#anyways Im going to go eat soup | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

moratorya · 10 days ago

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𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃 ━━━━ 𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐢𝐢𝐢

‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ in which you're a mermaid of the seas, blessed with a love for swimming with freedom, and jason is a sailor of the seas, blessed with a love for you.

word count: 7.4k

warnings: more grief, nothing else really apart from some real plot!

notes: oh my days. im ngl people i had a struggle this chapter because i had no idea where i wanted to go from the last chap but now...hehehehe...we're starting guys!!! it's actually going to be so exciting!!!!! please enjoy :)

previous part・fic masterlist・next part

Tim’s asleep by the time you reach his bedroom. You must’ve been talking to Bruce for longer than expected or Tim’s much more exhausted than he let on—or both, actually, the more you think about it. You brush dark strands out of his eyes, gently tucking him in a little tighter, and he leans into your touch like the child he is.

You sit there, for a while. The sun starts to set, and you sit by Tim, gently brushing his hair out of his face. It inevitably tumbles back into place though, and you play with the straight strands quietly.

Everything is still in that room. When Tim sleeps, he barely moves, breathing so softly that he could honestly be mistaken for the dead. Your breathing system is much more efficient than a human’s, so your breathing is shallow. The dust suspends in the air, illuminated by the golden glow of sunset.

It’s peaceful. It’s temporary.

When you finally leave the room, Alfred is passing by, holding a tray of soup in his hands. “Master Tim is asleep?” he asks, not pausing.

You fall into step behind him. “Yes. He must’ve been tired.”

“He was waiting up all night in anticipation for your return,” Alfred murmurs, coming to a stop in front of a room you’ve never entered before. “He’s missed you.” He clears his throat, and then knocks, expertly balancing the tray on one hand. “I have your dinner, Master Dick.”

There’s shuffling from inside, a muffled curse, before the door is opening with a disheveled Richard behind it. He barely blinks at you. “Hey, Alfie,” Richard says, with a tired smile, “you didn’t have to. It’s not that big of a deal—I’m not that hungry anyways.”

“It’s your favourite bouillabaisse,” Alfred replies, smoothly.

Richard hesitates.

“My arms are getting tired,” Alfred continues in a bald-faced lie, and he not-so-subtly pushes the tray forwards. “I also have other work to get to, so if you don’t mind, please take this load off of me.”

“You’re not playing nice,” Richard complains, but takes the tray easily with a single hand, the other still resting against the door. His eyes flicker over to you, expression deceptively calm as he asks, “Did you want to come in?”

“No,” you say automatically, “I’m heading out to visit Jason.”

The air loses some of its warmth. Alfred tucks his hands behind his back, glancing at you with something akin to approval in his eyes. Opposite the two of you, Richard’s brows furrow.

“Visit…Jason?”

“Yes.” You gesture to the hallway that leads out to the private beach that the Waynes own. “His grave.”

Richard nods slowly. “Yes, I know. Do you—do you go often?”

“Whenever I’m here,” you answer. “I would invite you, but you have bouillabaisse to eat.”

A smile flickers onto the man’s face. “That’s true,” he agrees, and he nods at you and Alfred. “I might pop by later. Thanks for the food, Alfred. You know I can never say no to you.”

“You’d be surprised,” Alfred says dryly, before bowing in response. “Enjoy your dinner, Master Dick. Miss, would you like me to fetch a coat for you when you go outside?”

“It’s fine, I won’t be out for long,” you dismiss. “Get some rest, Alfred.”

The elderly man smiles at you, and you think if he were any less composed, he’d reach out to hug or touch you. But the two of you have a tacit understanding with physical affection—and so he simply nods, before turning on his heel and leaving.

Before you can go, though, Richard calls out your name. You pause, and you turn, eyebrow raised. “Yes?”

“You were,” Richard pauses to find the right word, “very close with Jason, weren’t you?”

You frown. How are you supposed to answer that?

He clears his throat when you don’t seem to respond. “Did he…did he ever talk about…living here? In the Manor?”

You tug Jason’s jacket closer, and you answer honestly. “Not really. He always preferred the sea.”

“Oh.” Richard blinks. “Right. Yeah. I remember.”

He seems to struggle trying to stay present in the conversation, gaze looking at you, but then past you. His grip on the bouillabaisse tightens, and you glance over your shoulder just in case someone—like Bruce—happened to be loitering, but there’s no one there. Looking back at Richard, you frown. He doesn’t seem, well, that okay.

“Richard?” you prompt tentatively. “Is there anything you need?”

“Dick,” he corrects, almost subconsciously, eyes blinking rapidly as his gaze meets yours. “Right. Yeah—sorry for holding you back. It was nice to chat.”

