everydaymj

[everydaymj]

@batchilla this sort of evil should be illegal, please don't stop

my life fell apart

Hello all. You read the title of this post. I won't have time to write much for... a bit. I am coming back, things will be completed, but I doubt I'd be able to post till mid next week or the next two weeks. So. Something from a WIP to tide you over: AUTHORS NOTE This is a prequel story to the most married divorced couple focused on Jason’s time as Robin. He is therefore a child, as is the reader. It can also be read as a stand alone. It takes place over a few years, with them being 11ish here. Jason is NEW to the role, and will end the series around 15. For no particular reason. Divider made by @super-marvel-dc

The first time you were rescued by Robin was not your first time being kidnapped. It was the twelfth. You were fast closing on the Gotham record. You hoped not to break it. You will. It always seemed to play out the same. Your mother’s position as a judge in Gotham had some low level goon decide that the best way to help their buddies escape was to hold you hostage. You were just grateful she had never sentenced anyone more serious than Mr Camera. It hadn’t gotten any easier. Your head hurts. You’ve been tied to a plastic chair for the better part of the day, in a hot, dark, shipping container in the warehouse district of Gotham.You’ve been wedged unceremoniously between a set of crates, which gives you something to kick in frustration if nothing else. You kick the crates. Nothing changes, except now your foot smarts.  You are so thirsty. You figure theoretically someone is nearby, and you could call out for water - maybe you’d get it.

You don’t trust anything these people would provide. You know, on one level that it’s stupid. They aren’t trying to kill you. They probably wouldn’t poison or drug you. Perhaps it is less distrust and more foolish pride that prevents you from making a noise. You don’t care to examine your inner motivations while you’re waiting for the Gotham police to show up. Which … typically took a day. Or Two. Three, if the freaks of Gotham decided to cause problems on purpose more than they typically did.

Except… you heard a startled cry from outside. Then a thud. Another thud. A man’s scream. You go tense. Perhaps whoever your mother was putting on the stand was a more frightening figure then you’d thought…

But then the door is kicked in with a ringing din of a boot meeting metal. The light blinds you momentarily, your vision returning in silhouette first. A caped figure, around your height, is standing in the entryway and now moving at speed towards you.

You blink as colour returns to you. Red, Green, Yellow.

Odd. You didn’t claim expertise in the Batman’s protege. But you were pretty sure he was a grown up at this point. Not a boy your age.

“Robin?” You ask groggily, as he kneels to untie you. “Don’t worry.” He looks up at you with a grin that would shame the light of a supernova. “I got you.”

He helps you to your feet, and brings your arm over his shoulder to keep you upright and guide you to the door.

A distant siren has you turning your head to see the Gotham PD coming into view - you try not to be miffed they showed up to arrest Robin so much faster then they came to rescue you.

You turn to Robin as you feel him leaving your side, and see what must be a smoke bomb hit the ground.

When it clears you can still see him running down one of the many long corridors between warehouses as fast as his legs will carry him.

A police officer touches your shoulder, and you look away. You hadn’t gotten a very good look at him… but you were pretty sure he lived up to the name of boy wonder.

[everydaymj]

my life fell apart

Hello all. You read the title of this post. I won't have time to write much for... a bit. I am coming back, things will be completed, but I doubt I'd be able to post till mid next week or the next two weeks. So. Something from a WIP to tide you over: AUTHORS NOTE This is a prequel story to the most married divorced couple focused on Jason’s time as Robin. He is therefore a child, as is the reader. It can also be read as a stand alone. It takes place over a few years, with them being 11ish here. Jason is NEW to the role, and will end the series around 15. For no particular reason. Divider made by @super-marvel-dc

The first time you were rescued by Robin was not your first time being kidnapped. It was the twelfth. You were fast closing on the Gotham record. You hoped not to break it. You will. It always seemed to play out the same. Your mother’s position as a judge in Gotham had some low level goon decide that the best way to help their buddies escape was to hold you hostage. You were just grateful she had never sentenced anyone more serious than Mr Camera. It hadn’t gotten any easier. Your head hurts. You’ve been tied to a plastic chair for the better part of the day, in a hot, dark, shipping container in the warehouse district of Gotham.You’ve been wedged unceremoniously between a set of crates, which gives you something to kick in frustration if nothing else. You kick the crates. Nothing changes, except now your foot smarts.  You are so thirsty. You figure theoretically someone is nearby, and you could call out for water - maybe you’d get it.

