Meow

There are a few reasons why it’s a fabulous time of year, in his humble opinion. For one, he fights best in the heat, making this his peak season for pro work. For another, your students are on break, which means so are you, which means Katsuki can finally take you on the long-awaited trip he’s been promising. Most importantly, though, summer is your favorite season, and that’s enough reason for him to like it with you. 

Then a shriek cuts through the room, pulling him from his thoughts before he can even sit up and properly rub the sleep from his eyes.

“Kats!” you cry, voice pitched high with panic. “There’s a spider on the sink! Wake up!”

“God dammit, woman,” he grumbles, shaking his head as he rises from bed and pads over to where you are. “You teach kids how to be heroes for a living, and something as dumb as a spider gets you all fucked up?”

“Don’t start,” you hiss. “Just get the thing out of here, I don’t—oh my god! Katsuki, it’s moving! Hurry!”

He sighs, gently nudging you out of the way before grabbing a napkin and scooping up the (very) small arachnid. He tosses it into the trash as you let out a sigh of relief.

“There,” he grumbles. “Quit squealing now.”

“Thanks, baby,” you beam, turning to wrap your arms around his neck. You press a kiss to his lips, and he happily returns it. “Morning.”

“Morning,” he mumbles, pulling you against his chest. “Shower yet?”

“No, I’ll probably take one later—”

“Perfect. You can join me,” he says with a satisfied grin.

You give him a flat look. “I just did my skincare for the morning. I’m not washing it all away—”

“Let’s get this off’a you,” he says, promptly deciding to ignore you as he lifts your shirt over your head. You sigh in defeat (though you never really put up a fight anyway), groaning as your shirt goes flying, followed by your bra, and he can’t help the smirk of victory that spreads across his face.

“You’re super annoying,” you tell him seriously. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he snorts. “And you’re a fuckin’ idiot. Wanna exchange some more facts while we’re at it?”

It’s summer. Katsuki enjoys summer. He likes the warm weather, the extra time you have on your hands, and the way the two of you can spend a few days somewhere nice and far away from everything. You don’t bring along papers to grade. He doesn’t check his emails during the rare paid time off he’s taken. His paychecks finally come in handy for a nice, well-accommodating hotel room. No one interrupts when he wants you to himself.

There’s no reason not to love summer. Katsuki looks forward to it every year. He fights long, bothersome fights with villains and delinquents out there through the cold winters and tells himself that if he works hard now, he’ll enjoy the fruits of his labor when the warm weather rolls around. It’s the only thing that gets him through long days at the agency, or the stupid interviews and social bullshit that his publicist forces him through. 

All of it endured for this. This singular, peaceful week and a half with you by his side, enjoying his life without any other nonsense for once.

Katsuki likes summer—and he’s gonna like it a hell of a lot more when he puts a shiny ring on your finger when you say yes to being his wife in just a little bit.

“Here,” you hand him your body wash, “if you’re going to waste my freshly applied skincare, you better make it worth my while. You do the work.”

“Not a problem—anything for my lazy fuckin’ sunshine. You deserve to be pampered,” he agrees smoothly, chuckling when you throw your loofa at his chest. 

“Lazy?”

“S’what I said,” he hums easily. “Glad to know your ears still work.”

“You take that back, you asshole—mmph!”

He cuts you off with a kiss. It’s a good fucking kiss, he thinks. Warm water is cascading down his back, you’re in his arms and pressed against his chest, your arms are looping around his neck, there’s a scenic ocean view from the small one-way window next to both of you, and your nails do that thing that he loves with the hair at the nape of his neck. This is all that he wants. 

Katsuki can get used to a life like this—in fact, he already is used to a life like this. Ever since you moved in with him two years, three months, and twelve days ago (not that he’s been counting), he’s spent every morning waking up and moving through his routine with you woven into it. 

You in his bathroom, your toothbrush tucked beside his. You at his table while he slides breakfast onto your plate. You in his kitchen, wearing your stupid little apron while you cook as he comes home roughed up after patrol. You on his couch after dinner, legs tucked beneath you as you grade assignments. You in his bed, dragging the blanket he kicked off right back over the two of you while you shiver and complain.

Katsuki is used to this life. He fucking loves it, even. He wants it for the rest of his days. He wants you tangled up in his space, threading yourself through every corner of his existence, and he wants the comfort of knowing the next day will look the same.

So he’s going to marry you. He’s got it all figured out.

Raccoon Eyes helped him pick the ring—it’s exactly what you’d want, according to her. Apparently, she has access to the Pinterest board you’ve had for years. Ponytail Girl took you to get your nails done—something pretty and dainty and perfect for the photos. He was strictly warned not to propose unless your cuticles were in flawless condition. Pink Cheeks dragged you out to pick up a few new outfits, as if you didn’t already have enough clothes. Still, if Katsuki gets to see you in something new, he’s not about to complain. Flat-Face and Shitty-Hair even looked over his speech.

Well. It’s as close to a speech as he’s going to get. Katsuki doesn’t do stupid, sappy bullshit the way people insist he should. It wouldn’t be him. He’s going to tell you what matters off the top of his head—the things he’d never forget. He’s going to tell you that he loves you, and he’s not going to stop. That he’s going to take care of you no matter what. That you’re the only person on this planet who doesn’t drive him up a wall. That you’re worth keeping, worth never letting go of, so you better get used to it and just marry him already.

But since Kirishima insists that Katsuki at least go over the main points first, he sends the idiot a few bulleted outlines just to get him off his back.

More people than Katsuki would prefer already know that this is going to happen. It was supposed to be just Kirishima and Mina, and that was it. Kirishima simply because—well, the annoying bastard is decent enough at advice when it comes to this kind of thing, so Katsuki allows it. Mina simply because he needed someone to approve the ring, and he sure as hell wasn’t going shopping with his hag of a mother.

But the pink-haired fucking gossip ends up running her mouth, and suddenly, everyone comes to him with an opinion of their own.

She’ll be mortified if you let her get engaged with bare nails! 

You can’t let her repeat an outfit for the pictures. They have to be special!

Kirishima says you’re gonna wing your proposal??? C’mon, man, you have to plan what you’re going to say, you gotta make this good!

Katsuki has put a lot into these plans. Took you to that resort across the globe you’ve always wanted to visit, planned out your nails and outfit to match so that the pictures come out flawless, practiced the stupid speech that he didn’t need with Kirishima and Sero against his will, and he’s going to make this proposal good. Better than good. The greatest. Because that’s what he does—he does things the best, and it’s going to stay that way because that’s what you deserve. 

The fucking best that he’s got. 

“Baby,” you pull away from his lips, holding a hand to stop him when he leans back in for more. He grumbles when you do, displeased, and you laugh as you murmur, “As much as I would love to shower with you forever, we have places to be.”

“Yeah, and we got all day to be places,” he insists, hands wandering past your bare hips, grabbing a handful of your ass, and squeezing. 

“You said we’d explore,” you whine, “and I wanna do it before all the other people get there and busy everything up!”

“I’ll shove ‘em out the way,” he offers, grinning when you giggle. 

“Maybe some other time,” you snort, “maybe when you’re not in Japan’s top ten hero rankings and always land on the news. Then, maybe, I’ll entertain that lovely idea of yours.”

“Never let me have any fun,” he complains playfully, grinning as he leans back in to kiss you again. You kiss him back, and fuck—Katsuki wants to be here forever. He never wants summer to end, and he wants this for the rest of his damn days. 

He almost wonders if retiring this young is a plausible option for him when you slip your tongue into his mouth and run it against his. 

His cock is half hard already—he can feel the way it presses against you, and you move your thigh, bringing it up to rub against him and make him groan. He rolls his hips for a moment, grinding against your skin as he grows to full hardness. He doesn’t have to touch you to know that you’re dripping between your legs, not because of the shower but because of him. And he takes a little bit of pride in that. In knowing that just him and his lips on yours is enough to turn you into a pliant, needy mess in his arms. 

“Katsuki,” you try to warn. 

“Jus’ let me have my fun,” he smirks, “you know you want it. We have time.”

—————

The shower takes a bit longer than expected. But not too long—you and Katsuki are still on schedule for the day he’s planned, so he’s not worried. 

You’re still in the bathroom getting ready when Katsuki is getting dressed. He grins to himself at the thought of you doing your makeup and dolling yourself up just for him. He’s going to kiss you senseless with that lip gloss of yours smeared all over his mouth once you let him slide the ring he picked onto your finger.

He reaches into the pocket of the last pair of pants he wore to grab the small box that currently holds the most valuable thing he owns. His old hag of a mother nagged him not to keep it on him like that—that he’d lose it, or accidentally expose it, or absentmindedly throw it through the wash. He doesn’t listen, of course. Mainly because he never listens to the hag, but also because he refuses to keep that ring anywhere but within reach of his own two hands. He needs to know it’s there at all times or he’ll lose his damn mind.

So, like he always does, he grabs yesterday’s pants and reaches into the right pocket, ready to move the familiar velvet box into the pocket of the pair he’s wearing now.

Except when he reaches in, the pocket is empty. He stills. His pocket is fucking empty. 

No, it isn’t, he thinks, trying to keep a level head—it’s in there. Of course, it is. There’s nowhere else it’ll be, so he just needs to check again. His fingers sweep through the pocket again, slower this time, then harder, pressing into the seams as if the box might be tucked into some hidden corner of fabric. Some secret pocket within his pocket that was always there, and he just never noticed. 

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. 

Katsuki curses under his breath and checks the left pocket. Then the back pockets. Then he turns every single pocket he’s got inside out. Then he gives the pants a sharp, thorough shake like his life depends on it.

Nothing. Still absolutely fucking nothing.

From the bathroom, you’re still humming softly to yourself, the faucet running for a moment before clicking off. Your makeup bag zips open, then shut. You’re completely, blissfully unaware of his growing dilemma. 

His pulse spikes so hard it feels like there’s an explosion behind his ribs.

No. No, no, no. He had it. He confidently knows he had it. Last night, before bed, he checked for it—just like he always checks for it. He remembers the shape of the box against his palm. Remembers putting the pants over the chair. Did he take it out? No. He wouldn’t do that. Would he? Did he? He can’t think straight, his mind a busy swarm of worst-case scenarios and nightmare possibilities. 

“Babe?” you call through the bathroom door. “Is my lip gloss in my purse? Can you check? I don’t think it’s in my bag.”

Shit. The last thing he needs right now is you coming out while he searches for this fucking ring that he knows he had in this room as of last night before bed. Where the hell could it have gone within the few hours he slept? It’s a ring. Sure, weird and unnatural things happen—he causes explosions at will with his palms, for crying out loud, but it’s a damn ring. Weird and unnatural enough things do not happen that his ring could have grown legs and run off. 

“No!” The answer comes out far too loud. He cringes when he hears his own voice and clears his throat. “No, baby, s’not here. Keep lookin’.”

Silence for a beat. Then, “Um...okay?”

Katsuki drops to the floor and looks under the bed. Nothing but dust and an old pair of slippers from previous guests. He checks beneath the chair, under the dresser, behind the nightstand. He yanks the sheets half off the mattress, searching for the familiar sight of velvet that he knows deep in his heart is not going to be there, lying between wrinkled sheets.

But he checks anyway, and sure enough, nothing. His breathing turns shallow.

“Babe, I found my lip gloss,” you call, “right under my nose, too. It was in the bag that I was looking. I think I’m going crazy.”

“That’s good, baby,” he says, not paying proper attention, “you wear that gloss.”

If only he could find what he’s looking for, too—he really will go crazy if he doesn’t. 

Maybe it fell in the suitcase. That has to be it—right? He lunges for the luggage, unzipping it so fast that the zipper almost rips right off from his force. Clothes get flung over his shoulder in frantic handfuls—shirts, pants, socks, boxers, toiletries, charger cords. Still no box. From the bathroom comes the pop of a makeup compact closing. You’re still humming, still taking your sweet time as you get ready, and he really hopes that you’ll take a long fucking time today. He’ll never, ever complain about you taking long ever again if you just take as much time as you need today, of all days, when he needs you to, for once. He needs you to continue having no clue that the single most important object in his life has apparently vanished into thin air.

Katsuki straightens, hands flying to his chest as he tries to force air into his lungs. 

Think, moron, he says to himself in his head. He had it yesterday. He fucking knows he had it yesterday. He paid for lunch and felt it in his pocket after. He felt for it in the elevator on your way back to your room. He felt for it before bed. He always checks every chance he gets.

So it has to be here. It has to be.

It has to be, because if he somehow lost the ring meant for you—the same ring he spent months choosing, the same ring he’s supposed to slide onto your finger today—he might actually tear this entire hotel room apart with his bare hands, floor by floor, room by room, until he finds what’s his.

“Katsuki?” you call again, a little concerned this time as you hear him rummage around. “You okay out there?”

He stares at the disaster zone already forming around him, jaw clenched so tight it aches.

“Fine, sweetheart,” he forces out. “Just couldn’t find my watch, s’all.” Then he drops to his knees and starts searching the floor all over again.

“Lost something too, huh? Feels like everything’s going missing today,” you laugh from the bathroom. 

No kidding, he almost says. And then, because apparently the universe needs to hate him more than it already does, the bathroom door clicks open.

Katsuki’s head snaps up so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash.

You step out looking beautiful—you are so, so painfully beautiful. You and your pretty new outfit with those pretty little nails and those pretty lips that are glossy exactly the way he’d imagined they’d be when he’d get to kiss them. You look so perfect, so ready to be asked to be his wife—and yet, here he is. No ring, and his plans all but turned upside down.

Your gaze drifts over the room he’s practically destroyed, glancing at the overturned suitcase, the sheets half-hanging off the bed, the clothes strewn across the mattress, the pockets of his pants from last night inside out, the drawers wide open, and Katsuki crouched on the floor near the nightstand with his expression looking like he is one second away from going unconscious.

You blink once. Then twice. Then you walk over to him.

“Oh no,” you say, frowning, “you still didn’t find your watch?”

He rises to his feet so quickly that it almost makes his head spin. “Nah. Got it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yup. Nothing to worry about.”

Your eyes narrow in suspicion. “Then why were you on the floor?”

“I was stretching.”

“Katsuki.”

“Just warmin’ up and getting my blood flowing—what’s so weird about that?”

“Warming up for what, exactly?”

“For the day,” he says, giving you his best face that says, isn’t it obvious? Like you asked a stupid question, and you’re the one who’s being weird. 

You stare at him for a long, silent moment, then glance down at his empty wrist that most definitely doesn’t have the watch he claims to have found. He wants to kick himself—you’re seeing right through his frantic lie. 

“Okay…” you say slowly, “so then why aren’t you wearing your watch if you found it, Katsuki?”

His eye twitches, and his jaw grits, and he just really wants to go home if he’s being honest. Summer is over. It’s ruined. There’s no going back from this, so he might as well just give up for now. He’ll try again next year—he’ll be more prepared and listen to his old hag of a mother for once and swallow his pride to admit she was right. All he wants to do is just go home and sleep for a week and forget this whole thing ever happened. 

“You sure are askin' a lotta questions this morning,” he says tightly.

You take a few slow steps toward him, studying his face. He knows he looks awful—that you’ll see right through him and his cracking composure. His jaw is tight. There’s a faint sheen of sweat at his temples. His breathing is just slightly off. He’s avoiding looking directly at you, which alone is enough to tell you something is deeply wrong. And you know him better than anyone. Usually, he’s grateful for it—but sometimes, at times like this, he couldn’t hate it more. 

You see right through him. 

“Katsuki.” Your voice softens. “What happened?”

“Nothing fucking happened. Who said anything happened?”

“Something definitely happened.”

“Nothing happened,” he repeats, firmer this time. “I’m fine. Room’s gonna be fine—room service’ll clean it. Everything’s fine. We’re leavin’ in five.”

“Don’t lie to me,” you argue, giving him a rather defiant look. He knows that look—that look that’s as stubborn as he is himself. You’re not going to drop this. 

“I’m not lying—”

“You are. Bakugou Katsuki, don’t take me for a fool, you hear? I’m not an idiot, so just tell me what’s going on, or I’m not leaving this hotel room.”

He rubs a hand down his face and turns away from you before you can see the panic written all over him. The despair. The heartbreak, truly—he’s absolutely devastated. If he leaves this vacation without the certainty that you’re going to be his wife, he thinks he might not even live long enough to make it to next summer so that he can try again. He’ll die of heart failure before then.

And it has to be summer. He refuses to go back home and squeeze some proposal into a random weekend just for the hell of it. It has to be perfect. It has to be meticulously planned. It has to be your favorite season, with the best plans and flawless execution. It has to be everything you deserve and more. It has to happen when the two of you can actually celebrate it together—not spend one night happy only to be thrown right back into your whirlwind lives the next morning with patrol this and extra lessons that.

And he was so close—so fucking close to making it happen. 

You’re here, you’re dressed, you’re absolutely perfect, and you’re ready to go. But he doesn’t have the ring. How could he be so useless that he couldn’t even keep a single ring safe? 

This is the most helpless he’s ever felt—the moment he’s been planning for months is slipping right through his fingers like sand. The reservation he made. The beach spot he picked out. The speech he definitely did not need and definitely did not rehearse in the shower like a fucking loser. Every part of today has been planned down to the second, and now he can’t even follow his perfect plan because he doesn’t have the one thing that matters.

You know him well, and just like he figured you would, you’ve pieced together that something is seriously wrong as you move closer, voice gentler now. “Hey. Kats, look at me.”

He doesn’t turn, doesn’t say anything. Your hand grabs his and tugs him towards you as you hug him from behind, rubbing up and down his abdomen in that soothing way that you always do. He melts against his will. 

“Katsuki. Baby.”

He slumps back and sighs.“What?”

“You’re scaring me a little.”

That makes him deflate even more. “Don’t be scared. S’nothing to worry over.”

“Well, I always worry over you, and I especially worry when you leave our hotel room a disaster scene,” you poke his belly. 

He still says nothing.

Your voice softens impossibly more. “Baby...just tell me what’s wrong. We can figure it out together—I’ll buy you a new watch if that’s what you’re sad over. It’s a watch! I know you liked it, but hey—material possessions are temporary, okay?”

“S’not the watch,” he mumbles.

“Then what is it? Tell me.”

For a fleeting second, he almost does. He almost tells you and just gets it off his chest, almost blurts the whole thing out, almost says: I lost your ring. I lost the ring I was gonna propose with, and I ruined everything. You’d know what to do. You’d make it better. You’d fix it like you always do. But he doesn’t want you to fix it—he wants to make things good for you, for once. You’re always fixing his fucking mistakes. Always dealing with his disasters and dealing with his nonsense. Katsuki knows he’s not easy to deal with. He knows you’re a saint for putting up with him. So he sighs, ready to swallow down the words, tell you everything is fine, and make sure you have a good time tonight—and for the rest of this trip, too, for that matter. 

“S’nothing, okay? C’mon, we have a good time ahead of us—I’m one hell of a planner, baby,” he says as he turns, pulls you into his arms, throws on his best smug grin, and kisses your forehead. 

—————

Katsuki is lying to you. 

You know that he is. When you come out of the bathroom and see your hotel room an absolute mess, you know something weird is up. Katsuki hates messes—hates when something is out of place for longer than five minutes. He grumbles about your stray hoodies thrown about the apartment and the way you have so many pillows on the bed just to toss them to the floor when you get ready to sleep. He huffs when you don’t clean as you cook and save everything for the end, messing up the kitchen to make one meal. He gives you a flat look when you have empty coffee cups in the cup holders of your car and throws them all away himself with an exasperated shake of his head. 