“Yes, have a nice meal.” You incline your head, going for a smile. He shuffles back into his room, door clicking shut softly behind him, and then it’s just you in the hallway.

Richard Grayson is…not what you expected. You knew not to use Jason’s recounts of his elder brother as a part of your expectations—Jason extolled him as if he is the sun himself, and you found it rather endearing that he would find no fault in his brother—but even then, you were sure Richard is supposed to be charismatic and inspiring at the very least.

He is charismatic, to a certain extent. But there’s a tiredness to the lines of his shoulders that reminds you far too much of Bruce, and it makes your heart twist.

If Jason was alive, now at the age of an adult, would he grow up to be like these two? Lose his spark?

You shiver at the thought. Or maybe it’s the chilly breeze as you step out of the back door of Wayne Manor, the coastal wind rushing at your face.

Jason’s grave is stationed underneath a large, thick coastal oak, his tombstone pristine clean with how often Alfred tends to it. You settle into a kneel in the sand, feeling the coarseness of the grains against your knee, and you lean against the stone. It’s cold, biting against your skin, and you sigh.

“Hi Jay,” you say, looking out to the sea. “Long time no see.”

The wind billows, cooing against your ear in response. You smile, and you tuck yourself a little closer to the tombstone.

The waves crash onto the beach. Then they recede. And then they try again. In the distance, on the horizon, ships glide across the water, moving in and out of the economic centre that Gotham is. If you squint, you can make out the red of the Royal Navy, and the blue-greens of merchant ships. Jason once mused about joining the Navy, saying something about how the colour red suited him, but now he can only gaze at it from this anchored position in the sand.

Having grown out of your adolescence when you’d run relatively cold, your body heat is warm enough to ease the cold of the tombstone, and you relax further against it. Before you forget, you tuck your hand into the pocket of Jason’s jacket and pull out your crumpled ticket.

You smooth it out between your fingers. Todd, it reads.

Something inside you warms, but you ignore it in favour for tucking it underneath a stone on top of Jason’s grave. “A gift,” you tell him, watching the piece of paper flicker in the wind. “It’s probably the last time travelling I’ll be travelling—I think you should hold onto it. I’ll somehow lose it.”

The waves continue to crash in the background, the wind howling as the sun begins to set. You like to think that in the human afterlife, Jason is tugging on your ticket and examining it with awe. It makes you smile, and you close your eyes.

For a moment, it’s just you, Jason, and the sea. Just like it used to be.

You can almost hear Jason’s laughter cackling around you, like that one time you had been mortified to beat Bruce in a bet that meant the old man had to dye his hair pink. There are the pats of his feet as he dances across the deck of the Robin, and the splash of water as he dives in into the ocean, making your heart seize with fear. But he’s always had faith in you to grab him if he couldn’t fight against the currents, and so he always bursts into raucous laughter even when you scowl at the false fright.

The only true sound, though, is the thrums of your heartbeat, the only thing that is alive in this space of two.

It doesn’t take long for the sun to disappear, bringing a chill with the new blanket of darkness. The sky is cloudy, because this is Gotham, and you start to lose visibility. It’s about time you headed in.

Leaving Jason is always hard. You only tear yourself away when Alfred comes out to light the external oil lamps, and he waves you over. He gently lays another jacket over your shoulder, and walks you in.

Usually, you go into town to stay the night. You and Bruce have an agreement in that he would never force you to stay in the Manor, especially when every corner has a remnant of Jason, his laughter, and his memories. But you hadn’t expected him to allow you out of the Manor this time; even with Richard tagging along, you thought that the whole reason why Bruce had delayed your departure to the sea was because you were somehow in danger.

Bruce never would’ve gone into the specifics—he was extremely conscious of any information he gave out, especially when it concerned him and his…cases. Still, when you had asked if you could still head into town, he had given it some thought, nodded once, and said, “Take Dick with you. It’ll do you good.”

Now, though, you’re not quite sure if he meant it would do you good, or do Richard good. Because between the two of you, you somehow are the more talkative one, and that is a true feat.

The two of you end up awkwardly sharing a horse, exchanging short greetings of ‘hey’ and ‘thanks for taking me’, before you’re pulling into town. Your hand gently clutches onto the back of Richard’s coat as his steed carries you both, the gentle rhythm of horseback riding filling the silence.

Richard is polite, like any member of the Wayne family, and so he swings off of the saddle first, before offering a hand to let you down. You accept, using the extra stability to land lightly, and you give him a small smile as thanks.

He nods at you. “This is the Ivy Inn. I’m staying across the road, so if you need anything, just shout.”

You nod. He offers a gentle smile, before starting to move away.

“Richard,” you say quietly, and he pauses. He turns, reins in his hands, and if he wasn’t trained by Bruce, you’re pretty sure he’d be fidgeting with it.

“Yeah?”