You don’t trust anything these people would provide. You know, on one level that it’s stupid. They aren’t trying to kill you. They probably wouldn’t poison or drug you. Perhaps it is less distrust and more foolish pride that prevents you from making a noise. You don’t care to examine your inner motivations while you’re waiting for the Gotham police to show up. Which … typically took a day. Or Two. Three, if the freaks of Gotham decided to cause problems on purpose more than they typically did.

Except… you heard a startled cry from outside. Then a thud. Another thud. A man’s scream. You go tense. Perhaps whoever your mother was putting on the stand was a more frightening figure then you’d thought…

But then the door is kicked in with a ringing din of a boot meeting metal. The light blinds you momentarily, your vision returning in silhouette first. A caped figure, around your height, is standing in the entryway and now moving at speed towards you.

You blink as colour returns to you. Red, Green, Yellow.

Odd. You didn’t claim expertise in the Batman’s protege. But you were pretty sure he was a grown up at this point. Not a boy your age.

“Robin?” You ask groggily, as he kneels to untie you. “Don’t worry.” He looks up at you with a grin that would shame the light of a supernova. “I got you.”

He helps you to your feet, and brings your arm over his shoulder to keep you upright and guide you to the door.

A distant siren has you turning your head to see the Gotham PD coming into view - you try not to be miffed they showed up to arrest Robin so much faster then they came to rescue you.

You turn to Robin as you feel him leaving your side, and see what must be a smoke bomb hit the ground.

When it clears you can still see him running down one of the many long corridors between warehouses as fast as his legs will carry him.

A police officer touches your shoulder, and you look away. You hadn’t gotten a very good look at him… but you were pretty sure he lived up to the name of boy wonder.

[everydaymj]

The most married divorced couple - Chapter 4 - Coffee and Custody

Years of well honed instincts through gruelling training had Jason as a perpetually light sleeper. A perpetually light sleeper who knew, even in his sleep, that he was being watched. 

He opens one eye, slowly sitting up as he takes in his surroundings - his wife’s… his ex wife's penthouse apartment. Well, that told him who was watching him at least. Sure enough, peering at him from behind the furthest arm of the couch he’d spent the night on is a tell-tale mess of curls so like his own - and Mary comes scrambling, not around the couch, but up to sit on the arm. “DAD!” 

Every time. Every time, that single word reminds him that there is in fact good in the world, and that his baby girl might just be the epitome of that. She all but tackles him into a cuddle. “You're here!”

He tries not to wince. He doesn’t ever want her to hug him less enthusiastically - but last night hadn’t gone well, and becoming climbing equipment for his daughter did not exactly help his recovery. 

Jason hugs her tight “Hi baby.” he says, his head resting on hers.

“Mm not a baby.” she grumbles “are you stayin’ for breakfast?”

“If mum says yes.” He says, part of him feeling dirty over the manipulative tactic - but the truth of the matter always was that Mary had a higher success rate in campaigning for him to stay then he did. Something about those adorable little eyes, he suspects. Mary hms, tucking her head against her shoulder. 

“M’ glad you came Dad. I don’t want Mr Brett to be my new dad.” Fucking what? Part of him wanted to resort to old methods on this ‘Mr Brett’ with extreme prejudice. For sniffing around his wife and daughter, and for trying to take what should have still been his. 

“What's that now baby?” he says, trying to keep the growing emotions that were making him feel like he was on fire. She didn’t need to know about any of that. 

“Mr Brett, he walks me to school sometimes cus I’m best friends with Jaxon and Riley and Kyle, and sometimes Mum walks me with them. They say its like a ‘carpool’ but cars don’t go to the pool, and the other day he and mummy went for a playdate while I was at grandpa Bruce’s and then Mum was asking how I felt about Mr Brett and I said he was so nice but that I don’t want a new dad and then she turned on baby shark and I got distracted.”  He takes a deep breath. He can’t get mad in front of Mary. Another deep breath. He realistically can’t get mad at all. He knows that. He had been divorced from his wife for four years. She was allowed to seek out … companionship. Had he? No. Did it feel akin to a betrayal? He knew it shouldn’t - but it did. She didn’t need to be lonely - and he didn’t want her to be. But he did hope that he’d somehow end up being the solution, not this fucking ‘Mr Brett’ asshole. Even then - companionship was one thing, but a relationship serious enough she’d mention it to Mary?