Katsuki hates messes. He’s not messing up your room, then leaving it a mess without cleaning up unless something’s wrong. Seriously wrong.

But he won’t tell you. You know he won’t tell you until he decides that he can, and sometimes, he might even decide that it will never happen. Getting Katsuki to tell you anything before he decides to is like pulling teeth—except you’ve never met such a stubborn fucking tooth that won’t budge. 

When he tells you, S’nothing, okay?, and turns around to give you a kiss on your forehead as if that will just make you forget, you’re mildly insulted. But he’s on vacation, too—he’s on the rare time off that he lets himself take once a year for a week and a half at most, and you want it to be good for him. Need it to be good for him. You need him to have a good time and enjoy himself because summer, with you, is the one time he lets himself be selfish and do what he wants. He ignores phone calls and emails, and he even sleeps in after staying up late. 

You know he’s lying, but you decide if that will keep him happy, if just for a week and a half, then you’ll let him lie and hide the truth and forget about whatever it is that’s got him so panicked. 

“You’re sure it’s nothing?” You kiss his jaw. 

He relaxes, shoulders slumping as you drop it. “Yeah, I’m sure. Now let’s go. You look hot, by the way—m’gonna rip that skirt right off’a you when we get back.”

“Don’t even think about it,” you huff, “Ochako spent a long time planning this outfit. She’ll be so sad if it doesn’t make it back.”

Ochako has never been so particular about your outfits before—you’ve never shopped with her at such fancy stores, either. She is never one to spend money on excessively expensive things, but for some unknown reason, she’d insisted that your dream vacation spot requires just as dreamy of a wardrobe, and you let her entertain her whims. A part of you wonders if it’s because she’d never dare take herself on such a nice trip or wear such nice clothes even if her paycheck now more than allows it of her, so you let it happen for the sake of allowing your friend to indulge a little, even if it’s not for herself. 

Katsuki huffs out a rather strained chuckle at your comment. “Leave it to Pink Cheeks to ruin my fuckin’ fun,” he grumbles. But he’s distracted. You can tell. “She hangs out with that nerd too much.”

You’re just about to correct him for what feels like the millionth time over the years—their names are Ochaco and Izuku, Katsuki. You’ve known them long enough to get it right by now. 

But then your eyes focus on the floor behind him at something. Your blood runs cold when you squint and get a better look—because if you’re not mistaken, and you’re pretty sure you aren’t, you’re looking directly at a tiny velvet box half-hidden beneath the edge of the dresser.

Your eyes flick from the box to the inside-out pockets on the pants that lay about. To the overturned suitcase. To the half-stripped bed. To the sweat at his temples. To the look in his eyes that feels like the world is ending over something he refuses to tell you about. And then back to the small velvet box peeking out from beneath the dresser. 

You have a sick feeling you know exactly what’s in the box—and suddenly, it all feels so…so obvious. How did you ever miss it? The way Yaomomo insisted on getting your nails done together. How she insisted on picking for you what to get, on matching your nails to hers—oh please, let’s just match this once together! The way Mina seemed so interested in your rings, trying them on as she rummaged through your jewelry and asked, oh my gosh, I think we’re the same size…what’s your ring size? The way Ochako grabbed your hands and stared at your nails as she’d complimented them with such satisfaction before planning your outfit accordingly—you have to have at least one fancy outfit for the trip, don’t you think?

Everything clicks into place so suddenly, it almost leaves you breathless.

The way he’s so panicked. The way he tore your room upside down. The way, even before all of that, he insisted on this trip being so carefully planned. 

Oh—it hits you all at once. Oh. 

Your heart gives one hard, dizzying thud against your chest. Then it starts pounding so loudly, your ears feel like they’re ringing. 

Katsuki is talking, saying something about how you need to grab a jacket and the air will be chilly when the sun sets at the beach, and he’s not going to share his like he always does this time. “Hey,” he huffs, “are you even listening—”

You step around him quietly, paying him no mind. He stops mid-sentence, brows knitting as he watches you crouch near the dresser. Your fingers reach beneath the edge of the wood and come back holding the little velvet box. And just like that, silence drops over the room—his words cut off mid-sentence. 

Katsuki goes completely still.

You straighten slowly, box cradled gently in your palm like something fragile and delicate. Like the wind will blow it away if you’re not careful. Like you can’t bear to lose this one thing you’re holding. His face drains of color as it pales, and his shoulders sag as if someone cut the strings holding him upright.

For the first time since you’ve known Bakugou Katsuki, for the first time in the years and years you’ve loved him and seen him through every lens and angle possible, he looks utterly, completely, spectacularly defeated.

You glance at the room again—at the chaos, the evidence of a frantic search, the proof of how badly he’d been spiraling trying to find this box that he’d been carrying around for you. Then you look back at him. At your Katsuki—your angry, grouchy, gruff Katsuki who loves you so carefully, so delicately, so effortlessly, he teaches you a whole new side of love that you never knew of. 

Your chest aches with fondness, and your eyes feel that familiar sting at the back of them that you try to fight back. 

You take a step closer, voice quiet as you murmur, “Kats...” Another step. One more. He’s stiff, and his jaw is clenched as he keeps his gaze fixed on the box in your hands. You lift the box slightly between you. “Is this what you were looking for?”

His eyes close as he lets out a shaky breath. A rough exhale leaves him through his nose, and you’ve never quite heard him sound so helpless. 

“Yeah,” he mutters hoarsely, rubbing his temple. “I…fuck—yeah, sweetheart. That’d be it.”

You fight back a watery smile. “It was under the dresser.”

“I can see that.”

“I think you were too frazzled and missed it.”

“I’m painfully aware.”

“It’s okay—it happens to the best of us, baby. We all lose things.”

His eyes crack open into a glare, but there’s no real heat behind it. “You wanna keep rubbin’ it in or are you done?”

You can’t help it—you laugh softly, stepping into his personal space and bringing a hand against his chest, rubbing slow circles. His heartbeat is still pounding wildly beneath your palm.

“You were planning to propose?”

He looks away immediately. “No. Who the fuck said that—you see a box and think I’m gonna get on my knees for you? Don’t get so confident—”

“Katsuki.”

“Fuck,” he groans, throwing his head back. “Can’t you just let me have this? Fuck—yes, I was going to propose. Happy? Wanna hear my speech too, just so you’re in the loop?”

“I mean, if you’re offering,” you shrug playfully.

His head slumps forward to your shoulder as he hugs you close. Hugs you tight and close like the proximity is the only thing keeping him together. “Be quiet.”

You turn your head and kiss his temple, letting him stay like that for a few moments before stepping away. Before he can protest as you pull back, you lift his hand and place the small box carefully into it, curling his fingers around it.

“Here,” you murmur. “I found your watch.”

“What the fuck are you saying—”

“Put your watch on and hurry up, we’re already twenty minutes behind schedule, and you said we have lots to do before our dinner reservation.”

You turn on your heel, stepping over the clothes on the floor like they’re not even there. Behind you, there’s a long stretch of silence. Then, “...You cannot be serious.”

You glance at him over your shoulder. He’s still standing where you left him, the velvet box clenched in one hand, staring at you as if you’ve grown two heads.

“What now?” you give him a flat look.

He gives you a look right back. “There’s no point in actin’ like it’s still a surprise, idiot.”

You blink, looking almost convincingly confused. “What are you talking about?”

His eyes narrow as he scoffs. “Don’t start this shit.”

He’s pocketing the ring, though. That dejected look on his face is gone and…and you would almost dare to say he’s fighting back a grin as he walks over to you. You reach for your perfume and spritz your wrists as you hum, “I’m not starting anything. Anyway, do I look okay?”

“Woman, you can’t be real.”

“Katsuki, I’m being very real.” You mimic right back, smiling sweetly at him as you gesture to your outfit. “How do I look?”

He snorts, rolling his eyes. “Beautiful. You fucking know that—you make everyone else look hideous.”

“Maybe we don’t have to put others down when you compliment me,” you scold.

“I’m just telling it like it is,” he snickers, grabbing your wrist and pulling you flush against him as he kisses you. Hard. He kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you. Your lips on his, your body against him, and your head cradled in his palms. You bring your hands up to bury into his unruly tufts of hair, and in a few hours, there will be a cool, metal band on one of the fingers that so regularly tangles into his hair. 

You can hardly wait.

“You’re wasting time,” you breathe as you pull away, lip gloss smeared against your lips and his, “Now we’re twenty-five minutes behind schedule.”

“Then move it, smartass. We’re burnin’ daylight,” he says, and when he drags you through the doors and takes you outside, when the sun hits his skin and his eyes meet yours, you think about how it’s summer. You like it when it’s summer. 

Summer is when Katsuki is going to ask you to be his wife, and summer is when you will say yes. Summer is when you’re going to spend the rest of your life with Bakugou Katsuki.

•───────•°•🕮•°•───────•

The book closes with a thud in your lap. Head in your hands you begin mumbling versions of “ohmygod” and “holy shit” under your breath repeatedly.

From the other side of the couch, your boyfriend lifts his gaze from his book with a cracked spine and raises an eyebrow at you. An amused smile creeps onto his face as he watches you digest the last pages of your book. It might be a little odd, but Jason always enjoyed watching you read.

The reading dates you would set up were some of his favorites. You’d make cookies, tea, light a couple of candles, and the tv echoed with a soft jazz of whatever hour-long animal crossing video you’d found on YouTube (from what you’d told him, they made you feel less lonely). You’d never get more than two pages in until you started making faces, the expressions that would cross your features made him feel like he was reading the book with you. At some points you’d start mumbling the scenes to yourself without realizing. It was such a stark contrast to how Jason read; he typically needed complete silence to focus, maybe a lamp next to him, and he wouldn’t move from his spot on the couch for hours on end. He’d have one pen, possibly a highlighter to annotate if he was feeling colorful.

The only thing you both had in common while reading was how immersed you both got. The tea would cool to a lukewarm temperature, Roku City would cast a purple hue across the living room long after the YouTube playlist ended, the world could be ending outside, but you would both still be on the couch. The only interruption of the night being when you reached across the small expanse of the couch, in order to push his reading glasses back up the bridge of his nose when they’d slid down too far.

It was perfect.

“Did you enjoy your book baby?” His voice not quite succeeding in hiding the amusement of your reaction.

Your hands pause momentarily from wiping down your face and meet his painfully green eyes, awe painted across your cheeks. “It. Was. PERFECT.” He knew right then what was about to happen. So, he shut his own book delicately placing the pen between the pages and sat cris cross on the couch waiting for the inevitable rant that followed every one of your books. “Jason, I can’t even put into words how fantastic this trilogy was- I want to read them all again already.”

He snorted while watching you flail your hands around while explaining the plot. His eyes momentarily glanced down to the unassuming cover. You paid no mind to his drifting eyes and continued explaining how a human girl became the queen of the fae, something about not wanting to kill a snake because it was actually her husband, how she killed it and actually got her husband back, and how the main character finally got some form of peace in the end. He nodded along cataloguing every word that left your mouth.

“Jason you don’t get it,” apparently his small nods and hums wasn’t the response you were looking for tonight. “All she wanted for the three books was power, it’s all she worked toward. She would never make deals with the faeries, she never trusted them, never did anything to sacrifice her power. But when he turns into a snake, she starts begging to any higher up to bring him back.” He watched your hands brush through the roots of your hair, testing to see if that will help you conceptualize the brain altering series you just finished. “She says she’ll make any bargain- that she would even resign from her position as the queen to get him back. Do you know how insane that is for her to admit? It’s not out of character exactly, but that level of desperation. Oh my goodness it was life changing, that level of yearning is so ugh.”

He smiles at your recollection of the novel. You always spoke so much more passionately than him, the way your eyes sparkled after you finished a story rivaled every masterpiece in the Louvre. Jason always admired how you wore your heart on your sleeve. Despite to what he’d admit, you were both emotionally driven, but you were the only one who was proud of it.

“Jay, you have to read it.”

That brought him right back to earth.

Now, Jason is always taking book recommendations, but he had his lane and he liked to stay in it. He knew what genres he liked, what he enjoyed; so, he very rarely experimented outside of it.

“Baby…” he draws out the nickname, and you don’t even let him finish. Crawling over the mess of blankets on the couch, you sit up on your knees in front of him.

Hands clasped together your head is looking down and he’s trying to bite back the nervous grin at your display. “Please Jay, pleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseeeeeee.”

He sighs out your name, and you look up at him hopefully. “You know I prefer reading classics.” Convincing him to read YA fantasy was going to be a difficult task, but you weren’t going to give up yet.

Dropping your hands you frown at him. His eyes narrow at the expression, he knew your tactics. “No-” was all he got out before you dropped the bomb.

“If you don’t love me just say that.”

He groaned and threw his head back. “C’mon don’t get like that.”

“I’m just stating the facts, Jason.” He brings his gaze back to yours, with a painting on his features that couldn’t be described as anything but unimpressed. Propping an elbow on the back of the couch you sigh in mock devastation while resting your head on your hand. “What’s a girl supposed to believe when her boyfriend won’t even read a book for her.”

He pursed his lips at the obvious manipulation. At his reaction, you stand from the couch. He tries to grab your arm to pull you back in, but you wiggle out of his grasp. It didn’t matter how much he worked out or that he was double your size, his strength was always going to be child’s play to you.

You pick up your book from where it fell on the floor, and your name falls from his lips like a plea.

That’s when it hit you.

You’re not entirely sure why that made it click, but you knew how to convince him to read the book. Turning away from him with a smirk, you walk the seven steps to the kitchen to get a glass of water.

His eyes are on your back the whole time. You hum for a moment before announcing, “No Jason I get it, it’s fine.” Alarm bells started ringing in his head, t levels of passive aggressiveness you could reach needed to be studied. That’s when you turn back to look at him, leaning against the kitchen counter, book still in hand. “But I’m sure if Diana asked, you would have finished them by tomorrow.”

His jaw practically unhinged at your statement with a scoff of disbelief.

When you were first introduced to his family a couple of months ago, his brothers teased him relentlessly. At first, you weren’t quite sure why they were poking fun at him with the fact that he was dating Wonder Girl. The general assumption was just that this is how brothers act, and you were the first girl he had brought home.

But after one too many comments about being Wonder Girl, you turned to Jason and asked a question that was supposed to be just for the two of you. Unfortunately for Jason, Dick heard. He practically howled when he heard you ask about why his siblings had a Wonder Girl obsession. Bruce did try to calm him down but it was no use; Dick had grown a shit-eating grin with a red-faced Jason threatening him from across the table. That’s when he betrayed his deepest secret.

Jason Todd’s childhood crush was Diana.

That’s when it clicked. Apparently, he was obsessed with Wonder Woman and Dick had to hear all about it in his early days as Nightwing. Alfred even pulled out a picture of Jason in a Wonder Woman sweatshirt and matching sweatpants, he couldn’t have been over than nine. He was missing one of his front teeth, but that didn’t stop him from smiling like he’d won the lottery. The photo was probably the cutest thing you’d ever laid your eyes on, Jason doesn’t know it, but Alfred gave you a copy of the picture. It’s treasured, hidden behind the photo framed on your nightstand.

His crush on Diana was the most innocent secret, and Jason had acted like someone had uncovered a body he’d hidden. He was nothing short of mortified when you found out, but behind the deep flush and scars on his cheeks you saw his freckles. A small ounce of evidence that the eight-year-old boy who became Robin was still there behind the years of cruelty.

There at that dining table, watching his family tease him, felt like a scab was healing. Because here, Jason Todd was more than just the Robin who once stared death in the eye. He was more than the child who watched the world fail him. He was the boy who let himself believe in magic again and allowed himself to fall in love.

Yet as much as you loved him, you never let him forget about his crush. It was most likely why he didn’t tell you or wanted you to find out. This was your favorite fact about him, and you used it against him constantly. It got to the point he made you agree to a truce where you wouldn’t bring it up anymore. He had actually begged you, dropped down onto his knees and all.

 He knew you never meant it in a serious way. It was just really funny to you that he had a crush on your Diana, and the fact that he was embarrassed about it made it that much better. There was really no shame in having a crush on her either, it was a prepubescent rite of passage. It was harder to name people who didn’t have a crush on her at some point.

His eyes narrowing at you brings you back to the moment, “you said you wouldn’t use that anymore.”

“Yeah well, my word isn’t worth much.”

There’s a wrinkle in between his eyebrows from the confusion. “What the hell is that supposed to mean.”

Raising your arm with the book in hand, “you’d get it if-” you chuck the book at him. “You read the book.” The paperback hits him square in the chest and he catches it with his left hand, keeping it there for a second.

He rolls his eyes, but there’s a smirk he’s trying to hide. He never thought he’d get this life- to have someone who would laugh and read with him. He never believed he’d be gifted someone who would be soft with him despite all his rough edges.

Had it been anyone else, he would’ve told them to fuck off and forget about the book. For all his vices, his one virtue was that he could never deny you anything. He supposes that’s why he resigns to the idea. He was already picturing the smile on your face when he’d ask you about it. He could draw the way your eyes would shut from smiling so wide from memory.

So, with a deep sigh he throws his head back and mutters, “Fine, but I’m only reading the firs-”

Before he can even open his eyes or finish the sentence, your arms are wrapped around his head.

Your head was buried in the crook of his neck and the force from which you shot yourself across the room made him fell back into the couch. His hand instantly went to cradle the back of your head, with the other rested on your back as you laid on top of him.

You stayed like that momentarily, just lying there holding each other. The scent of your floral perfume felt like a breath of fresh air in the Gotham pollution he was accustomed too. Then after a second of him being able to breath again, all the air in his lungs is robbed from him as you prop yourself up over him. When he looks up at you, he thinks he can finally die happy. The way your hair falls around your face, the remnants of a laugh on your lips, the way you look incandescently happy behind your eyes- it was as if he was falling in love all over again.

“You’re going to love it, I promise.”

He gives you an “mhm,” since it was all his brain could manage to put together. He knew he would find some joy in it, even if he ended up not being fond of the book. If anything was tied to you, he would love it. It may not be his genre of choice, but he would find you in between the pages and that was enough.

•───────•°•🕮•°•───────•

As the days passed you could tell he was slowly getting more and more into the book. Even if he didn’t want to admit it, he was invested. You could tell by the little comments he’d give you as he read. He would pause in between reading and give you an inquisitive look if you were near, or he would shoot you a text or call. It made you laugh with every development from the first book.

“This Locke guy is giving me weird vibes.”

“Are you sure about Cardan? He’s kind of a dick.”

“Why won’t Madoc just let her be a knight? It’s not that serious.”

The updates he was giving you from the first book made you remember how much you’d forgotten.

“Dain’s bad news isn’t he?”

It was frustrating how easily he could decipher books and predict what are supposed to be shocking twists. There was Bruce to thank for that.

The call came in while you were watering your plants in your apartment.

“Madoc killed the royal family?”

The shock in his voice made you laugh.

“I told you, you’d enjoy it.”

He scoffed on the phone.

The next time you saw him he had finished the book. It was just a night for both of you to relax together after a long week. You weren’t sure of the specifics, but you knew he and Bruce were trying to crack down on something down at the Iceberg Lounge. He was burning himself out slowly but surely. And in a last-minute effort to give him a break, you planned one of your famous “wind down nights” with him.