You set your jaw firmly. “Could you please tell me if Bruce is using me as bait to lure out his newest case?”

Richard’s eyebrows raise up into his hair, and there’s a moment of silence as he processes your words. Then he lets out a disbelieving laugh, and he shakes his head tiredly. “Wow, even you’re not exempt from his manipulative, melodramatic tendencies? Colour me surprised.”

“Are you going to answer?” you reply, smoothly.

“Honestly, I don’t know,” Richard shrugs, and he looks to be truthful, “Bruce barely tells me a thing these days. Says something about not wanting to draw me into his bullshit—which is bullshit in itself, because I always get dragged into it one way or another.”

“Because you’re family,” you note.

Richard sighs, looking over to his horse. It chuffs, and he pats it gently. “Yeah, well,” he sounds tired, “family’s family, I guess.”

A silence settles, and Richard looks over his shoulder warily to the inn he and his friends are staying at. It’s much rowdier than yours, laughter echoing from the bottom floor where there’s most likely a pub, and he glances back at you. “Anything else?” he asks, finally.

“No.” You smile. “It was nice meeting you, Richard.”

“Dick,” he corrects, but he smiles back, “though don’t think I didn’t catch you calling Tim, Timothy. He actually lets you—colour me surprised yet again.”

“Habit,” you explain, knowing that he’ll understand. “Thank you for taking me into town.”

He waves, and starts to cross the road. “Let me know if you need anything,” he calls, his steed following behind him obediently, “family’s family!”

For a second, you frown, because technically you’re not family. But you remember to wipe the confusion clear, and wave back, and he doesn’t seem to notice the delay. You watch as he goes to leave his horse in the care of the innkeepers, laughing to the boy and clasping him on the shoulder as he passes over his reins. It’s as if something changes in the atmosphere, and something heavy lifts off of Richard’s shoulders. Seeing his face light up into that smile that Jason used to describe to you, well. It seems it still exists.

The door behind you opens, and a familiar voice drawls, “Are you going to come in or keep watching your boytoy, hmm?”

“Pamela,” you sigh as you pivot to face her, giving her a look that tells her just how much you appreciate her calling Richard your ‘boytoy’. “How long have you been watching?”

A perfectly arched eyebrow meets you, amusement clear. “He’s pretty nice to look at,” she says agreeably, “but not your type at all. He’s too much of a downer. I thought you were into the overly optimistic types?”

“Pamela,” you repeat, walking into the inn past her and her sly smiles, “do you have some dinner?”

She laughs. “Always, dearie. Made that vegetable roast you seem to love.”

You made a noise of affirmation, slipping your jacket off as you sink into a seat by the bar. It’s late, now, so you’re the only one who waits patiently for food to appear. The quiet clutters of Pamela preparing your meal fills the silence, and you get comfortable in your seat.

You met Pamela the first time you had gotten lost on land. It was one of the first times you had been allowed to walk into town, as practice for assimilating into the human culture. As Bruce led you carefully through crowds, a rather raucous group knocked you out of his grip and you went spinning, panic gripping at your throat—you did not want to be alone in this foreign place, at all.

A set of sharp nails had dug into your arm, replacing Bruce’s hold, and managed to save you from being stampeded to death. Bruce hadn’t been too thrilled to find you hand-in-hand with one of his…case file associates, but he had thanked her stiffly for keeping you safe.

Pamela had replied, “Next time, don’t leave such a dearie alone in the streets of Gotham. You and I both know the consequences.”

Bruce had then sat you down and warned you that Pamela Isley, who owned the Ivy Inn, was a master manipulator who isn’t above using anyone and anything to her disposal. You held back from drawing parallels with the very man who was telling you, and simply nodded. It was best to always agree with people on things they truly believed in.

Despite that, you liked to spend time at Pamela’s establishment solely because it had a reputation so far-reaching that few dared to step foot inside. Whilst whispers talk about the illegal dealings that supposedly happen in the backrooms, or the sightings of serial murderer Harleen Quinzel who has been missing for the past eight years, you relished in the isolation that the establishment provided.

You opt to stay inside your room almost the entirety of your stay. It’s quiet, there’s no complaints, and Pamela gives you free reign in the pool since no one else comes. Pamela seems to appreciate your patronage, so sometimes, she gives you vague warnings to stay out of the back hall at certain times, or not to use the back door until something has been cleaned. You take the warnings as the kind actions they are, so when Pamela has a glint in her eye when she comes over with your roast vegetables, you’re straightening up to attention.

“So,” she says, sliding across the plate and a set of cutlery, “you haven’t been promoting my place, by any chance?”

“Thank you,” you say politely, before shaking your head. “No, not really. You know no one voluntarily comes to Gotham.”

Pamela hums, nodding. “That’s true. Are you sure, though? No mentions?”