“Well, I’m sure he’s… nice, if your Mum likes him.”

“Mhm. Maybe you can say hi when he comes to get me for school.” “Speaking of school!” His wife's voice sounds from her doorway, loud enough to tell him she’d heard enough of that to panic slightly. “Mary, get dressed, you’ll be late.” 

Mary reluctantly separates from the hug, dragging her feet dramatically “Okay mum. Even though Dad’s here and he NEVER is, school happens every day and is super boring.”

“Nice try bubba.” she says, folding her arms and shaking her head. The second their child shuts the door - still loudly complaining about how unfair it all was, which in Jason’s opinion was psychological warfare, which his ex wife seemed somehow immune to, Jason turns to her. “We need to talk.”

She sighs “I guess we do. But not in front of Mary.” She runs a hand through her hair. “She’ll have eggs and toast soldiers - you want some?”

“Sure,” he says, trying to sound less bitter than he feels as he watches her head to the kitchen.

“So, Brett…” He says, following her to the kitchen and grabbing the bread and putting it in the toaster.

“Charles Brett.” you clarified.

Jason had to physically restrain himself from laughing. “Charles Brett? Those are both first names. You’ve replaced me with a man with a first name for a last name.”

“I haven’t REPLACED you, you LEFT!” She says, indignant furry in her eyes as she whips around to face him, stove at her back. Jason felt his blood boil. Yes, he’d left, but he hadn’t wanted to!

“And then you wouldn’t let me come BACK!” he counters, trying to keep his voice level, but not managing it. 

“BECAUSE YOU WERE RIGHT TO LEAVE!” She yells, tears in her eyes. 

“you fighting?” Mary asks, opening her bedroom door, tugging at the tie of her Gotham academy uniform as if it had personally offended her.

  “No sweetie.” they say in unison, as they shoot her reassuring smiles.

It doesn’t work.

She regards you both suspiciously, and takes her toast and eggs “please don’t fight. Dad’s never here and mum always cries when you leave so please don’t fight now.” “What?”

“Please don’t fight. Dad’s never here and mum always gets sad when you leave so please don’t fight now.”

“What?” Jason asks, glancing from Mary to you. You were proud that you’d raised an honest, headstrong young lady who had no hesitation speaking her mind. You did sometimes, such as right now, wish she did it a little less often around Jason. Jason who was now looking at you with a face you hated for how little you could read. He used to be an open book to her. Mary pulls herself onto the chair at the kitchen bench and dips her toast into her egg. “We got two names.” she points out to Jason. “Todd’s a boy's name.”

You sigh, and sip your coffee. She’d heard all of it. How lovely. 

Your baby girl looks at you, her hair in an attempt of a ponytail, her uniform slightly overlarge still, being early in the school year, both making her look so, so tiny. “What did dad mean? That you wouldn’t let him come back?”

You feel like you're falling. Luckily, there’s no amount of hurt, upset, or angry that Jason could be that would mean he wouldn’t come to your aid. “See cherub… Daddy didn’t mean that.” He says, grabbing her shoulder gently.

“I did… Well, I’m sure someone at school might’ve said, or the news… Marriage is supposed to be a promise to love each other forever … and I broke that promise.” Jason takes a deep breath.

 “What I did hurt your mum. She hasn’t forgiven me. Maybe she won’t ever. She doesn’t have to.” He shakes his head. “I said what I said because I was upset, but… It’s not her fault. It’s mine.”

You offer him an awkward, tight smile. “It doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you baby girl. Just that … being married wasn’t the best option for us anymore.”

“...” Mary leans into her Dads side, her face solemn and thoughtful. You have to avert your gaze from the pair, lest you start crying - or worse - forgive him. 

“Do you still love mum?” she asks quietly, and Jason opens his mouth, hesitating for a second - which saves him from needing to answer the question. Only to make the situation a million times worse for you. Jason looks to the door. “Brett?” he asks, addressing you, but his gaze not leaving the door, with a look in his eyes that reminds you of darker days. “Brett.” You confirm, taking a deep breath as you move towards the door. “You packed M?”