He was currently lying on top of you and letting out soft moans into your neck while you played with his hair. For all his tough guy act, he really did love coming home and getting to just be an unapologetic version of himself with you. He didn’t have to be Robin, Red Hood, Bruce Wayne’s ward, he was just Jason.

And for the first time in his life, he knew that was enough.

“You can admit you liked the book y’know” Your voice came out breathless while his arms tightened around your waist.

He does nothing but hum into your frame. Shaking your head, you shift your head slightly and pull at the roots of his hair so that he can actually see you. Giving him a knowing look, he sighs in resignation.

“Yeah I thought it was good.” He mumbles.

You snort. “Wow I didn’t know it would be such a sacrifice to admit you liked something that wasn’t published a minimum of a hundred years ago.”

He sticks his tongue out at you in response.

A small huff of laughter escapes you, before you kiss his nose. “I saw you swipe the second book anyway. I knew you liked it regardless of what you said.”

“Then why make me say anything?”

“Because I wanted to hear you say that I was right.”

He rolls his eyes with no malice behind them. “I always tell you you’re right.”

Shrugging your shoulders, a sly grin grows on your face. “Still nice to hear.”

Then after a shake of his head, he leans in. The kiss was slow but passionate, full of everything he never had to say, that he was completely and irrevocably yours.

When he pulls away he’s got a wicked look in his eye.

“I think of you often, I can’t stop.”

It was a quote from the book- meant to be endearing you’re sure. But you can’t stop yourself from cringing at him.

“Oh my god,” you push him while you scrunch your nose and he laughs like he got the reaction he wanted. “You’re so cheesy you know that right.”

“Only for you baby.” He mutters retaking his place in the crook of your neck. “Only for you.”

•───────•°•🕮•°•───────•

Bonus:

“Stop moving your going to mess it up.”

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.” He mutters while looking at your work.

His left hand is held in between both of yours. Your hunched over the bed while the brush of the black nail polish paints his nails.

“Jason It’s Halloween,” you mumble while focusing. “It’s not exactly unheard of to do a couple’s costu- There!” You pull away as you finish the final stroke.

He looks ever the part of the High King and you can’t help but snort.

“What’s so funny?”

“Well, it’s a little ironic no?” At the blank look on his face you decide to specify. “Well in the books Cardan is one of the fae and Jude is mortal. And well, I’m the Amazonian and you’re the human.”

“Is that one of the reasons you liked the book? It reminded you of us?”

“I mean a little bit, Jude reminded me of you though.”

There was an incredulous look across his face. “Really?”

“Yeah,” the answer was honest as it spilled from your lips. “When I first met you, you had the same distrust for the world which was warranted- for both of you. Then slowly, you started letting people into your circle and you actually became someone you were comfortable with. You see the same growth from Jude through the three books, and it reminded me of you.”

He looks stunned, as if he was watching you unlock the inner workings of his mind. You didn’t want to freak him out too much with the psychoanalyzing, so you dropped a little joke.

“You’re both also freakishly hot.”

He knew what you were doing. You’d done it more times than he could count. You had a habit of saying something funny when the air got to serious at a time that might not be appropriate. Yet, he couldn’t ignore what you said.

You’d seen him. He had been recommended so many books over the course of his life, but no one had shaped the recommendation because they saw a version of himself in a book. It was something he never knew he wanted. The version of himself that you were referencing wasn’t one he necessarily loved, but it still made his heart flutter. To know that someone saw every ugly nook and cranny there was of him and still chose to be with him at the end of the day. That someone would be there on the good days and the bad.

To know that someone loved him completely and blindly. He knew you loved him, but this made it feel like he was hearing it for the first time all over again.

He pulls you impossibly close to where you can taste his breath on your tongue,

“By you I am undone forever.”   

•───────•°•🕮•°•───────•

A/N: Sooooooo this is my finally deciding that I’m going to do a reread of tfota.

He smiles at your recollection of the novel.

🥺🥺🥺i love him so much i love him i love him i love him he’s making me go crazy

But I’m sure if Diana asked, you would have finished them by tomorrow.”

LMAOFJFJFJF jason’s so real how could someone not have a crush on diana 😍

it was as if he was falling in love all over again.

words cannot describe how much i love this

i stoped copying everything down because if i kept going i’d copy the whole thing down i fear. THIS IS EVERYTHING. FUCKFHFJ ITS SO CUTE AND FUN I NEEDA REREAD THIS

I'm on fire. - Bruce Springsteen

Golden light peeking through the darkness is what initially pulls you from sleep.

It’s slow and gentle like a cool breeze through your hair. 

Your eyes flutter, not quite opening, and a scent so familiar that invades your ability to think has you rolling.

The world comes back to you in pieces as you finally manage to blink your eyes open.

The roof above your head is not your own, the ceilings too high and too smooth. A band of light streaks across your arms and a thick duvet is bunched around your waist. 

You feel warm. Refreshed too, in a way you almost forgot possible..

For a minute, you just lay there, staring up at the unfamiliar ceiling while your brain scrambles to catch up with your body.

The memory slots into place a moment later.

The shift.

The gas leak.

Abbot’s apartment. 

You shuffle on to your elbows and take in the apartment. Jack’s heavy blackout curtains are keeping most of the afternoon light at bay, but some of it slips through the gaps in between the curtains, casting the hardwood floor in bold streaks of light.

Your eyes drift down the hallway, expecting to see Abbot leaning against the wall or hear him shuffling around in his room, but the place is quiet.

Another memory hits you.

Abbot trying to convince you to sleep in his bed so he won’t wake you up when he leaves for SWAT. You may even recall seeing him in uniform, but you can’t seem to make that memory come into focus.

You’re not sure how long he’s been a SWAT physician. As far as you’re concerned, he’s always been one.

You’ll never forget the first time you saw him walk in through the doors of the ambulance bay—green tactical gear, sidearm strapped to his hip, sweat dripping along his brow. 

He pushed a stretcher that carried a SWAT officer, blood spilling at her shoulder, staining her own green uniform. 

It was a miracle she had survived. An inch to the right and the bullet would’ve torn straight through her heart. 

You had only been working under Abbot for a few months then, and to say you were shocked was an understatement. 

You couldn’t figure out what kind of person runs into active fire just to keep someone alive long enough to make it to the hospital. 

It didn't take long to determine that Jack Abbot is exactly that type of person.

It terrified you, just the thought of doing that. Of him doing that.

You don’t know what you would do if he was ever the one that came in on the stretcher.

You sit up a little more, tucking your feet under yourself, and reach for your phone on the coffee table.

Your phone lights up with a photo of you and your best friend on a dock in Portland, Maine. It makes you smile. The memory of the week you spent last summer back in your hometown is one of the fondest you have.

You love Pittsburgh, but there will always be a part of you that aches for Portland.

You’re shocked when you see the time. 

4:52.

Shit, you’ve been asleep for almost 8 hours.

You scroll through your phone, checking your texts and emails for missed updates about your apartment, but have received none.

You let out a frustrated sigh, and shoot a text to your landlord requesting a timeline for the fix, but knowing your landlord, he’ll take forever to get back to you.

Light catches on your arm, and you turn toward where it silters in through a crack between the curtains.

Placing your phone beside you on the couch, you pull back the duvet and stand before walking over to the window. 

You grasp the end of the curtain in your hand and walk it back to the other end of the wall. 

The apartment is suddenly cast in the most amazing hues of yellow and gold. It’s soft and warm where it meets your skin as you move to stand in the center of the room.

The sky is painted with a mix of pinks and oranges and purples, not a cloud in sight. At this time of day, the sun is still a ways above the horizon, but it creeps down and down, the bottom end beginning to tuck behind some tall, faraway building. 

You were right about the sunset here being breathtaking.

You’re not sure how long you stand there, just watching, before moving to the couch and continuing to do the same. 

Facing the back of the couch with your knees tucked to your chest, duvet around your shoulders, you watch. Watch as the sun dips lower, sometimes ducking behind buildings before reappearing as it moves across the sky. The colours in the apartment move from its dominant gold to cool purple as night begins to take shape.

Taking out your phone, you’re unable to help yourself as you take a few photos.

You’ve always had an affinity for sunsets. Some of the best you’ve seen were on the pier back home in Portland, though the winter you went skiing in Banff had a few that were at the top of your list.

That memory makes your chest ache.

A weekend in the mountains with more time spent in the lodge then the hill. You and your friends and a boy you’d know anywhere, with your eyes and your smile.

Moving the photos into your designated ‘sunset’ album, you turn your phone off again.

You sit there for a while longer, barely registering when the sound of keys slide into the lock and the door creaking open.

Dragging your eyes from the window, you spot Abbot slipping in through the door, looking for all the world like he’s breaking into his own home. 

He quietly toes off his boots, swearing under his breath when his duffle bag hits the floor a little louder than he intended. He fumbles with his keys, before dropping them too, sending another string of foul words out of his mouth.

It makes you smile.

When he steps from the small foyer and into the living room, he freezes, finally registering your eyes on him. 

Sweat stains the under arms of his camo sweater, his usual curls are plastered to his forehead, and something dark stains the cuffs of his top. 

He just stands there, like he’s been caught stealing.

“Hey,” you say, humour coating the tone of your voice, “Do you usually sneak into your apartment like that?” 

“Uh, no,” he replies, a little stilted. “I was trying not to wake you.”

“Your key juggling routine really sold that.” 

He huffs a little, the corner of his mouth tugging upward, but it's not really a smile.

Your mouth opens to ask if he’s okay, but he beats you to it.

“How long have you been up?” He enters the living room more fully, dropping his bag on the floor by the end of the couch.

“Not long,” you say, rotating your body to face him fully. “I was just watching the sunset.”

He nods, then turns to pull off his sweater. His black undershirt gets caught as he tugs it over his head and you catch a glimpse of his back muscles rippling as it goes.

Your face heats and you have to look away.

You won't deny that Abbot is attractive. 

It’s something you hear often enough at work—from staff and patients alike—that it would be hard to ever contest.

Not that you would. 

The way his arms strain against the sleeves of his t-shirt, the broadness of his chest, his salt-and-pepper hair, the faint stubble along his jaw. His eyes. His laugh. His hands and—

You hear Abbot say your name, like he’s said it a few times already, trying to grab your attention.

“What?” You say a little dumbly.

“I asked if you slept okay,” he responds, brows pinched, “though I think I’ve got my answer.”

You fumble for words, wondering what the actual fuck is wrong with you before managing: “Actually, I slept pretty good. Thanks again for letting me stay.”

“Of course,” he shrugs, tossing his sweater on top of his duffle bag, before falling to the couch with a grunt. He reaches down and begins unfastening his prosthetic from his leg. 

“How did it go today?” You ask, watching as he sets aside the metal limb and begins to massage the end of his leg.

“Fine.” His brows furrow when he presses into a particular spot with his thumb. “Just a standard drug bust.” 

“Nothing about the words ‘drug bust’ sounds standard,” you reply. Your eyes track his frame despite yourself. His shoulders are tense, lips pressed into a thin line, and every so often a quiet breath slips through his teeth when his fingers find the wrong spot.

Your brain moves automatically. Years of medical training kick in. Nerve damage. Pressure points. Maybe the liner rubbed the wrong way during the op. Then, a dozen or so solutions form a line in your head before you can rein them in.

But the last thing you want to do is treat him like a patient. 

You know him well enough to know he’d hate that.

So, instead you ask, voice steady and soft: “Can I get anything for you?”

His hands still before hazel eyes meet yours, pinning you to the couch.

For a second, you think he’s going to wave you off.

But then he nods down the hall, towards his room.

“I have some cream in my bathroom,” he says, eyes casting down again, resuming his ministrations on his leg. “Small white tube, top drawer.” 

You are about to nod and stand when he adds: “If you don't mind.”

His words send a jolt through you. It’s rare to hear him hesitate like this. Like he hasn't had someone do this for him in a long time.

“I don’t mind,” you respond, standing. 

You pad off down the hall and towards his bedroom. 

When you push open the door, you’re greeted with dark hardwood floors stretching beneath a large—no doubt king sized—bed. The sheets are still rumpled from where he must have slept, the duvet kicked halfway down the mattress. The curtains are still drawn, blocking out any of the light that tries to spill in. 

The room is neat in a way that suggests he doesn't spend much time here. There's a stray jacket thrown over a chair in the corner, a watch rests carefully next to a stack of books on his bedside table.

There’s another bedside table on the far side of the bed, closer to the windows, but nothing other than a small lamp sits there.

Your eyes drift over the space slowly before you realize why you actually came in here.

You step into the attached bathroom and pull open the top drawer. 

Sure enough a small, half-empty, white tube sits exactly where he said it would be.

As you turn to leave, your eyes catch on two different bottles of hand soap by the sink. 

One labeled lemon-cedar. The other is the same bottle from the bathroom you used.

Lavender.

You let out a contemplative hum before walking back to the living room, the small tube of cream clutched in your palm.

When you reach him, he’s still hunched over, fingers pressing and pulling muscle and skin in an attempt to ease his discomfort. 

“Is this it?” You hold out the tube to him, letting him examine it.

“Yeah.” He reaches for it.

Your fingers brush when he takes it. The contact is brief, but you feel it.

He flips the cap open and squeezes a small amount of clear gel onto his fingers. You catch the icy scent of menthol as he rubs it into his skin.  

The sun hangs low on the horizon now, light fading fast as night creeps in. 

The remaining golden glow of the day settles over Jack illuminating the freckles across his skin and catching in the dark hues of his hair. 

You cast your eyes to the city skyline, watching the remnants of the sun fade.

Abbot’s voice startles you out of your stupor. “The sunsets are pretty amazing here.”

You look back to where he’s sat on the couch. 

“Yeah,” you breathe, briefly flicking your eyes back to the window. “I think I spent something like 2 hours just watching it.”

“It’s hard to look away sometimes.”

When you turn back from the window, his eyes are on you. 

You watch each other for a few moments, his hazel eyes almost glowing where the light catches them. 

He scans your face, like he might find some hidden truth laying there that would explain the inner workings of who you are.

He must not find anything, because he clears his throat and hands the small tube back to you a moment later.

“Thanks,” he says, voice gruff and raw. 

“Of course.” You turn and head back towards the bathroom to return the tube.

When you reenter the living room again, he’s reattached his prosthesis and adjusts his weight on it as he stands. 

You frown, knowing he should be giving his leg a break, but you refrain from saying anything.

He knows his limits. You think.

“I’m going to grab a quick shower,” he says, picking up his discarded duffel bag and hauling it over his shoulder. 

You linger on the movement longer than you should.

“Okay,” you reply, moving out of the way of the hall and towards the couch.

He trades places with you, before turning. “What’s the status of your apartment?”

Shit, right, your apartment.

You’ve been taking up Abbot’s space for so long, it’s a wonder he hasn't asked you to leave sooner. He obviously doesn't want his resident hanging around the one place that he doesn't have to think about work.

You snatch your phone up from the coffee table a little quicker than necessary and scroll through your notifications. 

Surprisingly, a message from your landlord sits at the top, informing you that you can return to your apartment at eight o’clock, which means you only have about forty-five minutes to wait.

“Looks like it’ll be ready for eight,” you tell Abbot, who leans patiently against the wall. “But I can head out now and be out of your hair. I’ll probably grab something to eat along the way so by the time eight rolls around I’ll be good to go back in.”

You’re rambling and you know it, reaching for the duvet cover to fold it back up.

Your hands barely grasp the ends of the sheet when Abbot stops you again.

“Hey, I’m not kicking you out,” he says, straightening from the wall. “You can stay here as long as you like.”

You drop the duvet from your hands, turning to face him. 

“And I really appreciate that, Abbot. But I don’t want to impose anymore than I have.”

He lets his bag drop back to the floor before taking a few steps towards you. “Well, I've got a pretty packed schedule of ordering takeout and watching Survivor until the sun comes up… but I think I could make room. If you want?”

You hesitate. 

It would be so easy to say no. To retreat when the option is still there. To pack your things, grab dinner in a diner and hangout there until your apartment is ready. No blurred lines. No overthinking. No… whatever this is.

But your eyes meet his.

He doesn’t look put out. Tired? Yes. But there's something else. Like you fading with the light of the day just means another night he spends alone in an apartment that's too big for himself.

He’s careful when he watches you. Like he knows he could push, but chooses not too.

And, if you’re being honest, the thought of going back to your apartment alone—eating a frozen pizza and scrolling on your phone until you're tired enough to sleep—doesn't sound like the most appealing idea to you either. 

“Okay,” you say slowly, then again, a little more firm, “Okay, I’ll stay.”

He nods, then reaches out his phone and tosses it at you. You barely manage to catch it when he speaks.

“Order some takeout. But not from that Italian place from down the street. That stuff gave me food poisoning last time.” 

He turns and walks down the hall, snatching up his bag as he goes, leaving you to huff out a laugh.

After discovering Abbot has got every single food delivery app known to man downloaded to his phone, you settle on DoorDash—ordering Chinese from a place a few blocks over that has yet to fail you.

You shift on the couch, pulling the duvet around you again and reach for the remote.

It takes a few minutes to find Survivor—along with every food delivery app, Abbot’s also got every single streaming service loaded on his TV.

By the time he reappears, you’ve got your feet tucked underneath you with Survivor quietly playing in the background.

He’s got on a worn t-shirt and sweats, hair damp and curling at the edges. 

He pauses when he sees you already have the episode playing.

“Starting without me?” he asks, approaching the couch.

“I’ve never actually seen Survivor,” you comment, mouth curving, “figured I’d get a head start.”

When he reaches the sectional, he carefully lowers himself down on the other end. 

There’s a beat when neither of you know what to do with the space.

But then he leans forward, reaching for the remote and rewinds the episode to the beginning. 

“I can’t believe you’ve never seen Survivor.” He shakes his head.

“Whats more unbelievable than the fact that I haven't seen it is that you have,” you say, a teasing note slipping into your voice. 

“What?” he inclines, brows furrowing, “I can’t like reality TV?”

“I didn't say that, just figured you’d be more into…”

You trail off, not actually having any idea of what kind of media he would consume.

He gives you an expectant look.

“Ok, so, I don't know,” you admit. “I just didn’t realize you liked that sort of thing.”

“I’m gonna try not to be offended by that.” 

Silence settles over you two again, but it's comfortable this time. 

You watch the show play out: contestants balancing on narrow wooden beams, swinging on ropes, arguing over nothing around crackling camp fires. 

Abbot chimes in here and there, explaining challenges and immunities like you haven't spent the last ten minutes trying to figure it out yourself.

It occurs to you that this is exactly his type of show.

It’s all strategy and endurance. Physical challenges and split second decisions. You can see the way his mind works through it—how he’d approach a challenge, what he’d do to shave seconds off a course. 

You don’t doubt for a second that he thinks he could win.

It annoys you—that he’s so confident.

Mostly because you kind of enjoy it.

A knock at the door pulls you both out of the chaos of an elimination round.

Abbot moves to stand, reaching for where he discarded his prosthesis, but you rise and wave him off, heading for the door.

You take the packaged food from a kind-eyed man, before moving to the kitchen to distribute the food onto plates.

You make your way back over to where Abbot’s got the show on pause—two plates full of kung pao chicken, chow mein, and spring rolls in hand—before passing him the dish.

“I hope you like Chinese,” you say, plopping down on the couch next to him. You swirl your fork around the noodles and take a bite.

He examines his own plate, before stabbing some chicken through his fork. “This is great, thanks.”