You peer up at her, a piece of carrot on your fork. “Why?” you ask, calmly.

She smiles. It’s a bit too wide. “Nothing. Eat up, dearie. Someone’s gotta look out for you if the big bad Bat is letting you walk around in this kind of climate.”

What climate? you want to ask, but you bite it back. If there’s anything you’ve learnt from your experience with both Bruce and Talia, it’s that you should never reveal when you have less information unless it’s a risk worth taking. So you opt for a neutral shrug, eating quietly, trying not to seem off-put by the way she watches you eat.

“Want a drink?” she offers, out of nowhere.

“Water, if you don’t mind,” you answer. Pamela nods, gliding away elegantly, green dress billowing behind her. She is, apart from Mistress Talia, one of the most feminine women you’ve ever met. She’s unafraid of it, flaunts it, and it makes you admire her despite her worrying reputation.

When she slides the glass over, she pauses before it reaches your hand. You can’t help but stiffen.

“Tell me one thing,” she says, conversationally. “What do you know about the Red Hood?”

This man again. He seems quite popular these days.

“Nothing,” you reply, truthfully, looking up to meet her gaze, “other than he’s new to the scene. Of crime, I’m assuming.”

“He’s killed fifty-one people in the past month,” Pamela states, matter-of-fact. “He’s hopped on my ships, Penguin’s ships, and Mask’s ships. He kills entire crews, who have families, and he sails the boat into the harbour but disappears like some ghost, leaving the boat drenched in blood.”

You eye the glass of water. Her grip tightens on it, perfectly shaped nails digging into the glass. The scratches eat at your ears.

“If you know anything,” she continues, tone deceptively calm, “you will tell me, won’t you? You know how I like to treat my crews.”

You don’t, because your entire existence above water is about staying out of trouble. But you incline your head, to give Pamela something, because she won’t let it go if you give her something vague.

Pamela looks at you. The nod isn’t enough.

“Does he have his own crew?” you ask, looking up at her. She evaluates you, smile gone, an apathetic stare crawling up and down your skin.

Then she smiles, and lets go of the glass. “Have a nice dinner, dearie. Do avoid the second floor, will you? I’ve left you the key to 302—it’s right by the staircase, you can’t miss it.”

With a swish of green silk, she’s gone, the double doors to the kitchen swinging shut behind her. You sit there, unmoving, for a few minutes, before tentatively reaching out for the glass of water.

You raise the glass to your lips, frown, and then stare down into the transparent liquid. You give it a whiff, hold it up to the light, and then your frown intensifies.

You set the glass it back down on the counter top. Instead, you pick up your fork and knife, digging into your now lukewarm food, and fill your stomach with discomfort.

The next morning, Pamela catches you before you leave. She wears her long hair up in a bun, and for a rare moment, she’s not wearing a lavish dress. There’s a tightness to the way she grips your wrist, and you blink at her.

She stares. And then she smiles. “Stay close with that pretty boy of yours, will you? For safety, of course.”

You have no appropriate response, so you simply nod. She lets you go, opening the front door for you, and waits for you to leave. Jason’s jacket is on your shoulders, and you stiffly give her your thanks as you exit, the door shutting firmly behind you.

Richard is already waiting, but he’s not alone, and he’s laughing along with Roy and another woman. This other woman has hair fluffier than anything you’ve ever seen, and she vibrates with colour. Between Richard, who wears muted blues and Roy, who wears muted browns, this woman is dazzling with bright pinks, oranges, and purples.

Richard notices you first. He raises a hand in greeting, with much more ease than he did the day before.

“Hey!” Roy grins, following Richard’s line of sight and pushing himself off the wall he was leaning against as you step out to meet the three of them. “Long time no see.”

“Yes,” you agree, even though it hasn’t been a day. Roy doesn’t seem offput by your lack of energy as opposed to his massive bundle of it, only grinning down at you brightly.

“I am Kori,” the colourful woman introduces, loudly but kindly, and she offers a hand. “I am from the Northern Continent.”

“Oh,” you greet, shaking her hand, “well, it’s very nice to meet you. I’ve never met someone from the North before.”

“I did assume so,” Kori nods, handshake firm, “and I, myself, have never met a true mer before. It is a first for us both.”

You’re not surprised that Richard’s closest friends know that you’re a mer—which is, in theory, not supposed to be common knowledge. However, you are surprised that they don’t know that Richard himself is mer; although you know he doesn’t like talking about his mer history or background, you’d at least think his long-term companions know about his heritage.

“It’s not what you’re thinking,” Richard says quickly, raising his hands placatingly, “she means a mer who has been brought up in mer culture. She’s fascinated. Unfortunately, I couldn’t give her much.”