“Yeah Mum,” she says, grabbing her backpack and shrugging it on, wrapping her arms around Jason’s waist in a goodbye hug. 

“See ya soon Dad?”

“...Yeah, baby. Really soon. Promise.” He says, ruffling her hair. 

You open the door, hoping to do this quickly, before things get even more uncomfortable. Charles Brett is a shorter man, with brown hair, brown eyes, forever slightly unkempt and a had perpetually tired look in his eyes from being a single father of three. But he has a kind smile, and you like him. He’s … a good man. He’s not Jason, but then again no one is. 

“Charles, Hi.” You say, leaning against the door to bar entrance. Normally you’d invite him in, have coffee or let the kids watch a episode of bluey while you chatted if the morning was running on schedule. 

He says your name, but catches your discomfort before he says anything more, and his gaze moves past you, looking for its source - and he finds it.

“Oh, Hello - Jason, yes? The ex husband?” He asks, pretending not to know who he was, as if he hadn’t seen the many magazines and heard the gossip surrounding his incredibly public, if staged, infidelity. As if Jason, in his need to convince Roman you meant nothing, hadn’t publicly called you a bitch. Jason doesn’t seem to remember that at this moment, and you watch as he puffs up his chest in rage. 

“Yeah. You have an issue with that?” he asks, moving to stand behind you.

“And if I do—-”

“Not. In. Front. Of. The. Kids.” You interject, before it can go too far. 

“Have a good day at school sweetie.” You say, kissing the crown of Mary’s head, giving Charles an apologetic smile, and all but slamming the door and turning to Jason. 

“He’s a good man.” You growl. Because he is. And because Mary needs a positive male influence, and Jason hasn’t been able to be that. And because you are a little worried that Jason is going to use his alter ego to run him off. 

“He’s sniffing around where he doesn’t belong.” Jason counters, stepping forward. You step back, and feel the door knob press against your spine. 

“He belongs here if I want him here.” You reply, refusing to be intimidated. “Yeah, well he doesn’t get to be my kids fucking dad! I’m her dad!” You cut your own angry response short “what? We’ve been on two dates. No one is becoming a dad to our daughter?!” “That’s not what she said” Jason says, folding his arms. “Mary got ‘married’ twice last week at recess and last I checked had two boyfriends and a girlfriend.” You roll your eyes. “She is not the leading expert in how adult relationships work.” Jason takes a deep breath. “So it’s not… serious?” You shrug. “It’s not … Look. We’re adults. We both have kids. We don’t have a lot of time for casual flings, and the kids get along so need to be protected. We are taking it seriously, but it’s early days.” He nods slightly, “I’m having bab’s look into him.” You close your eyes and exhale. “Jay…” “I won’t do anything unless I find something substantial.” he reluctantly promises. “But I don’t take chances when it comes to you.” You feel his presence loom closer despite your eyes being closed. You open them to see your ex husband’s hand lingering in the air a few centimetres from your shoulder, his eyes sad and longing as he stands before you. “Is he good to you?” He asks, the anger gone from his voice. “Can you… see a future with him?” “Why does it matter to you?” You ask. It’s mostly rhetorical. You know why, and really what you mean to ask without saying it in as many words… is if Jason feels he has any right to intervene if his search finds anything more serious than a questionable browser history.

“Why does it matter to you?” The words feel wrong against his very ears. His tenuous grasp on the cool facade he’d put up, which had almost begun to take a true effect, with those six words is utterly shattered. He feels his heart pounding, too fast, too hard, too angry. The pit changed him, in many ways. The anger had always been there. The pit had made it worse. He’d never once take it out on you. He’d sooner die. But it exists in him, clawing like a beast against the inside of his ribs. Why does it matter? Why does it FUCKING MATTER? It screams, it throws itself against his skin, it burns his eyes and boils in his blood. How can you not understand how deeply he loves you? How can you not understand that he’d destroy anything that wished you or Mary harm and delight in it? That if you hadn’t been in his life back then, he’d surely be on a very different path? How do you not understand? He turns away, tugging a hand through his hair, he cannot look at her in this moment, cannot meet those beautiful eyes, can’t bear to see the face he adores above all others contorted by anger. “It matters to me because I still fucking love you.” He says through gritted teeth, through the shame, the rage, and the hurt. “And because I know you know that,” He continues, stepping further back to pace the apartment - the home - that he had once shared with you. He hears her move across the hardwood towards him. Feels a hand on his arm. “Jason…” She says quietly, as if to soothe a wounded beast - and he wishes it didn’t work as well as it did. He wishes he didn’t feel like a frightened, pained, hissing beast. He pushes her away. Not aggressively - but a firm, nonverbal denial. “Roman fucked with our kid. I don’t regret what we did as a result. But love, he’s been in the ground for years. I know that it could happen again… But I don’t want to keep missing my kids' childhood because of that fear. If her safety costs us… then so be it. But I don’t accept that it will. I refuse. The only fucking reason I kept these-”