“You’re the one who paid for it,” you mumble around a mouth full of food. “I’ll give you some cash before I leave.” 

He shakes his head, before swallowing. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Abbot, you gotta let me—”

“No, I don't.” 

His words come out clean and firm.

Then he looks at you—really looks.

“And if you call me ‘Abbot’ one more time,” he adds, voice quieter now, “we are going to have a problem.”

The weight of his gaze pins you to the couch, your stomach flipping hard. You’ve never seen him look at you like this before. Never seen him look so…close.

Your grip tightens slightly on your fork.

“I think you’ve used that line already,” you say, a little too casual as you resume twirling your fork around some noodles, “Jack.” 

He pauses, briefly.

His mouth twitches—almost something, almost nothing.

Then he reaches for the remote again and presses play.

The rest of the night passes easily. 

You spend it consuming ungodly amounts of Chinese food and even more ungodly amounts of Survivor. At some point beer has fallen into the mix and you find yourself deciding you’re going to out drink Jack, though you only get to three before you know you’ll never be able to do it and give up. 

He laughs, then almost spits a mouth full of beer on you when you attempt to demonstrate how easily you’d win one of the challenges—arms out, balancing on the edge of the rug like a beam—before doubling over and laughing some more. 

You don’t even realize how late it is. And you don’t really care, content to drink and laugh with Jack until your head spins and ribs ache.

Eventually, though, the season comes to an end, credits rolling quietly across the screen.

You let out a long breath, sinking further into the couch. “Okay,” you murmur, voice a little hoarse, “I think I get why you watch this.”

He huffs out a quiet laugh beside you and the apartment falls into a soft lull.

You tilt your head back against the cushions, letting your eyes flutter closed for just a moment—

Your phone buzzes on the coffee table causing you to jerk your head up with a start.

Beside you, Jack has his head resting on a fist, eyes shut. 

You reach for your phone and squint the time into focus.

3:09 AM

Shit.

You rise a little unevenly, shoving your phone into your pocket and stretching an arm out for your bag.

Jack stirs, eyelids blinking slowly as he takes you in.

“It’s three in the morning,” you tell him, voice whispering, “I’ve got to get going.”

“Shit, yeah,” he says, words equally as quiet, “We must have fallen asleep.”

You nod, and sling your bag over your shoulder. He reaches for his prosthesis and starts to attach it to his leg.

“You don’t have to get up,” you reassure. “I was just going to walk.”

“At three in the morning?” he asks incredulously. “I’ll drive you.”

“It’s not far. I’m just down the block.”

“I know where you live.”

You frown at his tone. “Don’t say it like that, it sounds creepy.”

He rolls his eyes at you, finishing securing the metal limb before standing. “Look, I can either call you an uber—which will take forever at this time of night—or I can drive you. Pick one.”

You cross your arms, not having the strength to argue with him. “Fine, you can drive.”

“Good choice.” 

He turns, walking towards the door, snagging his keys from the kitchen counter on the way by. You follow behind him, toeing on your shoes in the dim light of the hallway and heading out the door.

After a quick elevator ride and walk through the lobby, he turns down the sidewalk and towards streetside parking. The chill of the early October air nips at your skin, but it's refreshing where it hits your warm cheeks.

Jack’s truck looks comically large sitting in between two sedans, and part of you wonders how he even managed to park it there. The headlights flash as he unlocks the doors, approaching the drivers side or the car. You slip in the passengers seat, pulling the heavy door closed with a click.

This isn't the first time you’ve been in his truck, though you can only count on one hand how many times it's happened.

It’s as clean as you remember—aside from the stray receipt crumpled in the center console, it mirrors his apartment. Tidy, with little clutter.

The truck rumbles to life, and the quiet sound of Bruce Springsteen's I’m on fire fills the vehicle as he pulls away from his apartment and down the street.

It doesn't take long to reach your place. On foot it would be less than five minutes, by car it only takes one, so the lilting tones of Bruce are still playing when Jack pulls up to the curb outside your building.

He moves the gear shift into park when you speak. “Thanks for the ride and for letting me stay.”

“Of course,” he says, one hand still on the wheel, the other drumming in his lap. “I don't usually have company… It was nice.”

You smile, heart beating weirdly fast in your chest, as you reach for the door handle. “Well, if you ever feel like company in the future, I’m always around.”

He smiles too. “I’d like that.”

A minute passes—maybe more, maybe less—your hand stays resting on the door handle, but doesn't move. Your eyes scan him, and it occurs to you that you’ve been doing that a lot lately. Watching him, the way he moves, the way his lips curve.

When you meet his gaze again, he hasn't looked away. 

Maybe it's the beer or the hour, but you have the strangest urge to reach out and touch him. 

What the fuck?

You clamp down on that desire, hard, and quickly look away, pulling on the door handle. 

You shuffle out quickly, dragging your bag with you as you go and turn to face him once your feet are planted solidly on the pavement.

“Goodnight,” he says to you, his lips curving into more of a smirk than a smile.

“Goodnight, Jack,” you return and shut the door. 

You turn from the truck and head for the doors, punching in your code and slipping inside.

Something pulls at you, so you glance back.

Jack is still sitting in his truck, watching as you.

You lift a hand in a small wave. A second later he does the same, before pulling away from the curb.

You linger on the spot where his truck was sitting a minute ago, like you’re rooted to the tile.