Richard Grayson comes from a rare circle of mers where they had a nuclear family system similar to humans, due to close proximity to the other culture. However, this lends itself to higher risks of conflict between the two races—and, in a great tragedy, he was the victim of mer hunting and trafficking. This was when he was eight years old, and you remember the massive impact of the case on human-mer relations.

“I see,” you nod, “but I doubt I’ll be helpful. I…am what many call a special case.”

“As am I, but I still have experiences to share,” Kori replies, completely undeterred. “Richard mentions that you may not have explored Gotham very much. Neither have I. I was hoping that you would be inclined to spend some time with us and look at all the stores.”

You look at Richard. He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “Tim mentioned that you’ve been meaning to go to Selina’s.”

“A reputable and respectable establishment,” Kori agrees.

Roy shrugs. “So, if you’re not busy or anything, we were hoping you might want to tag along? It might be nice to get a second female perspective after the eighteenth fitting of clothes.”

“I thought that there were more of you,” you say, tentatively, because you don’t want to seem nosy.

“They’re off doing their own shopping,” Roy dismisses, “and honestly, they wouldn’t even want to come in the first place—something about differing fashion tastes. Dunno. Anyways, you free?”

“I have no plans,” you acquiesce. “Will we be heading to Selina’s first?”

“Have you had breakfast?” Richard asks.

You shake your head. You don’t really eat in the morning, as you’re typically not hungry.

“Then we’ll do that first,” he decides. “Anywhere in particular?”

Although they argue, mostly without heat, about food choices and which establishment they want to support, Kori ultimately wins out. You start to think that this is going to be thematic, and you’re proven right: Kori dictates where you go, often using the two men as manservants, getting them to hold her purchased items or fetch something that she saw earlier in another area of the store. They like to grumble, but they still listen to her, and it’s rather endearing to see.

It is…a fun day. You know that they’ve been sent to either surveil you, or protect you, because you recognise the tension in Richard’s stance and the bulge of a gun in Roy’s jacket pocket, but you ignore it in favour of enjoying their presence.

Richard is far happier with his friends than in his Manor, and now you understand why he chooses to spent most of his time with them. Roy is a person with overfilling kindness and happiness, and he always accepts Kori’s demands with little complaint. Kori is firm, but gentle, and despite being someone who comes from an external culture, she wears it proudly and unabashedly. She coos over cute children, sometimes speaking excitedly in her mother tongue, and she never forgets to clasp your hand in hers when she’s rushing to another area of the store.

It’s nice. You appreciate what they’re doing. Distraction or not, you accept their company and make the most of it.

Later, you have dinner with the entire group. There is a Donna, a Wally, and Victor. They mention others—a Rachel, and a Garth—who didn’t travel with them, taking some time for themselves. You barely keep up in conversation, not knowing more than half the things they’re referencing, but they’re kind enough to ask you a few non-intrusive questions to make you feel included.

Richard walks you back to your inn once you give your goodbyes, and you feel like he trusts you a little bit more. You don’t comment, but he notices, and he gives you a shrug once he leads you to Pamela’s doorstep.

“Kori has a good eye for character,” he says, simply. “It was nice that you came along, so thank you. I think she really enjoyed having your input on colour coordination and how to accurately value pearls.”

You shrug. “That is what we learn, under the water.” You don’t raise the question as to why Richard relies on others to determine character, but you do file it away for later.

“Do you…” you try to find words that are sensitive, “...remember? Anything from your time in the sea?”

Richard smiles, and it’s kind. “I know you’re curious. Surprised you managed to hold out this long, actually. I know people who would be less tactful.”

“Well,” you muse, “humans are inherently curious.”

“They are,” Richard agrees. “And no, I don’t remember. I can’t even remember my parents’ faces, or what kind of people they used to be. My earliest memory is of Bruce, in fact, and living on land.”

“You consider yourself human?”

Richard’s smile turns sad. “Can I?”

“It doesn’t matter,” you reply, making his brows furrow. “It shouldn’t define you. I will always be mer, but that doesn’t mean I cannot converse with humans, and vice versa. I do know that your family treasures you, and they are very much human.”

Richard sighs. “Well, I suppose Bruce can tolerate me on a good day.”

“On every day,” you affirm, patting his arm. “You are Bruce’s son, and Jason’s brother. These are the relationships that define you instead, not to people you cannot recall or cultures you do identify with.”

“Jason’s brother.” He hums, casting his eyes up to the gloomy sky characteristic of Gotham. “You ever miss him so much that you feel like you can’t function?”

You can’t stop your hand from crinkling Jason’s jacket as you grip onto it. “Always.”

He chuckles, but it’s warm. “You’re never afraid to talk about him,” he says, looking back down at you. “I admire that about you. With Bruce, it’s just all so stifling. Next time, let’s trade stories about Jay?”

