tucking his arm against her to pull her just slightly closer. 

“I only want to know a couple of things about you” Jason could admit the small act of affection he allowed himself might send him down a spiral he couldn’t come back from. He needed some balance, something to even the scales.

“You’re an awful singer.” it was just him talking to himself, murmuring under his breath—his own kind of protest. 

“It’s a good thing I’m not trying to be good then, Jason.” She sounded insufferably sober, irritatingly coherent and most importantly—she referred to him by name.

Jason was sat up instantly, using one hand to prop himself up and the hand that had been resting over her, now moved to the nape of her neck. 

Her hair was bundled under his hand, scrunched and falling around as he turned her to face him. 

Her eyes with half-lidded, she was grinning, there was no remorse on her face. 

She only half-heartedly attempted to wiggle out of his grip, “You’ve been awake this whole time?” Jason asked, grip tightening to avoid a slight shake to his hands. 

She raised a hand in a ‘so-so’ motion, not as sober as Jason thought. Not as inebriated as he thought. 

She leaned towards him and Jason, to his horror, allowed it— if Jason hadn’t wanted her to kiss him, then he would’ve kept her in place but when she didn’t kiss him, just hovered close enough that just slight movement would’ve had her lips against his he felt slightly conceited for thinking she would try. 

“Tanks for taking care of me.” The heat of her breath, the faint smell of whisky just ghosting over his lips. Jason closed his eyes, loosening his grip, but not entirely removing his hand from its place tangled in her hair . “I didn’t do anything. You’re just drunk.” A way for Jason to squash the magnitude her actions, to take them less seriously than they were. 

“A little.” A sing-song tone. Had she talked to Roy like that?

Jason began to untangle himself from her—never again would Jason be someone’s second choice. 

“Roy rejected you, then?” She shook her head. “Where’d you get that from?” Jason’s hand moved to rest against the mattress between them. He scoffed, “Roy was leaning over you, on the couch and you looked guilty as hell the entire time afterwards.”

She furrowed her brows and out of the corner of his eye, Jason saw her hand move towards him. He was rigid, expecting a loving embrace; maybe to cup his cheek? Gently rub her thumb in circles against his cheek? Some sort of comfort to alleviate his annoyance? 

She bypassed his cheek, moving right to his forehead and flicking him. 

Moment ruined, Jason scowled, pushing away from her and standing. “We were collaborating to make you something.” Jason grabbed the empty bottle of Dovetail, tossing it into the small trashcan to the side of the nightstand. “Making.. me something?” Jason asked, trying to feign nonchalance but failing. 

The prototype that had been in Roy’s hands, them being fully clothed, Roy was standing. To acknowledge that meant that Jason would have to admit that he had overreacted, that he had been severely annoyed and had allowed that annoyance to derail his day for nothing, which wasn’t an option. 

That meant he would need to admit to himself that he had been jealous, looking too much into a situation that hadn’t required it. 

Her hand enclosed around his wrist, trying to pull him back towards her but Jason didn’t budge. 

“A bookend.” Jason thought back to the prototype, it… did.. it could.. be a bookend? She didn’t stop trying to pull Jason towards her, but so lightly that Jason wasn’t sure she had more force in her. 

He wanted to move towards her, to feed into his one-sided affections that he refused to admit were actually affections. “I really appreciate you taking me in, even though it was technically a favor.”

Jason’s reply was a half-laugh, nothing about this was amusing to him. “Why were you at the library that night?” Jason looked at her then, noting her slight unsteadiness.

“It was closed. I looked into it, they have no after-hours access.” He wanted to lay beside her more than anything. Jason wanted to assure himself that she was drunk, she wasn’t thinking clearly, wanted to confirm that she wasn’t in her right mind.

Jason could talk himself into it, say he was protecting her—someone with worse intentions than proximity could’ve found her but she was in his safe house and the only danger was his affection. 

“You’re not the only one who can trespass.” 

“I had valid reasons to trespass.” 

“Right, murder. That’s the most valid reason anyone can have.” She was no longer trying to pull Jason towards her, but not letting him go. 

He was noticing the whimsical undertones her voice took when she was just buzzed (Jason had decided she must just be buzzed.) Enough to relax, but not enough to make increasingly dangerous and reckless decisions. 

She exhaled, thumb rubbing circles against the soft underside of his wrists, “I saw you breaking in, following that poor man.” 

Jason felt the hair on his neck rise. He was back in that moment, cement under his boots, wind cooling the sweat that had begun to accumulate under his mask, his suit. Jason was remembering the slick of his hair, then only beginning to plaster itself across his forehead, tangling in his ears. 

“I didn’t know you were Red Hood in that moment. I guessed. I knew I’d need a favor.” Jason refrained from telling her that he had briefly been planning to kill her in that moment—no witnesses allowed. 