You take on breath. Then another before heading towards the elevator.

~~~~~~

An incessant, loud, banging at your door drags you from the depths of sleep.

You groan, blinking against the harsh daylight peaking in through your blinds.

Despite being a little tipsy and walking in the door at three in the morning, you hadn't managed to fall asleep until a few hours later.

It was impossible to get the events of the previous night out of your head—the way he looked at you, the quiet stretch of silence in the truck, the way neither of you moved.

The way you didn’t want to.

And you can’t figure out why.

Your brain had circled over it again and again, picking it apart and changing the angle until sleep became impossible.

The banging returns, louder this time.

You flinch, dragging a pillow over your head. Maybe if you stay quiet, whoever it is will go away—

Another round of knocking.

Insistent.

Persistent.

Fucking rude.

“Jesus Christ, I’m coming!” you croak, rising up on to your elbows and fumbling around your bedside table for your phone. You don't find it and instead are just successful in knocking over your water bottle and sending a dish of rings scattering across the floor.

You swear, and begin trying to untangle yourself from the mess of sheets caught around your legs as the pounding on your door continues.

“Fucking hell, I’m coming!” you yell louder this time, swinging your legs over the side of the bed.

When you stand, you look down and realize your Joni Mitchell t-shirt from yesterday and a pair of black boxers are the only clothing you decided to sleep in last night, so you snag a crumpled pair of sweats from the floor and tug them on.

The knocking has stopped—thank god—as you step out of your bedroom and head for the door.

Who the hell—

You wrench open the door to find Ellis crowding around its frame, John leans against the wall behind her.

They’re both dressed in light workout gear, runners tied to their feet, and John with the most obnoxious water bottle you’ve ever seen in your life in his hand.

“Took you long enough,” Ellis says, arms crossed over her chest, looking incredibly annoyed.

That makes two of you.

“What the actual fuck?” One of your arms rests on the door frame, the other on the door itself. “You can’t come around banging on my door, I have neighbours!”

“Well maybe you should’ve thought about that before sleeping in,” she fires back. 

“Sleeping in? What are you—”

You take in their clothing again, groaning as the realization hits you. “Fuck, it’s Friday isn’t it.” 

“Yeah it’s Friday,” John says from the wall. “We’re going running.”

It’s a tradition that started not too long ago. 

Sometime in July you made an off hand comment about wanting to take up running, which Ellis took as an opportunity to drag you out at the crack ass of dawn to run you into the ground. 

Somewhere along the way, John had joined in, and now the three of you run every Friday morning.

The first few weeks of it were hell, but slowly, you found yourself looking forward to Friday mornings—running along the river, laughing at John who swears he’s only there for the promise of coffee at the end, swearing at Ellis who sets a pace like she’s training for something you are unaware of.  

You enjoy it more than you ever thought you could.

But not today, though. You don't think you’d survive it.

“Look, how about you guys just go without me?” you suggest, the heavy weight of sleep still threatening to drag you back to bed. 

“Absolutely not,” Ellis glowers, “I did not spend half an hour knocking at your door just for you to say you aren't coming.”

“You’ve been out here for half an hour?”

John shakes his head behind Ellis. “More like ten minutes.”

Ellis turns to glare at him over her shoulder, before turning back to you, “There’s no getting out of this.”

You look back at John with pleading eyes, but he just shrugs.

“Fine, give me five minutes,” you groan, holding open the door so they can step inside.

Ellis immediately makes herself at home on your couch, while John leans against your dining table, scrolling on his phone.

You turn and head for the bedroom when Ellis calls out: “You have a rough night?”

You can practically hear the smirk in her voice as you rifle through your dresser for a pair of leggings and a sweater.

“Huh?” you intone, hoping she’ll just drop it.

“You heard me.”

Well, so much for that.

“I was just up late,” you call out, trading your t-shirt for a sports bra and sliding your hoodie over top, “you know how it is.”

“Yeah, I do.” 

“That’s not what I meant.” You shimmy into your leggings and secure your hair into a ponytail, before you start the hunt for your phone.

“Sure it wasn't," John adds, sounding a little uninterested in this conversation.

You shoot a look through the door that you only hope he can feel.

Turning away, you scan the floor of your bedroom and spot your phone tucked under your nightstand. You snatch it up before tucking it into the pocket of your leggings and exiting the room.

Ellis stands when she spots you. “Finally, let's go.”

The three of you shuffle out the door of your apartment and onto the quiet street. 

The run starts out rough. Your feet hit the pavement in an uneven rhythm, lungs burning in the sharp morning air. The sky is a perfect shade of blue, untouched by clouds as it stretches high above you. The river ripples and sways as you run alongside it, the light reflecting off the stark yellow fences that line its edge. 

Ellis runs ahead—like she always does—leaving you and John to run beside each other as the footpath winds and curves. 

Despite your earlier hesitations, you’re actually glad you came out, if it only means you’ll sleep well before your shift tonight. But the fresh air feels good, and the burn in your legs reminds you that you’re here—that your body works, that it can push.

Your breathing even outs after a while, and your feet fall in a steadier rhythm against the sidewalk. Your mind is quiet. No overthinking the events of last night, no worries about potential patients. Just the sound of your breathing and the way the sunlight catches on the water.

At least, until John opens his big mouth.

“So, what's up with you?” he pants, sweat blooming across his forehead.

“What do you mean?” you breathe back.

“Well, you definitely weren't at your apartment last night.”

You shoot him a sideways glance. “How would you even know that?”

He shrugs and stays silent, waiting for you to answer.

You take a deep breath. 

You met John Shen when he was an intern at PTMC and you were still a med-student still doing rotations. His unwillingness to be bothered by anything ever and his ability to spit off weird historical facts that no one should know about had you becoming fast friends. 

Your duo became a trio not long after Parker Ellis began working in the pitt. If you're being honest, you thought she hated you at first. She was blunt, with a cutting sense of humor that always had you questioning whether she meant what she said. But after the third shift you had ever worked with her, she stopped you and John on the way out asked the two of you to join her for drinks.

Well, asked is a bit of an understatement—she practically grabbed the back of your shirts and hauled you there. But by the end of the night, a group chat was formed and you realized she harbored no hatred for you… she just bullied you into friendship.

You didn't see as much of them after they had switched to the night shift, and though you would have never admitted it to their faces, you had missed them. 

It wasn’t until a year later that you finally made the switch—marked with a clap on the back from John and a “Welcome to the darkside,” from Ellis

She made you watch the entire Star Wars series when you, regrettably, informed her you had no idea what she was talking about.

You glance up ahead where Ellis runs past a couple walking their dog and sigh.

“My apartment had a gas leak, so I stayed over at Jack’s,” you admit, not making eye contact with him.

“Jack?,” he questions, “As in night shift attending Doctor Jack Abbot?” 

You nod, eyes still trained on Ellis.

You expect him to gawk. Maybe to yell. 

Jack’s your boss, your superior. And you know it crosses the line of what’s professional to stay over at his place.  

John has the right to be a little concerned about where your head is at.

Hell, you're concerned where your head is at.

But John doesn't say anything, just keeps pace beside you.

It’s almost worse.

You dare a glance in his direction to gauge his reaction, but his face is annoyingly blank. It makes your stomach twist.

“Well, are you going to say anything?” Your breathing comes out hard and ragged.

“Do you want me to say anything?” he responds, still not looking your way.

“I don’t know.” Up ahead, on the corner, you can see Ellis jogging on the spot. “I just thought you might have more of a reaction than that.”

“You’re an adult,” he pants, “I’m not going to tell you who you can and can’t sleep with.”

“Who are you sleeping with?” Ellis asks when you approach where she jogs, intrigue lining her voice.

You slow to a stop. “No one—” 

 “Jack Abbot,” John says, stopping beside you.

Ellis’s face lights up. “You’re sleeping with Jack Abbot?"

“No,” you groan, but she looks at you like she doesn't believe it. “Look, I stayed at his place yesterday because my apartment had a gas leak and he had a couch I could crash on.”

“So you slept on his couch?” she asks skeptically.

“Yes.”

“Instead of calling one of us?” She gestures between herself and John, a smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“I—”

Shit. Well, you hadn’t really thought of that.

You glare at her while John leans forward, bracing his hands on his knees.

“Hey, man,” Ellis says, raising her hands, “you do you. Honestly, I’m surprised this didn't happen sooner.”

“What?” you ask incredulously.

John straightens again. “You and Abbot are pretty close.”

“Pretty close is an understatement,” Ellis cuts in. “Those two are practically joined at the hip.”

“We are friends,” you emphasize. “Coworkers.” 

“I’ve seen that man almost break his neck because he heard you laugh and wanted to figure out why,” she says, crossing her arms. “But sure, friends. Coworkers.”

You open your mouth—

—and then stop.

Because.

Because—

John startles you with a laugh. “Holy shit, you actually had no idea.”

“I—”

You're speechless. Actually fucking speechless.

“You have him bringing you coffee and sandwiches and walking you home,” Ellis joins in, looking between herself and John, “he’s not doing that for us.”

“He—” you stammer, “He lost a bet.”

Ellis opens her mouth to retort, but John comes over and drapes an arm across your shoulder. “She’s in denial, Ellis. Let her live there.”

She shakes her head. “Fine, but one of these days you’re going to realize we were right.”

Their words follow you for the rest of the day.

On the walk to get coffee. On the way back to your apartment. In your apartment. While you're trying to sleep.

So, you may have a small, tiny—miniscule—crush on Jack Abbot. 

Which is fine, because you can get over it. And you will.

But for him to potentially feel the same. It’s not possible.

Because, you’re… you.

And he’s— 

Jack.

Confident and charming and capable, Jack.

So whatever they saw—whatever they’ve been seeing—is a misunderstanding.

But when you go to work that night, you’re a little more conscious of him.

You're conscious of the way he hands you your favourite coffee, too aware of your fingers brushing when you take it. Cognizant of his watchful stare when you place a chest tube or perform an intubation. His constant glances; the flirty eyes and the checking in.

He’s everywhere all the time.   

But you notice yourself, too.

The instinct to place an unnecessary hand on his back when you pass by; the way your eyes always seem to find him, no matter where he is in the room; the impulse to make him laugh and the dangerous urge to be the reason he keeps looking your way.

It has to be the proximity.

Being stuck in the same room for twelve hours a night; dealing with high-stress situations—its only natural you’d come to understand someone better, deeper.

At least that’s what you tell yourself for what feels like the hundredth time tonight as you walk towards Central 11. Your patient is supposed to be a Mrs. Perez with a scalp laceration. 

When you open the door, you’re greeted with a tan, middle-aged woman. She sits on the hospital bed, head tilted to the floor, her long, dark hair obscuring her face.

 “Mrs. Perez?” you ask, as you enter, sliding the curtain closed and reaching for a pair of gloves from the wall.

She lifts her head, and you blink. Your eyes are immediately drawn to the dark, purple bruise circling her eye, the deep cut in her hairline, and a fading ring of green and yellow bruises around her throat.

You steel yourself, and slip a kind smile on your face, not allowing for any sort of reaction to break free.

“Hi,” you say, pulling on your gloves, “I am one of the emergency medicine doctors here in the ED, and I’m going to be overseeing your care. Is that okay?”

She nods, casting her eyes down again. 

Watching her for a moment, you don't see any other signs of immediate trauma, though it is difficult given her long sleeves and pants. Her hands sit neatly in her lap as she twists a wedding ring around her finger.

You round the other side of the bed, pulling out a rolling stool, and sit down in front of her.

“Mrs. Perez, can you tell me what brought you in tonight?” You fold your hands in your lap, looking up at her.

“I fell down my stairs,” she says, voice quiet and a little shaky. “And you can just call me Val.”

“Okay, Val.” You lift your hand slowly, gesturing to the bruises on your face. “Is that how you got these bruises?”

She nods again, not quite making eye contact with you.

You take a deep breath.

You’ve seen enough injuries from stair falls to know that this isn't that. 

This is something worse.

“Okay, I’m going to do a quick assessment of your head, is that okay?” 

She nods again.

You start your assessment, checking her pupils and the severity of the cut in her hair line. You explain each movement you make, every touch and the reason for it. She barely flinches when you press into her cheek bones, feeling for breaks, and doesn’t even blink when you press gentle hands around the hand shaped bruises on her throat. You listen to her breathing, noting the bruises on her back, some old, some new. 

Your heart breaks over and over with each new wound you find, but you never let it show. 

This is about getting her the help she needs, and you won’t let anything jeopardize that.

You let out a long breath when you step back out into the pitt. Your head spins, thoughts flying with what the right thing to say to Val might be. You’ve dealt with cases like this before, but it is never a blueprint. What one patient needs to hear might be the very thing that sends another running out the door.

Walking past the central nurses station, you spot Ellis sitting on the far side at a computer.

“Hey, Ellis,” you call, stopping briefly when she looks up. “Have you seen Doctor Abbot?”

“I think he’s in pedes with that fever baby right now.”

“Shit.” 

“Do you need something?” She braces her elbows on the desk, clasping her hands together.

“Yeah, I need Abbot.” Your eyes pass over the ED. “Or Lena. Have you seen Lena?”

Ellis winces. “She’s also in with Abbot.”

You shake your head, muttering under your breath as you sit down at the computer opposite to your friend, and begin sending off some work orders. 

It’s not until minutes later when you’re charting on a previous patient, that Jack leans against the desk.

“Heard you were looking for me.” He crosses his arms, an easy smile on his face as he looks down at you.

You spin your seat towards him. “Thanks for showing your face.”

“Well, it's such a nice one, hard to resist.”

Your eyes roll, a smile tugging at your lips before passing him a tablet loaded with the chart you started.

You take a deep breath, and your smile fades.

“I’ve got a patient in Central 11.” You say. “She came in for a head-lac—claims she fell down the stairs. She’s got a nasty bruise around her left eye, and on further examination I noticed multiple layers of faded bruising along her back.”

Jack frowns.

 “The bruises are mostly on her ribs, a few on her lower back,” you continue, “but what I’m concerned about are the ones around her neck,” you say slowly.

“Her neck?” Jack lowers the tablet, eyes narrowing.

“Yes. They’re a little faded, but I’m seeing what looks like finger marks.” You hold your hand up in front of your throat in a choking motion.

“So, you’re saying you think she was choked?” Jack tilts his head, handing the tablet back to you.

“I’m saying…” you hesitate, “I don’t think she fell at all.” 

You drum your fingers on the desk as he processes your words. You don’t think for a second that he’ll dismiss your concern, but his silence makes you antsy.

“The bruises on her back are too faded to be from a fall,” you press. “The only wounds she could have possibly received tonight is the bruise on her eye and the cut on her scalp.”

Jack meets your gaze. “This does raise some flags for abuse. Married? Boyfriend?”

“I didn’t ask, but I saw a wedding band,” you reply.

“Ok, what’s your plan, medically?”

“I’m sending her off to CT to rule out facial fractures or concussion,” you start, “Urinalysis to check for damage in her kidneys since there’s quite a lot of bruising in that area, then stitches for her head-lac.”

“Ok, good,” he says, nodding. “And non-medically?”

“Call a social worker,” you muse, shrugging thoughtfully. “See if we can get her some help.”

Jack nods. “Sounds like a good idea. Maybe send Lena in there, see if she can get her to talk about her home life.”

“Sure, will do.” You rise from your seat and begin to walk towards The Hub, Jack moving with you.

“So,” he starts, stepping out of the way of a nurse, "how's your apartment?”

“Good,” you say, “I don't have carbon monoxide poisoning yet.”

“There’s still time,” he smirks.

You rest your forearms on The Hub and stick out your leg to trip him as he goes by.

He steps around you. “Nice try.”

Ellis comes up next to you, mirroring your position on The Hub, phone in her hands. “Did you see what I sent to the group chat?”

You smile, recalling the video. “Yeah, that was hilarious.”

Ellis looks up at Jack, eyebrows raised, waiting for a response, but he just scribbles something onto a tablet screen. 

“I think he has us on mute.” You lean in, lowering your voice.

“In the group chat or real life?” Ellis asks.

“Proabaly both.”

Jack looks up. “It’s both.”

You snort, a wide grin spreading across your face. “Oh, come on! It was funny.”

“I see too much of you people as it is,” Jack intones, putting his back to you both. “I don’t need you blowing up my phone during off hours.”

“Grandpa’s cranky,” Ellis mutters.

Jack spins, pinning her with a look that has her turning to leave.

“Coward!” You call after her as she moves down the hall and out of sight.

When you turn back to face your attending, he has a small smile playing on his lips.

You two annoy the shit out of him, but you know he can't deny these shifts would be hell without the two of you.

You roll up onto the balls of your feet, scanning the ED while you wait for Lena to get back to The Hub.

You can see Jack watching you out of your periphery.

“What?” you ask after catching his gaze for the third time.

“How’s your other situation going?” he asks carefully.

Your brows furrow. “What other situation?”

“The one from earlier.” 

Ah. 

You had another visit from Doctor Myers this evening.

He came down under the guise of a consult that you’re pretty sure didn’t exist, and stuck to you like glue. No matter where you went—charts, patients, supply closet—he was there, following you like a lost dog.

It went like every other time he’s come to see you.

At first, its easy to brush. A question here and a comment there. Entirely harmless. Credibly professional.

But then it shifts.

“So are you ever going to say yes?” He’d asked, like it was a joke. Like the answer hadn't already been given a hundred times.

You’d kept your voice polite. “I’m really busy, Myers.”

“You’re always busy.” He’d said, smiling like this was all some game he already knew the ending to.

It’s what got under your skin the most. The fact that he thought this was mutual, like you’re playing hard to get instead of… not interested.

You said no. Again. With no smile to soften it.

He didn't drop it.

“Come on,” he’d coaxed, leaning a little too casually against the wall, like he had all the time in the world to do this. “Just one drink.”

Irritation had flared hot in your chest.

Your answer was unnegotiable. No amount of asking or trying to wear you down would change that.

Why couldn't he see it?

Still, even after he had finally peeled off, the feeling lingered. The low, simmering frustration under your skin.

But you’d taken a deep breath and gotten back to work.

He was not a man to waste a thought on.

“It’s fine,” you tell Jack, spotting Lena rounding the corner, “I handled it.”

He goes to say something else, but you push off of The Hub to catch up where Lena chats with another nurse.

She pats the young woman on the arm, sending her off, as you approach.

“Hey, Lena,” you say, stopping in front of her.

“What’s up, hun?” She smiles.

“I have a patient I could use your help on.”

“Sure, talk to me.”

Lena heads off in the direction of Central 11 after you explain the situation. 

She nods as you describe the bruising—and what you suspect isn’t from a fall. She promised to escort Val to CT herself, and see if she’d be willing to talk.

A weight is lifted off your chest knowing she’ll talk to Val. If there is anyone you’d want in your corner, it’s Lena—especially a situation like this. She always seems to find the right words.

The next few hours pass easily, and you don’t want to jinx it, but it's one of the easier shifts you’ve had in a long time.

No one yells, or spits in your face. The waiting room remains manageable and consistent throughout the night. You only had three major traumas—two ambulances, one fly in—that all made it up to surgery without severe complications.

It feels like a small victory.

Especially, when you return to Central 11 when Val has come back to CT, and find it empty.

You step out, asking a nurse if he’d seen where your patient had gone, but he just shook his head.

You walk the entire ED. The bathrooms, the hallways, the waiting rooms. You even find yourself scanning the tables in the cafeteria, hoping she’d only left to get something to eat.

She’s nowhere to be found.

When you find Lena, your face is pinched with worry.

“Where’s Val?” you ask, “she’s not in Central 11.”

“I just checked on her a few minutes ago.” Her brows furrow in confusion. “Is she in the bathroom?”

“No, I checked everywhere.” You shake your head, eyes hopelessly searching the pitt for her. “Did you talk to her?”

“I did,” Lena says, “She was a little shaken up when I asked, but told me everything is fine at home.”

“Well, of course she’s going to say that.” It comes out a little snappier than you intend, and Lena’s eyebrows lift.

You take a deep breath. “I’m sorry, I didn't mean it like that.” 

“I know.” She places a hand on your shoulder. “This isn't your fault. She knows we are here now, it may be enough.”

You nod half-heartedly, not quite making eye-contact with Lena as she passes by.

You didn’t lose this patient, but it follows you around like a loss.

You replay your words, your gestures and decisions.

Was there something that made her run?

Did you make the wrong call?

How did you fuck this up?

You don’t even realize what time it is until Samira bumps into you at the North nurses station. She’s got a cheerful smile across her face, launching into a rapid monologue about the latest episode of Lioness—a show you convinced her to watch that she is now obsessed with.

You chat with her for a while, content to let her conversation take your mind off of your shift, before she’s called off to round.

Jack finds you by the lockers a few minutes later, as you pack your things into your bag. 

“Hey,” he says, casually leaning against one of the lockers, “You want a ride home? It’s freezing outside.”

“Thanks, but I actually drove too.” You close your locker and sling your bag over your shoulders.

“Okay. I’m just going to do handoff with Robby, so, I’ll catch you later?”

“Of course.”

You turn away from him, making to move off, but Gloria Underwood steps into your path.

“Ah, just the two I’ve been wanting to see.” She says, her bright blue blazer making you want to wince.

Jack comes to stand beside you. “What can we do you for?”

“Well, as you know, in a few weeks, the PTMC annual fundraiser is happening—”

You groan internally.

“—and I need you both in attendance.”

What?

You understand completely why Jack would be requested to attend. He’s a senior night shift attending at the pitt, it makes perfect sense.

But you?

You're a fourth year resident. Just another face in the swarm of residents at PTMC.

You open your mouth to object, but she stops you.

“I already know what you’re going to say, and yes. You do need to be there.”

“But, why?” You cross your arms, brows knitting on your forehead.

“Becuase you two are the face of the emergency department’s night shift,” she explains. “When someone brings up night shift doctors in the ED, your names are the ones they say. I need you there to represent.”

Jack snorts out a laugh. “You could just be honest, Gloria, and say no one else will go.”

You try your best to suppress a smile at Gloria’s wildly unimpressed look.

She steps forward. “Just get yourselves there. I’m not asking.”

She walks past you two, and before you can suppress it—

“Is it an open bar?” you ask, the comment flying out your mouth before you can catch it.

She glares at you, then sighs. “Yes, it is an open bar.”

You grin. “We’ll be there!”

She shakes her head and walks off.

There’s a beat of silence—then another—before you and Jack both lose it, laughter spilling out all at once.

It’s not even that funny, but you’re wiping tears from your eyes anyway. The look on her face was beyond worth it.

You sigh, gathering yourself from your fit of laughter, Jack doing the same.

Until you make eye contact, and the laughter comes roaring back causing you to double over, hands braced on your knees.

It’s not until ten minutes later that you actually make it out to staff parking, chest still aching with the remnants of laughter. 

Jack was right. The air is sharp and biting as you walk to your car, and you already know your cheeks will be read as—

You freeze, hand gripping the strap of your bag until your knuckles turn white.

Luke Myers is leaning on your car. 

He smiles, raising a hand in a wave as he stands and begins to walk toward you.

You’re not sure what to do. 