“I’d love to,” you smile, “I’m sure there would be a lot to talk about.”

Richard hesitates to leave. “Look,” he says, quietly, “I’m sorry if we didn’t really…get along at the start. You’ve always been elusive—Bruce never talks that much about you, and all Tim does is gush about how cool you are and it sometimes makes me think he wishes I was a bit more like you. I know he doesn’t mean it, but, well. I guess a meagre not-mer but not-human brother isn’t all that appealing, I guess.”

“We got along fine,” you frown, “did we not? I was not expecting for us to be closest confidantes on the first few days of meeting.”

Richard shrugs. “I know. I feel like should’ve done better though. You’re the most important person from Jason’s life.”

“We are our own people,” you state, and give his arm a squeeze, “and our relationship does not change our relationship with Jason. You are still his big brother, whom he very much idolised, and that will not change whether or not we become friends.”

Richard stares, before shaking his head. “We should hang more often,” he remarks. “You’re a good person.”

“As are you.” You glance over his shoulder to where Roy is patiently waiting by the door of their inn, and you gently touch Richard’s shoulder. “I believe it’s time for us to turn in. Thank you for taking me out with your friends, Richard. It is greatly appreciated.”

“See you tomorrow,” he agrees, pulling away.

“Oh, Richard?”

He glances back at you. “Yeah?”

“Timothy also very much idolises you,” you mention, smiling, “he just becomes very shy because he doesn’t see you often enough. I believe humans believe in a phenomenon known as ‘exposure therapy’?”

Richard laughs, waving back at you. “I’ll look into it!” he replies, darting across the road as soon as he can slip between horses and carriages. Roy waves as well, from the other side as he catches your gaze, and you swing your arm in return.

Roy throws an arm around his friend, leading him back into the inn. You turn, entering your own inn, a contentment settling on your chest. You think Jason would be happy that you and his elder brother feel more comfortable with each other now. His worst nightmare might’ve been you not getting along with your family.

The taproom is empty, which is not atypical, but usually Pamela would be roaming around at this time in case anyone does step in to book a room. You step up the stairs, pulling for your keys, nodding to yourself as you pass the first floor, only to halt on the second floor.

Something smells weird. It doesn’t smell like Pamela’s attempts at making up a new recipe, but it does smell off. A cargo of fish, maybe, that hasn’t been put underground in storage yet?

Avoid the second floor, Pamela whispers. You stare, turn away, and go up the stairs.

You reach 302, lifting your hand to press your key into the lock. Like usual, you have to jig it a little, probably because of some rust inside the hole that’s interfering, and the key struggles to fit all the way in.

You should probably let Pamela know that this door is acting up. Pushing with a little more force, the key finally pops in, and you sigh in relief as you turn it. The lock clicks into place, and you press your shoulder against the wood to push it open.

You don’t get to open the door.

Someone shoves their hand over your mouth to prevent you from screaming, and another arm snakes around you waist and you lift off the ground, legs suddenly becoming useless. Absolutely powerless, you tumble into the room right next door, thrashing against the hold.

“Shh,” a man hisses in your ear, “I’m fucking saving your life here!”

You land a vicious kick on his shin, making your heel explode with pain. But the man also curses, tossing you onto the bed as he shuts the door silently behind him.

You scramble onto all fours, and you aim for the window. It might be the third floor, but there are balconies on the second, and you could probably survive a fall if you really needed you.

A gun cocks. You freeze.

“Don’t move,” the man says calmly, gun glinting in the moonlight, “and don’t make a sound.”

You listen, and don’t move. His aim is as steady as Bruce’s, and even though he stalks closer to where you sit on the bed, his eyes never leave your face.

The man stays in the shadows, and all you can see is the gleaming of the gun. He flicks it up, but it quickly trains on you again, and you understand the message. So you nod, tightly, and try your best to swallow through a parched throat.

“Jsut nod and shake your head as yes or no,” the man orders, quietly. “Don’t talk unless I ask you to.”

You nod. “Nice,” he praises, and you frown.

“First question. Are you a mer?”

You immediately shake your head. A click echoes as he cocks his gun, and he leans forwards. Now you can see the entirety of the gun in the moonlight coming in through the window, and you know that even the slightest pressure on the trigger will result in a hole in your forehead.

“Let’s try that again,” he says, amiably. “Were you born merfolk?”

You stare. And then you nod, but you make sure to shake your shoulders and tremble as if you’re terrified of even your own shadow.

“Don’t answer because you think it’ll please me,” he states, grip tightening around his gun, “I want the truth. Don’t try and fucking lie.”

So he doesn’t know. You steel yourself, and give a careful but definitive shake of your head.