“How did you guess?” The bored distaste, her impassivity—just a cover for emotions that she couldn’t process. It was her shield, defaulting into that monotone that grated against his every nerve. 

Jason was once again facing the version of her that he had found insufferable and repetitive.

Her grip loosened, Jason could’ve shaken her off. 

“Your specific emotional resentment towards Batman. The fighting style, it was like Nightwing. I didn’t pay close attention. I took the risk when I saw the chance.” 

His begrudging roommate raised the comforter with her free arm, leaving an opening under for him. Jason stared at soft skin of her stomach where her camisole had bunched up. He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t, really, but he was. 

Jason was gentle as he slid into the space she offered him, dutifully turning on his side to allow her to press against his chest. When he loosely wrapped an arm around her torso, hand just ghosting the small patch of exposed stomach he felt her relax against him with a soft sigh.

It felt so right. It wasn’t a bold confession of love, there was no acknowledgement of feelings between them. It seemed the natural progression for the routine of domesticity that neither had been willing to risk putting words to. It was just as natural for Jason to fall asleep with her as it was for her to cook. Just as it was natural for Jason’s grip to tighten around her in the morning when she had attempted to slide from the sheets as the sun was first poking through the blinds. It was natural for Jason to pull her tighter against him, it felt less a drastic change and more the culmination of small steps realized—this was always going to be the result of him finding her drunken and lost. This was always going to be the outcome of their library meeting, where their fire escape talks landed them. 

When she cooked, Jason would find himself standing behind her, forehead against her shoulder. He would stand beside her, hand on her lower back, tapping along to the beat of the music she sometimes played. He kissed her shoulder, her temple, the corner of her mouth. 

When he returned from patrol, she held her arms open for him and who would Jason be if he didn’t settle between them? Who would Jason be if he didn’t fall asleep with her scratching his hair while she settled her laptop between his shoulder blades, occasionally talking about her research as he faded in and out of consciousness. 

He stopped asking about her apartment hunting, she didn’t volunteer the information. She could’ve still been searching, but with Jason finding an increasing number of books scattered around his safe house, the  few mugs he didn’t recognize and more rugs, each more ridiculous than the last until her belongings had been so thoroughly intertwined with Jason’s that he wasn’t sure which of the books had originally belonged to him, he didn’t think she was. Especially when she eventually returned to work, especially when Jason tried to play nonchalant when he visited her, as he waited for her, leaning against the body of his motorcycle while holding a specialty latte for her only to meet her halfway when she finally stepped from the front door of the industrial warehouse styled building. 

It could’ve been a one night tryst, dumbed down to nothing but drunken cuddling. That didn’t really work, not for Jason, who had taken her buzzed invitation as akin to being welcomed home. He had been near insulted when the first night after, she had the audacity to settle into the couch, bundled in her giant comforter and fully prepared to sleep. He had scoffed, changed into his worn sweatpants and a soft t-shirt before serious as a stone, settling into the couch with her. It had been awkward—his bulk would’ve pushed her entirely off the couch as he slid between the cushion and her, but Jason had pulled her against him, confusion, snarky remarks and all but Jason had settled, turning on his side to create more room and planting his chin firmly on the crown of her head. 

“Jason. What the hell are you doing?”

“Sleeping.” 

She let out a squeak as he squeezed her just briefly. “Sleeping.” She repeated, trying to twist around in Jason’s grip to look at him, arching her back, straining against his arms, but movement was difficult when she had bundled herself in the comforter while Jason laid on the outside. “Stop moving. Let a man sleep.” A loud, drawn out groan, “This is seriously uncomfortable! I’m on the edge!”

“You’re the one who decided we’re sleeping here.”

Silence. The tips of his ears were burning. Jason found he was too much on the metaphorical edge to sleep—resorting to thinking back to his latest Emma reread: If he loved her less, he might be able to talk about it more but he couldn’t—so he had resorted to this, inserting himself as if it was the most normal action for him to do.

 Jason had lost his heart and unlike in Emma, that had come with the loss of his self control as well.

“Did.. you want to move to the bed?” That was an invitation. Jason didn’t waste time, shuffling and scooping her up against his chest. Her eyes were wide, mouth slightly ajar as he walked towards his bedroom. 

That was that—she simply slept there now while simultaneously not admitting they were formally dating.

Just roommates, who slept together, kissed, held hands. 

No one was amused. 

-

tag list: @yyiikes, @theangryrobin

one shots

series

insomnia

1.2 steel birds

“Here comes good ol’ green jeans.” Shane doesn’t look. You don’t acknowledge him, “You happy?” He continues, you are stepping out of the bush, pushing aside a branch that is too low. 

“Never happy to be back here.” 