You look back at the hospital, debating whether you should go back inside, but he’s already in front of you before you can make a decision. 

“I finally caught you leaving,” he says.

His words are meant to be warm and friendly, but you know it's not the cold air that sends a chill running down your spine.

“What the hell are you doing?” you demand, throwing as much stone into your voice as possible. 

“Waiting for you,” he responds easily, “Let's go for breakfast.”

You ignore his request. “How did you find my car?”

“I saw you pull in last night. Figured this would be a good place to meet you after your shift.”

You’re at a loss for words.

“So, your shift is over, my shift is over,” he drawls, stepping closer to you. “We’re both finally free to go do something.”

“I—no,” you say firmly, stepping back and around him, making a beeline for your car.

You can hear his footsteps behind you.

“What do you mean, no?” 

“I mean, no.” 

Your car beeps as you unlock it, only a few feet away—

He grips your arm tight.

“Hey, come on, now. I’m not so bad—”

“Let go of me,” you command, pulling against his grip.

He listens, dropping your arm.

“Look, I just want—”

“How many times do I have to tell you no!” you snarl, backing up until your back hits the car door. “Stay the hell away from me.”

He looks taken aback for a moment, but then his feline smile returns.

“This is a bad time, eh?” He huffs a laugh. “It’s all good. We all have bad shifts. Another time, then.”

You go to protest, but he’s already turning away—which, honestly—is all you want right now.

So, you quickly open the door and slide inside your car, immediately reaching to lock them the second your inside.

Your heart pounds in your chest, breathing coming in uneven huffs as you clench your fists in your lap, trying to get them to stop shaking. 

You pick up your phone on instinct, thumb hovering over the contact of the only person you want to talk to right now.

But you pause. 

Hesitate— 

And slide your phone back into the center console, before putting your keys in the ignition—

Jack had looked up from the keyboard he was typing away at with that familiar flat, unreadable expression and the smallest hint of amusement at one corner of his mouth. The entire nurse's station had gone quiet, and if you hadn't known any better, you might have thought an elephant had waltzed into the room and taken his seat in trauma room one. You watched as Mel looked up so fast she nearly gave herself whiplash, which is what made you realise you may have taken it too far, because to be honest, Mel usually passed no heed on your usual antics.

Jack had lifted his eyes to yours, studying you for exactly two seconds, then given one slow shake of his head.

"I could do with a check-up on our food poisoning patient in room 4, doctor y/l/n."

That had been it. No scolding, no shutdown, no sharp reminder of professionalism. You ran the image of that twitch in the corner of his mouth over and over again in your head that night like a teenage girl with a crush on her best friend's brother. Or in this case, more like her best friend's dad.

So naturally, because you were a glutton for punishment and loved the thrill of tethering on the edge of something hopeful, you did it again.

And then again.

And somehow, over the next few months, flirting with Jack became a part of your regular shift rhythm, as natural as grabbing gloves from the wall or stealing sips of stale coffee between traumas. You called him handsome under your breath while passing in the hall. You leaned into his space during chart review just to watch his jaw flex. You told him he was ageing like your favourite bottle of red, which had earned you a long, suffering stare and a low, "Jesus Christ."

You did it at first because it was fun. A way to pass the time. But as the months went on, and you moved from junior to senior resident, the truth behind your incessant flirting became a lot more embarassing than you ever wanted to admit.

You were smart. Too smart. Educated and graduated at the top of your class, saved countless lives on the daily and still had time to feed your tabby cat at the end of it all. So there was no reason why your stupid, dumb brain had decided to fall in love with your attending.

You flirted, because you were in love with him. With Jack.

You had been for longer than you wanted to admit to yourself. Long enough that the whole thing had settled beneath your ribs like a live wire. It was warm, and humming, and a little dangerous. Long enough that it had stopped feeling like a crush and started feeling like something worse.

The problem was, Jack never really gave much away.

He liked the attention, you knew that. You weren't imagining that part. He never stopped you. Never looked annoyed in any serious or real way. There was always that familar tiny shake of his head, that almost-smile, that quiet tolerance that was so stupid adorable and somehow felt more intimate than an outright encouragement would have.

But Jack was Jack.

Steady. Closed off. Impossible to read unless he wanted to be read. So you flirted, and he let you, and you told yourself that that was enough for now. You were a resident, and he was your attending. You weren't naive enough to believe that he would ever take a relationship with you seriously.

And you know, maybe it would have been. If you hadn't caught him mid conversation with Robby's sabbatical replacement, Dr Baran Al Hashimi.

It happened halfway through a nightmare shift when you were running on little else but caffeine and instinct, and the Pitt had that strange, overstretched feeling it got when every room was full, and everyone inside them was talking too loudly. You were cutting through the hall outside the break room with a chart tucked to your chest, already halfway to Trauma Two in your head, when you heard Jack's voice from inside.

It was common to catch Jack in during the day shift, and you wouldn't have stopped if he'd been talking to anyone else. But you caught Al Hashimi's laugh first. Low, and brief, and then Jack saying, "You want to grab that beer later?"

Your feet stopped moving before your brain caught up. There was no hesitation in the question or audible awkwardness. No heaviness to it that made it sound work-related. It sounded easy, casual. Like asking someone out. You wondered if he was shaking his head in that way he did with you.

Al Hashimi said something you didn't fully hear, because by then your pulse had gone loud in your ears. You self-diagnose with mind-numbing tinnitus and prescribe yourself a huge dose of amitriptyline. The ringing grows louder as you watch her smile, small, but warm, and nodded once.

"Yeah," she said. "I'd like that."

And that was it. So, you kept walking before either of them could see you standing there. By the time you eventually got to trauma two, your face was perfectly composed and your stomach felt like it had dropped through the floor. It was ridiculous, really.

Jack had never promised you anything. He had never flirted back in the way you flirted with him. Never said anything you could hold up in your defence. He just let you tease him and seemed to enjoy it. That was not the same thing as wanting you. And Baran Al Hashimi was gorgeous, and strikingly intelligent, and better yet, an attending. You heard that she had worked overseas doing humanitarian work in Afghanistan. She was everything you weren't and more. Of course Jack would want her. God, you didn't blame him.

So, you stitched up a teenager's chin and reassured a frantic mother and signed off on discharge paperwork with steady hands, all while something sore and humiliating tore through your chest and the ringing in your eyes got louder.

Then, because apparently the universe had a cruel sense of humour, Jack found you by the supply closet twenty minutes later.

"There you are," he said.

You looked up automatically and cursed yourself. And there he was. The same broad shoulders, same tired eyes, same infuriatingly unreadable expression.

Usually, by instinct, you would have said something. Nice of you to finally show up, handsome. Missed me? Something stupid and teasing and light enough to keep the whole thing moving. To keep that little nugget of hope that lived between your ribs aflame.

Instead, you just held out the chart in your hand.

"Dana needs your signature on this."

Jack took it, but his eyes didn't leave your face.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine."

"You don't look fine-

You cut in, begging to be finished with the conversation, and forced a small smile. "All good, really."

His brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. It was the first time in almost a year that you'd walked away from him without giving him something. And Jack, as it turned out, noticed immediately.

The following night, you called him Dr Abbot during rounds. It came out before you could stop it, a verbal guard you decided to throw up to protect yourself from more hurt that wasn't even his fault. Not Jack, not any of your usual easy little digs. Just Dr Abbot, flat and professuonal and wrong enough that his head lifted from the chart like you'd said something in another language.

He looked at you for a second too long.

Then he said, "You sick or something?"

You pretended to not know what he meant. "Nope."

"Then why are you acting weird?"

"I'm not acting weird?"

Santos, standing two feet away with a pen tucked behind her ear, visibly turned her whole body to watch.

Jack's mouth flattened, unreadable. Shocker. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

He looked like he wanted to say it outright, but with half the team standing around the nurse's station and Lena calling for updates across the room, all he ended up saying was, "Never mind."

But it wasn't never mind, because you kept doing it. You stopped leaning into his space. Stopped giving him those easy openings for banter. Stopped calling him old man, stopped telling him his curls looked good, stopped stealing sips from his coffee and dropping protein bars in his pockets when you passed him in the hall.

At first, Jack felt confusion, which quickly turned into a gnawing annoyance he couldn't shake. By the third shift, with no change from you, the whole thing had become impossible to ignore.

You were charting at the nurse's station when he came up behind you and set a fresh cup of coffee down by your elbow. A sleek, black takeaway cup that looked suspiciously like the one from the new bakery across the street you talked about going to with Santos before shift.

You looked at it, and then at him. Usually, this would have been an easy way in. What, no little heart on the lid? Starting to lose your touch, Abbot? Anything, anything would do.

Instead, you said, "Thanks."

Jack stared at you.

"Thanks?"

You blinked at him. "What?"

"That's all I get?"

You looked back at the screen where your chart lay half full. "It's coffee."

"It's your coffee. Two shots, and vanilla creamer. I made sure they used the barista oat milk you always rant on about."

You kept your eyes on the screen, even though every bone in your body was begging you to reach out and touch his forearm in thanks. "Oh, well, thank you very much, Dr Abbot."

He stood there for another beat, arms crossed, like he was waiting for the rest of it. When it didn't come, he muttered, "Right," and walked away.

Across the station, Santos leaned slowly towards Whitaker.

"This is sooo much worse than I thought."

Whitaker looked nervous. More than usual. "Should we..do something?"

"No," Santos smirked. "Absolutely not. This is premium entertainment."

Javadi, creating a circling motion with her hand towards the direction of you and Jack, said, "That looked like some form of attachment rupture."

Santos pointed at her while still looking over at you. "You are absolutely right."

You ignored them all and kept writing. Any acknowledgement and you'd have to crawl into a hole and die of embarrassment and humiliation. You think that actually might be a better way to go then facing Jack again the way you just did.

Four days go by. Four days of you being perfectly pleasant and professionally distant and absolutely miserable about it. You felt like like a three year old kid sulking in the corner after being refused ice cream for dinner.

Jack still tried, in his own strange, increasingly irritated way, to hand you opportunities you no longer took. You didn't read them as openings anymore, couldn't let yourself slip again into the realm of hoping it meant anything more than trying to get through a shift in one piece.

By the end of the week, Dana got involved.

She caught you restocking suture kits in a supply alcove and leaned against the doorframe with the expression of a woman who already knew the answer and was just waiting for you to say it out loud.

"What'd you do to him, hon?"

You kept your eyes on the shelf. "Nothing"

Dana snorted. "Honey, I know I'm in day shift territory, but I have known Jack Abbot for too long to miss when he's sulking."

"He doesn't sulk"

"He absolutely does. He's just old enough to do it quietly."

You smiled despite yourself. If Jack was here right now, you'd make a joke about old dogs not being able to learn new tricks, or whatever that saying is.

"There it is," she said, poking an accusatory fingernail at your shoulder. "Tell me what happened, kid."

You hesitated, fingers tightening around the pack of gauze. Dana Evans had a way of dragging honesty out of people with nothing but eye contact and a gaze that reminded you of your mother. You make a mental note to call her after shift and apologise for every time you've ever talked back to her.

"You know Al Hashimi? Robby's stupidly hot replacement? I overheard him ask her out"

Dana let out a laugh - no - a cackle. Dana was cackling at you.

You frowned. "Dana! Seriously, I know, it's not like I'd have any chance with him, but I just thought, just maybe-"

"You are a total idiot."

"Dana."

"She was going to a trauma conference with one of his old friends from the military and he asked if she wanted to talk to talk about it over a beer."

Your grip loosened on the gauze, and you turned to stare at her.

"Sorry, what?"

Dana crossed her arms. “Robby asked him to get her thoughts on some presentations he's gonna miss on his sabbatical. He's tryna suss her out, you know."

Your stomach dropped all over again, but this time for an entirely different reason. If your first option was crawling into a deep, dark hole, well, this option would have to be something far worse. Like, being shot from a canon, butt naked, while every one of your ex-boyfriends watched.

Dana's expression softened just enough for you to recognise her natural maternal instinct taking over. "You really thought he was asking her out on a date?"

You nodded, slowly. You ran an exhausted hand over your face, hoping the ground would come and swallow you whole.

Dana shook her head then, taking your shoulder in her hand and rubbing softly, a comforting presence that took you out of your head. "Baby, that man has been halfway in love with you since before Christmas."

You didn't acknowledge it until she was already pushing off the doorframe, walking away with that irritatingly final air of hers.

"What?!"

That made everything worse. So, so much worse.

Because now, you had no excuse. Now it wasn't about Al Hashimi, not really. It was about the fact that if Dana was right, if Jack had wanted your attention all this time, if all those tiny almost smiles and deliberate little openings had meant what you'd wanted them to mean - then you had spent four days acting like a stranger because you were too scared to ask, and too damn immature to think of any other possible situation.

That night, you slipped into the stairwell in between consults to breathe for exactly thirty seconds and maybe lightly bathe yourself in peace. Then, the door opened, and there he was, filling the space with the same steady presence that always made it feel a little smaller, and a little warmer.

He shut the door behind him, and you waited for the onslaught of questions.

"You gonna tell me what the hell your problem is?"

You stared at him over the railing. There was no real heat in his voice, but there was frustration. And beneath that, something else, something tighter.

"Uh, nothing?" You cursed yourself for making it sound like a question you definitely knew the answer to.

"Try again."

"Shouldn't you be working?"

"Yeah," he said. "I should be. But instead, I'm here. Because you've spent four days acting like you don't know me anymore."

Of all the things you expected him to say, that one landed harder than you expected. You looked away. Embarassment was a feeling that you were getting far too used to.

Jack waited a beat, then came down two steps so he was closer, though not close enough to touch.

"You stopped flirting with me." You laughed at his bluntness. He continued.

"You won't look at me. You won't call me Jack. I spent fifteen minutes of my twenty minute break time arguing with a lady in a bakery the other day about how she had to use the milk I brought for your coffee, and all you could say was thanks?"

The obvious edge of offence in that almost undid you. Load the canon now, doctor!

You said quietly, "I heard you ask Al Hashimi for a beer."

Jack turned and blinked at you, and for one second, his face went completely blank. Then he stared at you like he'd just discovered the source of a leak that had been flooding his basement all week.

"That's why?"

You swallowed. "Um, yeah. I assumed, you know. You, gorgeous woman, a beer. Date territory."

"That wasn't a date."

"It wasn't a date."

"No." He let out a breath through your nose. "Robby wanted me to ask her about this conference. We were talking about work. He's cagey about her, taking over his ER and all."

"Oh."

"Yeah," Jack said.

He continued, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Why would that matter, anyways?"

You laughed once, sharp, and utterly miserable. You were so far past the point of humiliation, you might as well get it all out now. "Seriously?"

"Yes, seriously."

You looked at him then, really looked at him. And you saw it, that he genuinely didn't understand. That whatever this had been to him, it had not included the possibility that you'd step back so quickly. That made it worse somehow. Better, too, But mostly worse.

You looked down at the stairwell floor and said, because apparently there was no salvaging you dignity now. Here goes, you guess. "Jack, I don't know how to say this without, just saying it. I-I'm, in love with you"

Then the words sat there. Plain, horrible, real. For a second, that felt like so much longer, neither of you moved.

Jack broke the silence, very quietly, "You're kidding."

Your head stayed staring at the ground. That was it, there was no going back now. You tried to ignore the intense stare you could feel burning two holes through your head.

"You're in love. With me?" he repeated.

Heat climbed your face, and you couldn't believe this was happening right now. Is this not an ER? Does nobody with a GSW want to come through and interrupt your lovely moment here?

"This is deeply humiliating, so, if you could not-"

"Jesus Christ." He laughed once, and your heart fell into your ass and ran fifty miles in the opposite direction.

Then he came down the last two steps and stopped right in front of you.

“You thought that was one-sided?”

Your mouth opened. Closed.

“I flirt with you constantly and you smile and shake your head,” you said weakly. “What was I supposed to think?”

Jack looked at you like that was the most ridiculous sentence he’d ever heard.

“I never stopped you.”

“That doesn’t mean—”

“I wait for it.”

You blinked.

His jaw flexed once, like he was annoyed you weren’t getting there fast enough.

“I know what time you usually get coffee. I know when your shift starts from the sound of your shoes in the hall. I know when you’re about to make one of those stupid little comments because your whole face changes before you say anything.”

Your heart was pounding now, hard enough to hurt.

Jack took one more step closer.

“When you stopped, the place felt wrong.”

That did it.

That cracked the whole thing open.

You looked at him and saw it all at once. Every quiet little allowance he’d made for you, every almost-smile, every opening he’d handed you on purpose just to hear what you’d say.

You whispered, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He huffed out a humorless laugh. “I thought I was being obvious.”

You let out a wet, startled little laugh of your own, because of course he had. Of course Jack Abbot thought silently orbiting someone and letting them flirt without interruption counted as emotional transparency.

“You are a disaster,” you said.

“So are you.”

You smiled despite yourself.

His gaze dropped to your mouth for the briefest second before lifting again.

Then, in a voice gone rougher somehow, he said, “Say something.”

“What?”

“One of your lines.”

You stared at him.

Jack looked almost impatient now, but there was something fragile hidden under it too, something he would probably deny to the grave.

“You’ve had one ready every shift for 9 months,” he said. “Say it.”

A laugh caught in your chest.

Then, softly, because it felt different now and somehow still exactly the same, you said, “You know you’re ridiculously handsome, right?”

Jack shut his eyes for half a second.

When he opened them, there was that tiny head shake again, the one that had started all of this.

“Jesus,” he muttered, and then he kissed you.

It wasn’t tentative, or rushed either.

It was the kind of kiss that felt held back for too long, warm and sure and a little bit annoyed, like he was making up for the fact that both of you had apparently been idiots about this. Your hand came up to the back of his neck automatically. His slid to your waist, steady and firm, drawing you in until you had to grab the front of his shirt just to hold onto something.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested briefly against yours.

“You done making assumptions?” he murmured.

You laughed softly, breathless. “Maybe.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“Okay,” you said, smiling. “Yes.”

“Good.”

You looked up at him. “You loveeeeee me!"

Jack’s mouth twitched.

“Don’t start.”

“You do.”

He leaned back just enough to look properly annoyed. “You really want to have this conversation right now?”

“Yes.”

He sighed in that long-suffering way of his, but you could see the amusement sitting just under it now.

“You realised it first” he said.

You grinned. “Yeah, okay, but mine was slow. Yours was like, falling off a cliff into a stream of like, love crocodiles .”

Jack looked at you for a second, then gave in with a tiny shake of his head.

“Yeah, okay ” he said quietly. “Shut up.”

Something in your chest melted completely.

You kissed him again before he could ruin it by pretending he hadn’t said that. This one made him laugh against your mouth, just for a second, and then his hand tightened lightly at your waist and he kissed you back.

When you finally pulled away, there was a muffled voice from the other side of the stairwell door.

“Are they in there?”

Damn it Trinity.

You dropped your head briefly to Jack’s shoulder and groaned. “I hate this hospital.”

“No, you don’t.”

“No,” you admitted. “I really don’t.”

Jack tipped your chin up with two fingers.

“You coming back down?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“No.”

You smiled. “Very romantic.”

“I’m not here to romance you. I’m here to stop you making yourself miserable over nothing.”

“Wow.”

“You started it.”

You laughed again, because there it was, that grumpy, teasing edge that somehow made everything feel more like him, not less.

As he opened the stairwell door, Santos nearly fell inward from where she’d clearly been listening.

Her eyes went wide.

Then narrowed. Then widened again.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “I knew it.”

Jack looked down at her with profound irritation. “Don’t you have a patient to bother?”

Santos, unfazed, looked past him at you and grinned. “So I was right.”

Whitaker, standing three steps behind her looking mortified, asked, “About what?”

She pointed at both of you. “Everything.”

Jack muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like unbelievable and moved past her, one hand brushing your lower back as he guided you into the hall.

Not enough to draw attention.

Just enough that you felt it.

And this time, when you looked at him, he was already watching you with that same tiny, impossible almost-smile.

You smiled back. He shook his head once more, like he couldn’t believe you. But he looked pleased.

And that, more than anything, felt like winning.

** me waiting to see if i did a good job:

Jason had learned, over the years, that Gotham ran on bad information.

Rumors, half-truths, people talking just to feel important. Most of it died before it reached him. The rest led nowhere. Dead ends. Petty criminals trying to sound bigger than they were. Ghosts of threats that never materialized.

This should have been one of those.

A Falcone soldier, drunk enough to talk. A waitress who overheard him. An informant who passed it along like it might actually matter. A girl in Crime Alley, claiming she was working for the Joker. Saying he was back.

Jason had heard worse.

He stood across the street now, helmet angled just slightly downward, watching.

The girl did not look like someone working for the Joker.

She had headphones in, head tilted faintly like she was following a rhythm only she could hear. There was no tension in her shoulders, no awareness in the way she moved. She stopped mid-step, crouching beside a stray cat slipping out from behind a dumpster, letting it brush against her hand. 

Jason exhaled slowly through his nose.

This was stupid.

12 hours ago, he would have walked away already. 12 hours ago, he would have called it what it was and moved on. A bad lead. A wasted night. Not worth the time, not worth the energy.

12 hours ago, he had somewhere else to be.

The Cave. Tim under one of the bikes, swearing at a stripped bolt. Jason leaning against the workbench, pretending he cared about torque specs more than the city outside. He had said he would be there. Promised, even.

His phone buzzed in his jacket.

It had been buzzing all morning. Dick first. Then Tim. Then again. And again. The kind of persistence that wasn’t about logistics anymore. They were concerned. And rightfully so. Jason didn’t need to check to know what the messages said.

Where are you? Pick up. Don’t do this.

The phone buzzed again. For a second, he just held it in his hand, staring at nothing.

Then he powered it off.

The silence that followed felt heavier than the noise.