The man seems to contemplate this, before moving on. Rustles fill the room as he looks for something, probably on his body, and you have the feeling that he’s no longer looking at you. You lean to the side to see if he’s still paying attention, watching the gun carefully.

The barrel of the gun follows you sharply, as if his arm is a separate entity that doesn’t need his attention to track you. He makes a sound of affirmation as he finds what he’s looking for, distracted, but his gun is steady.

Okay. He’s probably an expert marksman. You probably shouldn’t try anything.

“This.” He thrusts something forwards with his other hand. “What is it? You can speak for this one.”

Your heart skips. In his palm, there is something very familiar—a smooth, dark navy stone, and if the man tilted it to the side just a bit, you’d be able to see the iridescent sparkles that glitter within it.

“You recognise it,” the man hums. His gun gleams in warning.

“A heatstone,” you answer, honestly. “Mer use it.”

“So you are mer?”

“My…” Family’s family, Richard had said. “…brother. Is mer.”

The man snorts. “Richard Wayne? He doesn’t count. Hasn’t he been on his legs longer than with his tail? And involuntarily at that?”

You unconsciously straighten. So he does know who you are, and who you’re associated with. He knows you’re affiliated with the Waynes—but to what extent? Has he been following you? You’ve been careful not to be publicly associated with Bruce, for both your sakes. A lower profile means less people knowing about your tail.

But if he’s been following...well, you haven’t exactly been secretive when talking to people you know. Even today, spending time with Kori. Anyone who listened close enough would’ve known that you were, at least, not from the area.

Does he know you’re mer? Why’d he ask in the first place?

“A heatstone,” the man repeats, bringing the topic back to the object sitting innocently in his hand. “What does it do?”

You blink, trying to focus on the task at hand. “Provide heat.”

“Nothing else?”

“No,” you say slowly. “What did you think it does?”

“Now you can shut up,” the man orders curtly, gun waving in the air. You nod instantly. “Yes or no question. It can’t turn a mer into a human?”

You shake your head.

“You’re not lying?” he emphasises, leaning forwards. His face catches in the moonlight, and your eyes widen. It is the man from the boat. Tied around the bottom of his face, is the recognisable bright red kerchief, and his eyes glow green. In his hair, there is a tuft of white, and it makes him look otherworldly.

He does not look human. But he does not look mer, either.

Wait a second. Your eyes drift down from his hair to his face, and you register the blood red of the kerchief. It’s not exactly a hood, but...

“Todd,” he prompts. “Are you lying?”

Your entire body is flooded with a cold chill, and you work very hard to stay calm. He remembers your name. Had he been following you since you got off the ship?

He’s the Red Hood. Probably. Hopefully not.

Both your hearts are pumping rapidly, and you force yourself to shake your head without any hitches. When you look back at him, he looks satisfied.

“You have one. Why do you have one?”

You pause, and then shake your head. He chuffs, leaning forwards, and you’d almost call it a chuckle if it weren’t for the gun that he presses against your abdomen in lieu of a verbal threat. “Answer properly,” he says lowly.

He is too close. You think you could count the flecks in his toxic green eyes.

“A gift,” you whisper. “From my brother.”

“You’re lying,” he says, factually, but leans back, taking the gun with him. “Wayne said it himself; he lost everything connecting him to the mer culture when he was trafficked. That newspaper was disgusting to read, but rather informative. I suggest that you give me a better reason.”

Does he like Richard or not? You can’t tell. There must be a human cultural nuance that you can’t grasp. “My...godmother,” you end up saying, and worst of all, it could even be considered the truth. “It’s complicated. But she’s mer, so she gave me an old one.”

“And she doesn’t use it to turn into a human?”

The other charm on your necklace weighs infinitely heavier, and you swallow past it as you answer, “No. She doesn’t.”

“What does she use?” The man leans forwards, urgently. “How can mer have legs? I’m not talking about the illusions, I’m talking real legs. You can take a minute to think, and think carefully—I’m not as kind when someone lies straight to my face.”

He’s not that kind in general, you think dryly, but you make sure nothing of a similar sentiment shows on your face.

“Why?” you ask, acutely aware of how his gun lowers. “Why do you need to know?”

The man pauses, and stares at you. His eyes look down to your chest, and for a moment, you freeze, thinking your charms are out in the open for anyone to see.

Then his gaze flickers up, and you relax minutely. “I know of one, and I’ve heard of another. Typically, mer use an illusion to give them temporary legs for the length of a tide, or twelve hours. You know this one, don’t you?”

You don’t make any outwardly reaction. The man barrels on.

“Now what you may not know, is that somehow, someone’s found a way to give mer permanent legs—give them permanent human body parts in order to take their second heart. You know that mer have two hearts, right?”

You’re starting to realise that this man knows a lot more than he presents himself to know. You tentatively incline your head into the silence.