 He holds up the rings on the cord around his neck “Is to put yours back on your fucking finger one day.” He sits at the bench, his hands in his pockets so you can’t see his knuckles go white. So you can’t see his pain, or how bad what he is about to do scares him. “I don’t ever want to fight you. You know that, right?” He looks at you, and he hopes that whoever or whatever is out there he doesn’t sound as sad as he feels. He looks at her, his friend, his daughter's mother, his ex wife who he’d never truly seen as an ex anything, and he sees a woman who’s hurting as he is, but while he sees the solution to their pain as recovery of what was, she sees the solution as acceptance. She cannot help him. He cannot help her. But, together, perhaps, they can help their daughter. “I want you to know this isn’t just because of Brett. Though hearing Mary talk about a new dad did light a fire under my ass. I want custody. Shared, I mean.” He puts his head in his hands, elbows on the kitchen counter. “I’ll be asking for 50/50. Please.” He looks at her through his fingers. “We make a good team. Don’t make this be ugly.” She sighs, sad and tired and hurting. “I think we’re both a little too charged to talk about that right now. Can we have coffee in a few days?” He nods. “Yeah. Yeah that works for me. I uh… I’ll call Alfred to send a car round for me… and you can text me the details?”

A week later, you find yourself sitting in the back of a coffee shop, waiting for Jason to return with your drinks. You try not to dwell on the fact that despite not having asked, you knew he didn’t need to to know your order even after all this time.  You shuffle the papers of notes you’d had your lawyer look over. True, you trusted him. You thought he’d be a good father. You’d still stayed divorced for a reason. “I have concerns.” You say ternsly as he takes the seat across from you. He’s cleaned up. You can’t focus on that. You have a little girl who needs to come first right now - and you take a breath to remind yourself that she’s just as important to Jason. “Figures.” He says, but his tone is lighthearted. “Part of me just hates the idea of seeing her less.” You admit. He just nods, without judgement, without making the point that he knows what that’s like, simply letting you speak for the moment. “And it’s not because I like having her more than you, but because… I cried when she went on her first sleepover and she’s my baby.” You continue, picking at the napkin dispenser absentmindedly. “But beyond that there are logistical concerns as well. I know your … various residences…” safehouses. 

“Are safe. But moving as often as you do…” At least twice a week as a safety precaution.

“isn’t ideal for obvious reasons. Not to mention… She’s smart. She’s smart and she’s nosey.” Jason sips his coffee “her father’s daughter” “Nosey maybe. Smart? Debatable.” He chuckles and rolls his eyes. “I see your point though. We don’t want her to find out about the families… extracurricular activities.” You sip your drink. Sure enough, he’d remembered your order. Damn him and his perfect memory and his perfect face. “I’ve put some thought into it.” He reassures, and you nearly snort. Some thought? Knowing Jason, knowing his family? Several hours of thought had gone into any decision they deemed remotely important. You’d attended meetings, essentially war councils, while you were still married about the most minor aspects of their cover. “With my … schedule, 50/50 won’t be possible without her knowing everything, and she isn’t ready yet. But I want weekends, which I… we? Would spend at the manor. For stability.” “We?” you echo, raising an eyebrow. Jason gives you the same grin that had made you fall in love with him. Your stomach turns to a lepidopterarium. Damn him. “Well, last I checked Bruce said you were welcome at the manor whenever you wished… and if she was coming with you, it wouldn’t need to be a legal arrangement. Less of a paper trail is safer for Mary.” Jason says it matter of fact. Detached. Like he’s explaining a mission, not talking about his life, or his child’s. You know better than to fall for it. He runs a hand through his hair and winks at you. “Though if there needs to be a paper trail I’d prefer it be one leading to us again. I said some shit I shouldn’t have the other day. I apologise for that. You can keep seeing that Charles idiot - I was a prick about him, and his background check came back clean. But… I meant it. I fully intend to fight to get you back.” He stands to leave before you can process or argue. “So… See you Saturday morning?” he says not at all a genuine question, kissing your forehead and heading to the door, much like he might disappear after a one liner as Red Hood. You suspect it’s a strategy that works on cops or criminals - but is less impressive to his ex wife. All you can think to call after him is “SAYING THAT AND WALKING OFF ISN’T AS SLICK AS YOU THINK”