Across the street, you stood up, brushing her hands off her jeans. The cat slipped away, vanishing back into the alley like it had never been there. She adjusted her headphones, glanced at nothing in particular, and started walking again like she had nothing burdening her shoulders. 

Jason watched you go. This didn’t make sense. He knew what the Joker’s work looked like. Knew the patterns, even when they tried to hide under chaos. There was always something underneath. Always a reason, a message, a trail if you knew where to look.

You skipped over a crack in the pavement.

His jaw tightened.

You were nothing like that.

Which meant one of two things. Either the rumor was garbage. Or it wasn’t.

Jason stepped off the curb. He would take whatever chance he could get. Even this one.

--

One moment you were on your way to work.

The next your cheek was smushed up against a brick wall with a man yelling into your ear. Your headphones were gone. You weren’t sure when that happened. One second they were there, the next they were dangling somewhere, the music cut off so abruptly it made your head ring.

“What--what the fuck-”

Your words came out muffled, your face still pressed into the wall. Something cold nudged just behind your jaw.

A gun.

Oh.

Oh, that was a gun.

Your stomach dropped so fast it felt like you’d missed a step going down stairs. Your hands came up instinctively, fingers splayed against the brick, like that would somehow help.

“I asked you a question.”

“What question--”

“The Joker.”

Everything in you went still.

Right.

Right, that.

For a second you considered telling the truth. It flickered through your head in a clean, simple line: I lied. It was a dare. I didn’t mean anything by it.

But the thought died just as quickly as it came. Because there was a man in a red helmet holding a gun to your head. And people with guns to your head were not people you told the truth to.

“Oh,” you said instead, because apparently that was what your brain chose in moments of crisis. “That.”

His grip tightened slightly where he had you pinned.

“Yes,” he said. “That.”

Your mind scrambled, tripping over itself trying to catch up.

It had been stupid. That was the problem. Stupid and quick and not thought through even a little bit.

You’d been walking through Falcone turf with your friends, laughing too loud, staying a little too long where you shouldn’t have been. Someone had dared you to tag their stupid little seal on the side of a building. You’d said yes, obviously, because saying no would have been boring.

You hadn’t expected to get caught. You definitely hadn’t expected three very irritated men to corner you and start asking questions you did not have answers to. Who are you working for?

You hadn’t even thought about it. Just blurted out the first name that came to mind.

“I’m working for the Joker.”

It had worked, somehow. The name alone had been enough to make them hesitate. Enough of a crack for you to slip through and run before they decided to test it. You’d assumed that was the end of it.

Apparently, it was not.

“I--yeah,” you said now, your voice wavering just enough to sell it. “What about the Joker?”

There was a pause behind you. Heavy. Suspicious.

“You are working for him” he repeated flatly.

You nodded, immediately regretting it when the motion pressed your cheek harder into the brick. “Not directly.”

“Explain.”

“It was anonymous,” you said quickly. Too quickly. You forced yourself to breathe. Slower. “I don’t--he doesn’t--he doesn’t exactly sign his emails.”

There was a shift behind you. Not loosening. Adjusting.

“Details.”

“What do you do for him.”

Oh.

Right.

Your mouth opened. Closed.

“Uh--”

The gun pressed more firmly into your skin.

“I leave things,” you lied harder. “Places. He tells me where to go and I just--drop stuff off. Packages, envelopes, whatever.”

You pushed forward before he could poke holes in it.

“I don’t ask questions,” you added quickly. “That’s kind of the whole point.”

“Where.”

“A P.O. box,” you said, the lie stacking on itself now. “Edge of town. That’s how I get the instructions.”

Silence.

“I forgot the number,” you added, because apparently you were committed to this now. “I don’t have it memorized or anything--”

The gun pressed just slightly harder against your skin before it loosened. Behind you, he inhaled sharply. You could hear it, feel it--like he was holding himself together by force.

“Get in the car,” he growled.

---

By some cruel, cosmic joke, there were actually P.O. boxes on the street you pointed to.

Not just one. A whole row of them, bolted into the side of a squat little building that looked like it hadn’t been updated since before you were born.

Jason did not like how easily this was lining up.

That was the problem.

The story made sense. Too much sense. Anonymous contact. Dead drops. No direct connection. It tracked in a way most lies didn’t. And he knew lies. Knew the way they bent, where they cracked under pressure.

He also knew Crime Alley.

Kids who ran their mouths when they were scared. Said whatever they had to say to get out of a bad situation. He had been one of them once. Still was, in some ways.

Part of him had been waiting for it to fall apart.

Waiting for the moment the seams split, when the truth showed through and this became what it was supposed to be--nothing. A stupid rumor. A scared kid who said the wrong name at the wrong time.

He would have let you go, if that was all it was.

He pulled the car to a stop along the curb, eyes already on the row of P.O. boxes bolted into the side of the building.

“Stay,” he said.

You opened your mouth. He didn’t wait to hear it. The door slammed behind him. The lock clicked a second later. Final. Jason adjusted his grip on the gun as he crossed the street, helmet angled toward the building. Every step was measured, controlled. Rational.

This was where it ended.

Inside, the security clerk barely had time to look up before Jason set the gun on the counter.

“Cameras,” he said.

That was enough.

No questions. No hesitation. Just shaking hands and a quick turn toward the monitors. The feed flickered on, grainy and low quality, cycling through angles of the street outside.

“Three days ago,” Jason said.

The clerk fumbled, pulling it up.

Jason leaned in slightly, eyes scanning.

Empty street. Static movement. Nothing--

The screen glitched.

Paused.

Then cut to black.

The clerk swore under his breath. “Yeah, uh--those’ve been down for a few days now. Wiring issue. We’ve got someone coming in to fix it, but--”

Jason didn’t hear the rest.

The cameras were down. On the exact day you said.

His grip tightened, something sharp and electric cutting through his chest.

Not a lie. The Joker really is back. 

Jason stepped back without another word, turning and heading for the door before the clerk could say anything else.

Outside, the air felt different. He crossed the street faster this time, something like urgency bleeding into his steps.

And then he stopped.

Through the window he could see your face twisted in concentration. Tongue sticking out, you trying to bypass the child lock on the door by shimmying something through the gap. Wait, correction. By shimmying a sock through the gap. 

Jason stared.

For a second, It was almost funny. Then a soft click sounded and the door popped open. Your face lit up in excitement,,,,, then you caught sight of him standing 10 meters away. 

So you ran.

Jason moved instantly.

Three strides. Maybe four.

He caught you before you made it past the hood, slamming you back against the side of the car hard enough to knock the breath out of you, his hand closing around your arm like a vice.

“For fuck’s sake,” he growls, voice cracking through the modulator. “I told you not to run.”

You struggled anyway.

Of course you did.

Jason tightened his grip, pinning you in place, his mind already moving past it, locking onto the only thing that mattered now. You weren’t lying, which means he needs to keep you for a bit. 

He cursed under his breath--quiet, strained. “I’m not--” He swallowed. “I don’t want to hurt you. I just… need to find him.”

The name sits heavy in the air. Joker.

Your skin prickles.

“Great,” you manage, voice high and shaky. “Love that for you. But I’m not talking to a guy with a--helmet for a head. It’s creepy.”

He freezes.

Then, without a word, he removes a pack of zip ties from his pocket, tying your wrists. Sits you back down in the car,, then he reaches up and unclips his helmet. The helmet hisses, then lifts off, revealing a face that should not belong to someone who terrifies half the city. Way too young, way too exhausted, way too human.

The most unhelpful thought ran through your brain. damn. wish he zip tied me under different circumstances fr.

You stared at him.

He stared back.

You snapped out of it like someone had clapped in your face.

“Actually,” you said quickly, voice a little too bright for the situation, “I preferred the helmet.”

His expression didn’t change.

If anything, it got worse.

Jason shoved your legs back into the car when you tried to angle yourself out again, one hand firm on your knee as he forced you fully into the seat. Not rough, but completely unmovable.

He reached beside you, flipping the child lock back into place with a sharp click. The sound echoed a little too loudly in the enclosed space. Final. Again.

Then he stepped back, shutting your door with a solid thud before circling around the front of the car. You watched him go, wrists bound, heart still racing, brain very much not cooperating with the severity of your situation. He slipped into the driver's seat flipping the engine back on. 

“Put your seatbelt on” You scoff. You cannot believe this. 

“You kidnap me then care about road safety?”

He looked at you again. Deep green-blue eyes burning into yours. 

“You should be thankful I don't put you in Arkham with all the other Joker Lackeys”

…

You click your seatbelt on. 

Jason didn’t say anything after that. Just shifted the car into drive. The engine growled low as he pulled back onto the street, one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting loose but ready near the console.

“Start talking.”

You blinked.

“Oh. Right. Yeah. Talking. Love that.”

His grip tightened slightly on the wheel. “What was in the messages.”

Messages?

Right. The fake ones.

Your brain scrambled, flipping through absolutely nothing and trying to make it sound like something.

“It wasn’t--like--it wasn’t super specific,” you said, nodding like that helped. “Very vague. Mysterious. You know. On brand.”

His eyes flicked toward you for half a second.

“Define vague.”

“Like… drop-off location,” you said quickly. “Time. No names. No context. Very cryptic. Honestly kind of annoying.”

You paused. Then, because apparently you had no self-preservation--

“Bad communication style, if you ask me.”

Jason didn’t react to that.

Which somehow made it worse.

“Names,” he said.

You froze.

Oh.

Oh no.

Names required… planning. Continuity. Memory.

You had none of those.

“Yeah,” you said anyway. “There were--there were names.”

His attention sharpened instantly.

“Which ones.”

Your brain panicked.

Alphabet.

Alphabet. Go.

“Uh--Aaron?” you said.

Nothing.

“Abel?”

Still nothing.

Your heart started racing.

“Arthur?”

The car jerked slightly.

Jason’s head snapped toward you.

“Arthur Fleck?”

You nodded immediately. Too fast. “Yes. Yeah. That one. That’s--yeah. That’s what I heard.”

Silence filled the car.

Heavy. Electric.

Jason turned his gaze back to the road, but something had changed. You could feel it. The tension winding tighter, sharper--like a wire pulled to its limit.

“Say it again,” he said.

“Arthur Fleck,” you repeated, much smaller this time.

His jaw clenched.

Of course it was him.

Of course he would use his real name now.

Not hiding. Not playing games the same way. Something new. Something worse.

Jason exhaled slowly through his nose, already putting it together, already building something out of the fragments you had handed him.

“Then we start where he started,” he muttered.

You blinked. “Where he--what?”

“Ace Chemicals.”

Oh that sounded… bad.

Jason pressed down on the accelerator, the car picking up speed as he merged onto the road, his focus locked forward now, completely gone from you.

Like you had already served your purpose. Like you had just handed him something real.

You sank slightly into your seat, staring ahead.

Two lies make a truth, right?

That was a thing.

Bedmas or something.

…Right?

---

The silence lasted about thirty seconds.

Maybe less.

It felt like hours.

You shifted in your seat, wrists still bound, eyes flicking between the window and the dashboard and him. Mostly him. He didn’t look back. Didn’t speak. Didn’t even seem aware you were there anymore, which was honestly a little offensive considering the circumstances.

You leaned back slightly, studying him from the corner of your eye. No helmet now. Just… a guy. A very intense, slightly terrifying guy, but still. A guy.

“So,” you try, “do you have a name, or is it just, like, Hood comma Red full-time?”

“I’m not giving it to you,” he said flatly.

You blinked.

“Okay, but I’ve already seen your face.”

Silence.

You frowned.

“What’s the difference?”

He didn’t answer.

Of course he didn’t answer.

You sighed dramatically, shifting again. “Fine. I’ll guess.”

“Liam?” you offered.

Nothing.

“Carlos?”

His jaw ticked.

Oh, you were onto something.

“Jonathan?”

Still nothing.

“William?”

His fingers flexed against the wheel.

You leaned in slightly, squinting at him like that would help. “Mohammad?”

That one got you a look.

A quick, sharp glance, half confusion, half irritation.

You straightened immediately. “Statistically, that was the most plausible one.”

He stared at you for a second longer.

Then looked back at the road.

You grinned, just a little.

“Okay, so not Mohammad. I’ll keep trying.”

His grip tightened again.

You settled back into your seat, entirely too pleased with yourself for someone currently zip-tied in a moving vehicle.

The drive lasted thirty-seven minutes.

You counted.

Every single one.

By the time the car finally slowed, turning off onto a cracked stretch of road that looked like it hadn’t seen maintenance in decades, you were ready to start naming him numbers out of spite.

You leaned forward slightly, peering through the windshield.

An abandoned factory loomed ahead, all rusted metal and broken windows, the kind of place that screamed bad decisions.

You blinked.

“Uhhh,” you said slowly, turning toward him, “Henry, I really hope you’re not taking me in there.”

No response.

Of course.

He stepped out of the car.

You watched him go, already bracing yourself.

Sure enough--

Your door opened a second later.

Darn it

You climbed out, eyeing the place like it might bite. Which, honestly, felt possible.

The two of you found a gap in the fence a few steps later, the metal bent just enough to squeeze through if you tried hard enough.

Jason stopped, glancing at it once before nodding toward it.

“Go.”

You stared at him.

Then slowly raised your hands.

Still zip-tied.

You wiggled them slightly.

He looked down at your wrists like he had forgotten the ties existed. Then he stepped closer, and suddenly there wasn’t space anymore.You took a step back on instinct, your back hit the fence with a sharp metallic rattle, the cold biting straight through your shirt.

Up close you could see the green in his eyes had an unnatural depth to them. Something that doesn't seem real. He took one of your wrists in his hand and his lips parted in a soft breath that landed just near your forehead. A shiver ran up your spine and your own lips parted on instinct. 

“I don’t like where this is going, Eric,”

“What?” he questioned, bringing his pocketknife through the layers of plastic, before stepping back. 

Oh. 

Right. 

He was untying the zip ties. 

Yes. 

You clear your throat, heat creeping up your neck, and immediately ducked toward the gap in the fence, ignoring his confused expression. 

The inside of Ace Chemicals felt wrong.

Your footsteps echoed too loud against the concrete floor as you ducked through a broken side entrance, the air thick with rust and something chemical that never really went away. The place looked frozen in time. Old equipment sat abandoned mid-use. Papers scattered like no one had bothered to clean up.

“Cute,” you muttered. “Super inviting. Love the vibe, Walter.”

Jason didn’t respond.

Of course he didn’t.

He moved ahead of you, slower now, more deliberate. Every step placed carefully, like he was mapping the space in real time, eyes scanning everything. You got the sense he’d been here before.

That made it worse.

You followed anyway, rubbing your wrists absentmindedly where the zip ties had been, glancing around like something might jump out at you.

“So,” you said, because silence was not an option, “this feels like a place where I die. Just putting that out there.”

Nothing.

You clicked your tongue. “Tough crowd.”

They moved deeper into the building, past rusted railings and darkened hallways until you reached a door at the end of a corridor.

Locked.

You brightened immediately.

“Oh,” you said, stepping forward, “step aside, Logan, this is my moment.”

Jason glanced at you.

You crouched slightly, already reaching toward the handle. “I actually know how to pick these. It’s a whole thing. Don’t even worry about it, Ethan, I got--”

The gunshot rang out.

Loud. Sharp. Deafening in the enclosed space.

You flinched so hard you nearly lost your balance.

The lock shattered instantly.

The door creaked open.

You stared at it.

Then at him.

Then back at the door.

“…rude,” you muttered.

Jason holstered the gun like nothing had happened and pushed the door open the rest of the way.

You followed him in, still mildly offended.

Inside, the room was smaller. Less industrial. More… administrative. Filing cabinets lined the walls, most of them rusted shut or left partially open, papers spilling out in disorganized piles.

Jason went straight to them.

Of course he did.

You hovered nearby, peering over his shoulder as he rifled through folders with quick, efficient movements. You considered helping, but knowing your luck, you’d be the one to find something real and make everything worse. Instead, you hop onto a cabinet and watch him work. 

30 minutes passed. Then an hour. You were secretly glad. Hopefully he’ll reach a dead end then you could go home tonight. Maybe you could meet up again. Somewhere normal. Without the kidnapping. Dinner, maybe? He seems like the type who never had sushi. You could introduce it to him–

“You’re on the last cabinet” You look down, mildly offended that your train of thought has been interrupted. Jason sighs and grabs your ankles, shifting them out of the way with gentle efficiency. He opens the drawer and pulls out the first file,, his expression immediately changing. 

“Arthur Fleck,” he said.

Your stomach dropped.

Holy fuck you did it again. Sitting on evidence. Where is this luck when you buy lottery tickets?

You leaned closer, reading the file alongside him while he angles it so you can get a look. There is some basic stuff, name, date of birth (DAMN he’s old), family including a mother in a nursing home, yadda yadda basic stuff. Then you see it the same time Jason does. An address. 

“He’d go back,” he said, almost to himself.

You blinked. “People usually don’t, actually.”

No response.

“He’d revisit it,” Jason continued, voice quieter now, more focused. “He’s using his old name. He’s feeling nostalgic. He is leaving clues like a puzzle to play with me.”

A beat.

“Like he wants me to follow.”

You shifted slightly. “Or,” you offered, silently pleading with him to drop it because these coincidences are coming from your lies, “its just a file?”

Jason ignored you completely, already moving towards the door. 

“Where are we going?” you asked, scrambling to follow.

He didn’t slow down.

“Old Gotham.”

---

Old Gotham looked worse at sunset.

The light didn’t soften it. Didn’t make it pretty. It just dragged the shadows out longer, stretching them across broken pavement and hollow buildings like something trying to crawl its way back to life.

You followed a step behind him, arms crossed tight over yourself, eyes flicking to every movement in your peripheral vision.

Nobody lived here and that was the problem. Places in Gotham were supposed to be loud. Messy. Alive in some way, even if it was ugly. This place was quiet and abandoned. 

The building loomed ahead of you, all cracked concrete and boarded windows, the front door hanging just slightly off its hinges like it had given up trying to stay closed.

Jason didn’t hesitate.

Of course he didn’t.

He stepped inside.

You lingered for half a second.

Then followed.

The stairwell smelled like mold and something worse you didn’t want to identify. Your shoes stuck slightly to the floor with every step, peeling away with a soft, wet sound that made your stomach turn.

“Cool,” you muttered. “Love this. Great atmosphere. Really thriving neighborhood, Daniel.”

Something moved in the corner of your vision. A rat darted across the landing, disappearing into a hole in the wall. You refused to acknowledge that for your own wellbeing.

You reached the apartment and Jason stepped in first. The door was unlocked. Jason’s eyes lit up like that means something. The space was small. One room bleeding into another, a sad excuse for a kitchenette shoved against the wall, cabinets hanging open or missing entirely. The floor was stained in ways you didn’t want to think about.

He was already moving through the space, scanning it, checking corners, opening drawers that didn’t open properly, like he was expecting something to be hidden just out of sight.

You stayed near the door, not touching anything. Partly because it was disgusting. Mostly because, at this point, you did not trust yourself not to accidentally uncover something real.

Jason worked with a quiet efficiency as he combed through the drawers of discarded junk, when thunder sounded outside. Classic gotham rain. But this means that the light is fading fast. 

You tried the light switch. No electricity, no lights. Just the faint glow of whatever leaked in through the broken windows and the occasional flash of lightning. Jason slammed a drawer shut with frustration as he couldn't see its contents in the dark anymore. 

“We’re staying”

You glanced toward the door. Then back at the windows. Then at him.

“Can I say no?”

Jason doesn't answer, just walks into the bedroom while you follow after hoping he’ll change his mind. The bedroom is worse, radioactive green walls and one mattress on the floor. A mattress which looks thin and discolored, like it had absorbed every bad decision ever made in the room.

He shrugged off his jacket like this was just another night, just another place, dropping it onto the floor before lowering himself down beside the mattress. He rolled it into a rough bundle and tucked it under his head like a makeshift pillow.

“Take the bed,” he said.

You turned your head slowly.

Looked at the mattress.

Then back at him.

Then back at the mattress.

“…Gee,” you said flatly, “thanks.”

---

A few hours passed.

Or maybe less. Maybe more.

Time felt strange in the dark.

You sat on the far edge of the mattress--the one corner that looked the least offensive--legs pulled in slightly, arms wrapped around yourself. You had tried not to think about what the rest of it had seen. You were succeeding. Barely.

Jason lay on the floor, His jacket was balled up under his head, one arm thrown over his eyes, the other resting loose at his side. Relaxed. Or at least pretending to be.

The rain hadn’t stopped.

It hit the broken windows in uneven bursts, the sound filling the silence just enough that it didn’t feel completely empty.

You stared at the ceiling.

Then at him.

Then back at the ceiling.

“…Vincent?”

You shifted slightly. “Why do you want to find the Joker?”

There was no hesitation.

“I’m going to kill him.”

Oh.

Okay.

You blinked.

“…Noted.”

You glanced down at your hands. Then back at him. “Am I an accomplice?” you asked, because apparently your brain still didn’t know when to stop.

“I’ll make sure Batman doesn’t know you were involved.”

Your stomach dropped. An unexplainable panic started rising in your throat. Everything was fine up until now. Yes you lied, but it's not like the lies seemed to have any impact. But hearing that Batman is involved? That has you regretting ever opening your mouth. 

Jason’s eyes narrowed slightly as he noted the shift in your behaviour. People were scared of Batman. Of what he represented. Of what happened when you ended up on the wrong side of him. He pushed himself up onto one elbow, watching you more closely now.

“You’re fine,” he said, quieter. “He’s not--”

You shook your head quickly.

“No, I know,” you cut in. “I just--”

You hesitated.

Then shrugged, a little awkwardly. “It’s weird,” you admitted. “Because you did, like, have a gun to my head this morning, but I think you’re safer.”

“…What?” he said.

You leaned back against the wall, pulling your knees in a little tighter.

“In Crime Alley,” you said, like it explained everything. “People talk.”

Jason didn’t interrupt.

“They don’t really talk about Batman like that,” you continued. “He shows up, does his thing, disappears. It’s… different.”

You glanced at him.

“You help people.”

Silence.

“The Red Hood gets things done,” you added.

Jason stared at you like you’d said something that didn’t make sense.

Like you’d gotten it wrong.

“…You think that?” he asked.

“Don’t let it go to your head, Henry,” you add quickly, like you can take it back if you say it fast enough.

“You used that one already.”

You sit up with a grin. “So you are paying attention.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly.

The word hangs there, low and rough, and suddenly the room feels smaller. The faint chemical stink from years of decay lingers in the cracks of the walls, the rain drums harder against the broken window, but all you can hear is your own pulse and the slow creak of the mattress as you shift.

You slide off the edge first on instinct, maybe, or just needing to move before the air chokes you. Your knees hit the cold floorboards. 

You don’t get far.

His hand closes around the back of your neck. Firm enough that your breath catches. The other finds your waist and yanks you forward in one clean pull. You stumble into him, knees bracketing his thighs, and then you’re in his lap, straddling him, chest to chest.

The kiss is immediate and punishing. You break just long enough to drag your lips along his jaw, under his ear, down the corded side of his neck. You nip light at first, then harder when he growls low in his throat. His hand slides up under your shirt, rough palm skating over your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through your bra

You rock against him instinctively. Slow grind at first, testing, then deliberate rolls of your hips so the friction drags a hiss out of him. You can feel him thick and hard through the layers, and the realization makes you groan into his mouth.