“These two systems work separately. Somehow, this...other method of walking on land has made it so that it’s not life-threatening to take out the second heart. Then they toss them back into the ocean as if nothing’s happened.”

The man tilts his head to the side, pondering. “You know what I’ve been hearing about recently? Heart transplants. Apparently these new, ahem, synthetic hearts that Black Mask provides increases vitality, lifespan, and even allows for a higher athletic ability due to efficiency.”

You will return, Ra’s had said. It couldn’t be from concern, could it? Suddenly, you feel claustrophobic, and the man who’s leaning into your personal space isn’t helping.

“Now tell me,” the man whispers. “Do you know how these mer change without the use of illusions?”

You swallow. “I’m human.”

His cheeks rise from behind his kerchief, and you know he’s smiling. “So this,” he reaches out, and gently tugs on the silver chain that carries your own heatstone and al Ghul charm, pulling it out from underneath your shirt, “is not what I’m looking for?”

“No.” Your voice does not waver.

His green eyes lock with yours. They crinkle.

“I’m going to take it off, now,” he says, fingers closing over the chain. “In three, two—”

A bang echoes, and you jump in your own skin. The man whirls around, gun up, dropping a hold of your chain. Instead, his arm winds around your shoulders and he yanks, shoving your body behind his as he faces where the gunshot had come from.

There’s a hole in the wall. Yelling echoes from the room next door—your room.

“I don’t know when she’s returning,” Pamela is arguing, loudly and annoyed, “I’m not her keeper, or her mother. She’s a patron, who pays far more than necessary, so actually, I’d rather she stay in one piece instead of in your clutches!”

“That just gives me a motive as for why you’d protect her,” a man snaps, “so please stop talking. You’re just digging yourself a deeper hole.”

“Fuck you too,” Pamela hisses. “I hope you’re satisfied after tonight—then you can leave and never show your face around here again!”

“I thought we had an agreement?”

“Yeah, to tell each other if the fucking Red Hood was in town. Not to encroach on each other’s territory and fucking shoot at one another!”

“Was all in good faith,” the man placates, and you huddle closer to the body in front of you. He is deadly silent. “You were just getting on my nerves, that’s all.”

“Fuck you Cobblepot,” Pamela spits, full of vitriol. “Fucking bastard. Now I need to get that fucking hole patched up.”

Steps stomp close to the wall, and your kidnapper reacts fast. He shoves you towards the wall, pressing you flat against it, trying to keep you out of eyesight if someone peers through the hole. You consider fighting and drawing attention—then you remember I'm not her keeper and think twice about doing so.

Your kidnapper spins around, grabbing a hold of your shoulder painfully. “We need to go,” he says tightly, and tucks his gun away into his waistband. “Can you run?”

“I—”

“Don’t lie to me,” he mutters, “because I know you’re mer. Thought you’d feel safer answering the questions if I didn’t know, all that. But you need to tell me now—can you run?”

“Yes,” you confirm. His eyes narrow.

“I don’t have to tell you that Ivy's not looking out for you, right? And that if Cobblepot gets his hands on you—it’ll be bad.”

“Yes,” you breathe. “I can run. I promise.”

He turns his head, and his nose almost brushes up against your from underneath his red fabric, and there’s a certain chill to his gaze that has you seizing.

“I need you to trust that I don’t want anything to happen to you,” he murmurs, grip at a bruising strength on your shoulder, “but that I’ll do anything to keep that charm of yours out of Mask’s reach. Do you understand? It’s not about you. It’s about the fuckin' trafficking system.”

Pamela has obviously sold you out. You can’t go to her. Instead, this man—who is worryingly seeming more and more like a man you’ve been hearing about who has killed fifty-one people in the last month alone—could get you out of here, but that in itself could land you in more danger.

But if he wanted the charm—if he knew it was the charm all along, you realise belatedly, a chill settling into your bones—he could’ve just taken it and killed you. He didn’t have to ask you all these questions that he obviously knew the answers to.

“Okay,” you whisper back. “I trust you to not want to kill me. What’s the plan?”

He grins from under his mask. “We run.”

for technology/timeline (in)accuracy purposes, i do in fact understand that the concept of exposure therapy in the terms we know now comes from the 1900s (i googled it 😎), but for the sake of humour i shoved it in. also here’s an explanation of time-era vs scuba-diving gear if anyone’s interested—thank you anon for sparking the discussion :)

anyways, hope you enjoyed! writing part 4 now~

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#jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #jason todd x y/n #dc x reader #dc comics x reader #batboys x reader #batfam x reader #red hood x reader #red hood x you #red hood x y/n #red hood #jason todd #merfolk au #pirate au #જ⁀➴ 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃 #( ᵘ ᵕ ᵘ ⁎) 𝐑𝐘𝐀 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐒 ━━━

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