Shane scoffs, tipping in the last remnants of his coffee from a familiar mokapot like it isn’t twenty one hundred, “Ain’t talking about here and you know it.” 

“Outside this park isn’t any of your concern.”

“Can’t ask my wife how she’s doing?”

“I ain’t your fucking wife no more.” You snap—he’s always known exactly how to push your buttons. “‘Kay wifey.” You’d kill him, but he’s never been too good at covering his tracks. Someone’d find him in a day or two—too little time to cover up. “Whatcha doing here wifey? Ain’t you SOU?” Your jaw is clenched tight enough to crack. You don’t bother to ask how he knows about your transfer—back when you had been married you were just in Cannabis enforcement. He darts a glance towards your dog, a familiar German Shepherd with a tail that doesn’t wag when she sees him. 

She remembers, even if she had just been in training during your messy, drawn out divorce. “Coming to interrogate me ‘bout that girl too? Just a few hours after Turner too.” Turner, you slide a finger through the loop of your jeans. 

“No, Maguire. I was called in ‘bout—” you cringed at how quickly you slunk back into familiar patterns of absorbing his lingo, “—about that girl, but just as help. Baile and I are.. good.” He had always known. It was just a matter of how often he acknowledged your skill (not at all.) He is staring down at the finger looped into your belt, too smug. You hate him, so you untangle your hand and try to focus on the sounds of the woods, rather than the heat of his stare—the knowing, as if maybe, maybe, you knew that at the end of the trail, it’d be Shane. 

“Just passing through.” You add, noticing the way that Baile is alerting toward a smaller tent in the corner, a half-buried backpack you don't recognize inside. It's a small gesture, the way her ears are standing at attention and she can't seem to turn away, even when her eyes are darting at Shane, cautious of a man more animal than her.

He tips some of the coffee back, edge of his arrogant smile making you want to smack it out of his mouth.  “Right by my campsite.” 

You walk past, wordlessly, past the stump of a tree with a bullet hole in, darting a glance inside the tent but unable to make out details ads you're prepared to disappear back into the forest. The only tell of movement is Baile’s growl—a thin, rather weak noise that you’ve always joked is why she isn't for bite work. Then Shane’s rough hand is grabbing your wrist and you are swinging around with a right hook that he barely avoids, but doesn’t let go of your wrist. 

Age looks good on him, you think. He has always looked best under the stars, might’ve been ‘cause the dark hid the ever-present arrogance. You were used to men like him. Once it didn’t bother you. 

Might’ve been that the moonlight made him look otherworldly—half his face obscured, the wetness on his lips glistening and reflecting stars, well, you had always had a curiosity for what was on the dark side of the moon. 

You never knew why you ended up with Shane. It could’ve been timing, the perfect storm of you both being fresh out of the Army and struggling to adjust, leaning into familiarity but you knew why it ended—always choosing a slightly different path: Ranger and Green Beret, Wildlife Management Officer and Game Warden, stewing and leaving. 

“Your boyfriend is so cute.” Kassandra whispers, conspiratorial as her sweat slick arm presses against your own bare one, her warm skin bright to the point of almost glowing against your colder one. 

You look over towards Shane, glowering against the wall of the bar—eyes never leaving you, ‘supposed to be protective but making you look as out of place as you feel. “Thank you.” You don’t break eye contact, voice raised—not enough to be a shout despite the rowdiness of the crowd mixing with the music that would’ve made it understandable. 

You just want your next words to carry, “He’s a rescue.” Kassandra is laughing, airy and lightly draping over you like a summer cover-up. Shane doesn’t look amused. He never is. Just go home.

“Get your hand off me ‘fore you lose it, Maguire.” His grip tightens, never one to back down from a challenge. There is something in his eyes, something that isn’t remorse—a man like this can’t feel something as paltry. 

You could remember a time that his world might’ve revolved around you, you could remember a time when his undivided attention was a prize to be won, how poignant that you seem to be his focal point when you no longer want it.

“Going ‘round at night when there’s a killer out there.” Shane is shaking his head, sounding disappointed but still unable to take his eyes from you. 

On the worst nights of your failed marriage, you thought how easy it would’ve been like to put your glock to the back of his head, how easily your marriage could’ve been if you shot his brains out and analyzed his every thought, then shoved the messy pieces back in, took a stapler to the wound--no more dancing around the issue, no more of his silence and inability to apologize or process his emotions.

You felt that familiar urge now, trigger finger twitching with the force of your want—a congealed, pulsating mess inside your chest. “A killer got my wrist caught.” His jaw clenches, he is a coiled spring waiting to launch against your face—it’s all too familiar. 

It’s all too easy to fall back, so you use your free hand to pry his hand off you—it lifts easy, Shane knows he’s already pushed you to the point that you’d beat his hand off if he didn’t.