He answers by gripping your ass with both hands and grinding you down harder, setting a brutal rhythm for a few beats that steals your breath. Then he catches your bottom lip between his teeth and holds just long enough for the sting to bloom before he soothes it with his tongue. You whimper, nails raking down his shoulders through the fabric.

You yank at his hoodie. “Off… come on, Brent.”

He lets you peel it over his head, a rough huff escaping him at the wrong name. Scars map his chest and stomach like a violent history book with bullet wounds, blade marks, like a jagged mess across his ribs. Your fingers pause on one, tracing it without thinking. He tenses.

You lean in and kiss the scar instead of saying anything.

He exhales hard through his nose, then his voice comes out low and rough right against your ear.

“The fuck are you doing to me?”

Your shirt goes next. He drags it up and off slower, eyes locked on yours the whole time like he’s memorizing you. Bra stays, but his thumbs hook under the straps and slide them down your shoulders anyway.

He begins to lift you off his lap. “Lay down. Wanna taste you”

You glance at the floorboards. Grimy, splintered, probably hasn’t been swept since the ‘80s. “I’m not fucking on that biohazard, Adam.”

He doesn’t argue. Just grabs the leather jacket he was using as a pillow. He spreads it on the floor, leather creaking as it settles over the worst of the filth. The thoughtful gesture makes your heart skip. 

“Better?” he asks, voice gravel.

You grin, already lying back on it. “Romantic.”

He’s on you in the next second, but instead of letting you settle on your back he flips you with a rough grip on your hips.

“Face down,” he murmurs. Then the roughness slips back in: “Let me see you.”

You brace on your forearms, cheek pressed to the cool leather. He yanks your pants and underwear down together, then spreads your knees wider on the jacket. The position leaves you open and exposed, heart hammering.

He doesn’t tease.

His mouth is on you instantly. He licks a long, slow stripe from clit to entrance like he’s tasting something he’s been dying for, then seals his lips over your pussy and makes out with it. Messy, obscene, tongue pushing deep, sucking your clit hard before flicking fast and relentless. One big hand grips your ass cheek, spreading you wider; the other slides underneath to rub tight, perfect circles on your clit while his tongue fucks into you.

Your loud moans muffled against the jacket, curses, a new name breaking out every few seconds. You reach back and fist his hair, pulling hard. He groans right into your pussy at the tug, the vibration shooting through you.

You come hard, thighs shaking, a broken cry tearing out of you as pleasure crashes through every nerve. He works you through it with softer licks and gentle kisses to your clit until you’re whimpering and oversensitive, then presses one last soft kiss to the back of your thigh.

Only then does he sit back, breathing ragged, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

You barely catch your breath before you’re crawling back into his lap, straddling him. He helps you, hands steady on your waist even as his grip tightens with need. You push his pants down just enough, line him up, and sink down slow.

The stretch pulls a hiss from both of you.

You pause when he’s buried to the hilt, foreheads together, breathing each other in. Then you start moving with deep rolls of your hips, grinding your clit against him on every downstroke.

His hands flex on your waist, letting you set the pace for a moment. But the desperation wins. He grips your ass, lifts you, and starts thrusting up hard with sharp, deep strokes that punch the air out of your lungs.

You’re panting, riding him harder, the wrong names still slipping out between moans because your brain is too scrambled to stop the game.

“Shit. right there, Lucas… fuck--”

He growls, hips snapping up sharper.

Then it happens.

The rhythm turns punishing, perfect, and the name just falls out of your mouth on a broken moan, pure coincidence, no thought behind it:

“Jason-- fuck, Jason--”

His whole body stutters.

His grip on you turns bruising for half a second, a raw, guttural sound ripping out of his chest. Hearing his real name fall from your lips like that  while you’re clenching and falling apart around him shatters whatever control he had left.

He slams up into you once, twice, burying himself as deep as he can go, and comes hard with a choked groan, pulsing deep inside you in hot, endless waves. The feeling of him losing it so completely drags your own orgasm even higher, leaving you shaking and whimpering through the aftershocks, still completely lost in your climax.

You stay tangled together afterward, his arms wrapped tight around your back, one hand stroking slow, soothing lines down your spine. His heartbeat is frantic under your ear. After a long moment he gently rolls you onto your side so you’re facing him on the leather jacket, both of you still catching your breath. You turn your head to look at him, half-expecting regret.

“What is it?” you ask. 

“I want to kill the Joker,” he says quietly, “because he killed me first.” Pause.

“.....Like, metaphorically?”

“No”

You push yourself up slightly onto one elbow, staring at him. “I am not comprehending, Jamie.”

For a second, you thought you saw a flicker of disappointment at the new name option. Like he wants you to get it right. But he brushes it off and turns back to the ceiling. 

“The Joker killed me. Like… actually. I died. And when I came back, he was still walking”

“And now we just fucked in your murderer’s old apartment. That’s karma, Ryan” He laughed at that. Big, beautiful. You can't help but grin too. 

You wince slightly as you sit up, pushing yourself off the floor and grabbing your discarded shirt. You’re halfway to the bathroom when he speaks again. 

“Thought I was past it.”

You pause.

Slowly turn back.

Jason hasn’t moved.

Still staring at the ceiling.

Like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

“Past what?” you ask, quieter now.

“Needing it,” he says. “Revenge.”

He exhales slowly, like he’s forcing the next part out.

“Got better,” he adds. “Or… I thought I did.”

He shifts, lifting a hand up like he’s trying to grab something that isnt there before letting it fall back against the floor.

“Then I hear his name again,” he says.

His jaw tightens.

“And everything I built to keep it down just--”

He exhales sharply.

“Gone. Since you showed up.”

You swallow, not knowing what to say. 

He turns his head to look at you again. “Thank you”

Your stomach drops.

“For what?”

“Helping me get closure.”

Your heart shrivels.

You nod quickly, already turning away before he can catch the look on your face.

The water is colder than you expect. It shocks through your system the second it hits your skin, dragging you out of whatever haze you’d been floating in. You grip the edge of the sink, breathing out slowly as you splash your face again.

It doesn’t help.

When you look up, your reflection stares back at you through the grime-streaked mirror.

Your cheeks are still flushed. Your lips are swollen from where he bit them earlier. You press them together, like that might fix it. Like that might take back the lies that spilled from them all day and brought you to this moment. 

You thought you could deal with it all and go back to your life when he realized there is no Joker and the entire thing was a wild goose chase. 

But then he thanked you. 

The audacity. 

“Okay,” you say, like you can force yourself into it. “Okay. We’re fixing this.”

Your reflection nods once.

“I’m telling him.”

Right now.

No waiting. No overthinking. No making it worse.

You push away from the sink before you can talk yourself out of it, wiping your hands on your shirt as you step back into the main room.

He’s on the floor, just like before. One arm over his eyes. Breathing slow and even. He’s asleep. He looks peaceful.

His jacket is still spread out next to him like he left it there on purpose to make space for you. He trusts you enough to lie next to him and trusts you enough to not run away. You approach slowly, making sure he is still asleep as you lower yourself onto his jacket.

You take it back. You can't tell him. Not now. Maybe in a few years when you're both old and gray and on your deathbeds. 

Not that you are thinking about growing old together.

---

“Hey.”

Your eyes blink open and you immediately regret it with the soft light coming in through the window. 

He is crouched in front of you.

Close. Not looming, not sharp like before. Just… there. His voice is quieter than you’ve heard it, like he’s trying not to startle you. Your brain lags a second behind the moment.

“Oh,” you mumble. “Hi.”

His hand drops back slightly, like he hadn’t realized how close it was to your face until you woke up.

“I found something,” he says.

That wakes you up.

Immediately.

You sit up too fast, your stomach already dropping before you even know why. Of course he did. Of course he found something.

“What kind of something?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady.

He’s already moving, grabbing the file from where he left it, flipping it open like he’s run through this a hundred times already.

“Postcards,” he says. “Recent.”

Your chest tightens.

Recent?

“They were sent here,” he continues, tapping the page. “Address matches. But they’re not from Gotham.”

A small pause.

“Iowa.”

Oh.

Oh no.

You stare at him, your mind scrambling to catch up, to understand how this is still happening, how your stupid lie is somehow still… working.

“He’s revisiting old places,” Jason says, more to himself now. “Old identity, old addresses. It’s deliberate.”

He sounds certain.

“He wants a trail,” he adds. “Breadcrumbs. He sent these postcards here on purpose so that I would find them”

Your hands feel cold.

This isn’t even your lie anymore.

This is something else. Something bigger. Something you don’t understand and definitely didn’t mean to create.

“Or,” you try, your voice weaker than you’d like, “it could just be, like… someone else? Sending stuff? By accident?”

You swallow, your throat suddenly dry. This is it. This is where you stop it. Before it gets any worse. Before he builds anything else on something that doesn’t exist.

“George–”

“What.”

Your heart starts racing.

The words are right there. You can feel them, sitting heavy in your chest, ready to come out.

“I--”

Say it.

“I think--”

Say it.

Your mouth feels dry. Your chest too tight.

“I think we should leave,” you say instead, too quickly. “Like, soon. Immediately. This place is--uh--not great.”

Jason watches you for a second.

Then he nods once, already turning away, already moving.

“Get your stuff.” ---

The sun is barely up when you get on the freeway. That grey-blue light that doesn’t feel like morning yet, just the promise of it. The roads are mostly empty. The city fades behind you faster than you expected.

You sit in the passenger seat, hands folded tight in your lap.

You haven’t said much since you left.

Jason hasn’t said anything at all.

Iowa.

You swallow.

You should say something.

You should have said something already.

But every time you open your mouth, the words get stuck somewhere between your chest and your throat and refuse to come out.

“Alex?” you say.

He hums signalling you have his attention. This is bad. You two are familiar now. 

You exhale sharply. “I need to say something.”

Silence.

You grip your hands tighter. “I--okay, I lied.”

The words come out too fast.

Like if you slow down, you won’t say them at all.

“About everything. The rumor, the Joker, the P.O. box--I made it up. I just said it to get out of a situation and then you showed up and I panicked and it just kept going and I didn’t know how to stop it and--”

“…What?” he says, processing. 

Then you see the physical change in him. His eyes get sharper. His jaw settles. The boy from last night is gone and the Red Hood is back. 

“How long have you been lying to me.”

“All of it,” you admit. “Since the beginning, I--”

Then the car jerks as he yanks it onto the shoulder.The tires screech slightly against the pavement as the car comes to a hard stop. You jolt forward, heart slamming into your ribs.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

You freeze.

Jason turns to you fully now.

“Do you have any idea what you just did?” he shouts. “Do you have any idea what you’ve been playing with this entire time?”

Your throat tightens. “I didn’t mean to--”

“I don’t care what you meant!” he cuts you off, voice rising, sharp and vicious. “You think this is a joke? You think you can just make something like that up and it doesn’t matter?”

Your chest tightens, something sharp rising up in response.

“Do you know what that name does?” he snaps. “Do you know what it means?”

“I was trying not to die!” you fire back. “What did you want me to say? They had me cornered--”

“So you picked the Joker?” he cuts in, incredulous. “That was your genius plan?”

“It worked!” you snap. “I got out, didn’t I?”

“And then you kept going!” he shouts. “You didn’t stop!”

“Because you put a gun to my head!” you yell back. “You think I was gonna go, ‘oh hey by the way I lied’ and just hope that worked out for me?”

His jaw tightens. “I wasn’t going to kill you.”

“You literally had a gun to my head!”

A beat.

“And now we’re on a freeway to Iowa because you believed me!” you add, your voice cracking now. “That’s not on me alone!”

“Get out.”

Your stomach drops. “…What?”

“Get out of the car.”

You stare at him. “You can’t be serious.”

He gestures to the gun in the backseat. “You have ten seconds,” he says.

Your breath catches.

“You’re bluffing.”

He looks at you. You still think he is bluffing but the Gotham in you won’t let you take that chance.

You scramble for the handle, shoving the door open and stumbling out onto the shoulder, slamming it rough behind you.

The engine revs. And he whips off like he’s in a competition with the flash. 

“FUCK YOU RED HOOD YOU FUCKING DIPSHIT I HOPE YOU CRASH--”

Your voice rips out of you, loud and furious and useless against the empty stretch of road as the car disappears into the distance.

The silence that follows is loud.

You stare at the road like it might undo itself. Like he might come back.

He doesn’t.

“…Okay,” you say.

You wrap your arms around yourself, glancing up and down the road like something is going to appear and solve this for you.

It doesn’t.

Right.

You exhale sharply. “I am not dying out here. Absolutely not. That’s not how this ends.”

You remember a flash of neon a few kilometers back. Hopefully its food. You turn and take off across the grass.

The diner comes into view faster than you expected. A flickering sign, half-lit, the kind of place that looks like it’s been open too long and seen too much.

Perfect.

You push the door open, the bell above it jingling softly.

Warmth hits you immediately.

And noise.

Low conversations, the hum of a coffee machine, the clatter of dishes--normal. Completely, wonderfully normal.

You almost sag in relief.

You slide into a booth near the window, still catching your breath, muttering under it.

“Unbelievable. Actually unbelievable. Who does that? ‘Get out of the car’. On a freeway. what a psycho”

You lean your head back against the booth, staring at the ceiling for a second.

Then down at your hands.

Then out the window.

Nothing feels real.

“Coffee?”

You blink.

A waitress stands beside the table, pen tucked behind her ear, expression neutral but not unkind.

She gives you a small nod, already reaching for the pot.

Then, as she pours--

“Your man abandon you?”

You choke slightly.

“--No,” you say immediately. “That jerk is not my man.”

The waitress hums like she’s heard that before.

“Mm.”

She sets the mug down in front of you anyway. You sip ignoring the burn of the hot liquid. Staring out the window isn't doing anything,, so you grab the newspaper on the bench next to you. 

A retirement home ad. Smiling faces. Clean rooms. Promises of care and comfort.

Your brain lags a second.

Arthur Fleck.

The file.

His mother.

A nursing home.

Your stomach twists.

You stare at the ad.

Then down at your coffee.

Then back at the ad.

Your luck has worked so far.

Maybe it’s worth checking out.

---

Jason makes it six minutes.

Maybe less.

He doesn’t check.

The road stretches out in front of him, empty, the early morning light barely breaking through the clouds. His hands are tight on the wheel, jaw locked, eyes fixed forward like if he just keeps going, everything behind him will stay there.

It doesn’t.

The image comes back all at once: You standing on the side of the road. No car. No backup. Nothing. Jason exhales sharply.

“Fuck.”

He left you. Alone. On a highway.

The car jerks as he yanks the wheel, tires screeching slightly as he swings into a hard turn, accelerating back the way he came.

By the time he gets back to the spot where you fought, you're gone. The shoulder is empty.

No movement. No figure. Nothing.

Jason steps out of the car immediately, scanning the area like he missed something. Like you might still be there if he looks hard enough. For a second, he just stands there.

Suddenly he realizes how the Joker doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is he got mad at you for a situation he created. He wasn’t mad you lied, he’s lied worse. He is mad he let himself care. About the Joker.. And about you. 

Jason slides back into the car, you can’t have gone far. He’ll find you.

---

The diner is first. It’s the closest place within walking distance.

Jason steps inside, presence alone enough to clear space around him.

The waitress freezes mid-step.

“Girl,” he says. “Came in this morning.”

She nods quickly. “Yeah--yeah, I remember. Sweet girl. Looked shaken up.”

Sweet?

Jason exhales through his nose. “Which way.”

“She didn’t stay long,” the waitress adds. “Kept looking out the window. Then she left--uh--headed that way.” She points.

Jason’s already gone.

–

It gets worse from there.

A trucker at a gas station squints at him.

“Oh--yeah. Yeah, I saw her,” he says. “Girl with the knife.”

Jason stills. “…Knife?”

“Yeah,” the guy nods. “Didn’t use it or anything, but she had it. Kinda freaked me out.”

Jason exhales slowly.

“Which way.”

–

It keeps going.

A bus driver picked her up at the edge of town. She juggled for free fare.

A cab driver dropped her off near Old Gotham. Said she talked his ear off the entire ride and, at some point, confidently informed him that the Red Hood hates women.

Some kids saw her walking. She told them she’d teach them a skateboard trick if they point her in the direction of the bridge. 

By the time he finally finds you, the sun is setting again. The sky is that dull orange-gray Gotham specializes in, the light fading just enough to make everything feel heavier than it should.

Golden Years Nursing Home stands at the end of the street.

And then he sees you.

Standing just outside the entrance. Still. Facing the doors.

Relief hits first.

Sharp. Immediate. Almost enough to knock the air out of him.

You’re alive.

You’re not hurt.

Jason exhales, something in his shoulders finally loosening as he steps out of the car.

You hear him step out and turn to face him. You’re not angry and you’re not surprised. Jason wants to apologize and hug you, but the look on your face gives him pause. 

“He’s in there.”

Your voice is barely above a whisper.

Jason stills.

Arthur Fleck.

The file.

The nursing home.

His gaze shifts past you, locking onto the building like it might disappear if he looks away.

Then back to you.

You’re not joking.

“Okay.”

He checks his gun, the familiar motion grounding, automatic.

“Let’s go kill us a clown”

---

The doors slide open with a soft mechanical hum.

The lobby is softly lit. A television murmurs in the corner. A few residents sit scattered in chairs, some watching, some not. A nurse walks past with a clipboard, offering a polite smile like nothing about this place is unusual.

You step forward first.

“Hi,” you say to the receptionist, your voice steady in a way it hasn’t been all day. “We’re here to see Arthur Fleck.”

The woman brightens.

“Oh! That’s lovely,” she says. “He doesn’t get visitors often.”

Jason’s confused but not deterred. These nurses are villains. This place is a secret Joker Lab. They have vats of jokerization fluid in the basement. He has one hand on his gun and eyes scanning the exits. 

A nurse appears a moment later, cheerful, unaware.

“Come on,” she says. “He’ll be happy to see you.”

The hallway stretches longer than it should, each step heavier than the last. His hand brushes his gun once, just to make sure it’s there, just to ground himself in something real. This is it. This is what all of it has been leading to.

The nurse stops at a door and knocks lightly before opening it. “Arthur? You’ve got visitors.”

She steps aside.

Jason moves forward.

It takes a second for his brain to catch up with what he’s seeing.

An old man sits by the window in a wheelchair. Small. Frail. His body seems to fold into itself, hands trembling faintly in his lap. His breathing is uneven, punctuated by a weak cough that rattles through his chest.

He takes another step closer, eyes narrowing like if he looks hard enough, the truth will rearrange itself into something that makes sense.

The man turns his head slowly, like even that costs him something. His eyes are clouded, distant, unfocused.

This is the Joker?

Jason’s chest tightens. He thinks this must be a game. A last ploy. But then the man turns towards him. 

He knows that face. He knows what happened. He knows what it sounds like when he laughs. He knows what his screams of joy sound like. He knows what those hands feel like when they are holding a crowbar. 

You note his hands shaking. One is braced on his hip holster like he needs to be ready. The other is curled in a fist like he is trying to keep it together. 

“You,” he says, sharper than he means to.

The man blinks at him.

Nothing.

No recognition. No reaction. Just confusion.

Jason steps closer, faster now, something desperate starting to claw its way up his throat. He had a whole speech prepared. He is going to start with how the Joker ruined all semblance of normalcy in his life. How he can’t sleep some nights because his ribs burn with phantom pains. How he wakes up screaming because he feels the weight of dirt on his chest. But all of that hinges on the Joker actually looking at him. Which this frail man is not. 

“Look at me.”

The words come out harsher this time.

“You killed me. LOOK at me”

The old man blinks confused. “Are you the new doctor?” Jason took a step back. Confused. Dazed. “You chased after Batman for decades”

Arthur’s eyes sharpen at the mention of Batman. Focus. Lock.

And then he smiles.

Wide. Wrong. Familiar.

“Boy WONDER” he rasps, voice cracking into something gleeful and broken all at once. “How’s Batsy, huh? Still waiting for me to make a move--HAHA--”

The laugh collapses into a violent coughing fit, tearing through his chest. “--COUGH--COUGH--”

And just like that--

It’s gone.

The light in his eyes flickers out, replaced by confusion so complete it’s like the moment never happened. His head turns away, gaze unfocused again.

“…Mama?” he mutters weakly. “Where’s. where’s my mother?”

His hands twitch in his lap. He looks around the room like he’s looking for someone. A nurse. A doctor. A mother. 

He doesn’t look at Jason again.

Doesn’t see him.

Doesn’t know him.

Jason stands there, completely still.

This is him.

This is the man.

The one who killed him. The one he built everything around. The one he chased, convinced there was meaning in it, something intentional, something unfinished.

His hand doesn’t move toward the gun.

It just hangs there.

Because what would that even be now?

Killing him wouldn’t fix anything. Wouldn’t mean anything. This isn’t a final confrontation. This isn’t revenge.

This is just a man.

Old. Sick. Forgotten.

Jason exhales, and it sounds like something breaking loose in his chest.

He steps back. Once. Then again. Then he turns and walks out.

You follow without a word.

–

The gas station across the nursing home is quiet.

Quiet in that way places get when the day is ending and no one really wants to be there anymore. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. A neon sign flickers faintly in the window. Across the road, the nursing home sits still, unchanged, like nothing inside it matters to the rest of the world.

You sit on the curb with a slushie in your hand. You made a frankenstein slushie with every flavour and regret it but are too proud to admit it. 

Jason sits beside you, leisurely sipping a cherry one from his cup. 

Neither of you says anything at first.

There’s nothing left to say.

The air feels flat. Heavy. Like everything that was loud before burned itself out and left this behind.

Apathy.

You take a sip. It tastes like sugar and chemicals.

“…I think I lost my job,” you say finally.

Jason glances at you, just slightly.

“I ghosted them for, like, two days,” you continue. “Which, in my defense, was not my fault. I was being kidnapped. And then… everything else.”

He exhales quietly through his nose.

“I’ll write you a note,” he says.

You blink. “A note?”

“Yeah,” he says. “From the Red Hood.”

That almost makes you smile.

“You think that’ll work?”

“It’ll work,” he says flatly. “Not your fault.”

You hum, taking another sip.

A pause stretches.

“What’s your name?”

Jason doesn’t answer right away.

You glance at him. “Like--your actual name. Not the whole… dramatic branding situation.”

“Jason.”

You stare at him.

Then snort.

“Is that why you came so fast?”

He turns his head slowly. “Shut up.”

You grin into your slushie.

It fades just as quickly.

Jason leans back slightly, eyes drifting toward the horizon.

“I could’ve killed him,” he says after a while.

You don’t look at him.

“I know.”

A beat.

“Didn’t,” he adds.

Another beat.

“Maybe Batman’ll be proud,” he mutters. “Maybe I’ll get a new jet out of it.”

You look at him. “No, Jason. We did kill the joker”

Jason frowns slightly. “What?”

You take another sip. Casual.

“I switched his meds.”

Jason chokes.

Hard.

The slushie goes down wrong, coughing tearing out of him as he turns away, wiping at his mouth.

“What--” he tries, still coughing. “What the fuck?”

You just sip your drink.

Unbothered.

He looks at you again, searching your face.

You don’t crack.

He snorts.

And then it turns into something else.

A laugh.

Broken. Real. Completely unguarded.

In the distance, sirens cut through the quiet.

Ambulance lights flicker faintly as they race past, heading toward the nursing home.

Neither of you turns to look.

You lift your fist.

Jason bumps it.

-------------