taglist @jasontoddproblems

@fic-over-cannon

@stormz369

[everydaymj]

Chapter three - Jason Returns.

before we get into the fic - creating a taglist for this series let me know if you want to be added.

For reasons of clarity, this chapter is a flashback to two years in the past, the first time Jason returned.

Two years after costing Jason everything, Roman Sionis died with tears in his eyes, piss in his pants, and Jason standing over him, cold, calculating and brutally efficient. The joy of a job well done could come later. As he held his still smoking gun, beholding the smear on the ground that was once one of Gotham's most feared mobsters, a sense of peace washes over him for the first time in two years. Mary is safe now. You are safe now. He can come home. Hold his girls tight. Be a father and a husband again.

Subconsciously, he reaches under his suit, fishing out a necklace of leather cord, a twin set of wedding rings threaded so they sit close to his heart. His fist closes around them, his eyes closed as he allows the tidal wave of joy to hit him, before kicking Roman’s corpse once more just for the sake of it. 

He returns to Wayne manor, informs Bruce, who simply nods, and gasps his shoulder in what almost seems like approval. 

He practically runs upstairs, and showers, before standing wrapped in a towel in front of his wardrobe, feeling ridiculously like he had all those years ago when he’d first met you as himself, so nervous to impress you, at least as much as he had as Robin.

It’s silly. He knows it’s silly. You’d seen him in a onesie, a cheap ‘BatMale’ Halloween costume, all states of dress and undress … yet as he picks out a suit, a tie, and a cologne he recalls you enjoying, he can’t help but feel a clawing need to be impressive. To be so perfect that you forget the last two years and let him come home. He knows that the flowers he picks up on the way to your apartment won’t change that, nor the Red Hood teddy (with a tiny tracking chip sewn in to the bear, to make sure Mary is kept safe) he had lovingly made himself with Alfred’s guidance for little Mary … but they certainly can’t hurt.

He knocks, once, twice, thrice… before there’s the soft padding of tiny feet, and the door opens.

Mary stands in the doorway, five years old now, looking up at him wide eyed, wearing a set of green arrow inspired print flannel pyjamas.

She’s gotten so big. She’s still so small. He can’t help the tear that comes to his eye as he crouches down into a squat to be at her eye level.

“Hey Cherub.” He says, trying not to immediately break down and freak her out.

“Mamas busy right now - but she can come to the door real soon probably…” she mumbles.

She has his dark curls, your eyes, your complexion, his bone structure… and very clearly no idea who he is. 

Jason swallows the sense of utter failure and heart brokenness that feels like it’s clawing at his feet, licking at his calves, his hips, chest, neck, and trying to engulf him. “Well, that's okay… Do you know who I am?” She shakes her head, and in a rare act of mercy from the universe, he is saved from having to work out how to respond to that by you appearing in the hallway behind Mary. “Mary Todd what have I told you about opening the door to stra—- Jason.”

Your voice goes from that of a concerned mother whose child just opened the door to an unknown man while living in Gotham to cracking, strangled and high pitched as you say his name. You look beautiful. You always do to him, but absence does tend to make the heart grow fonder. He feels like his legs may give out as he rises to a standing position, unable to and unwilling to tear his eyes away from your face. “Hey.” He internally kicks himself. Two years he’d dreamt of this moment - and he opens with ‘hey’? ‘Hey’! Fucking hey. “Hello.” You reply, coming to the door, and he feels his hands shake around the bundle of pink carnations he carries, snapping some of the stems of the outer flowers. “It’s done, darling… It's over” he whispers, the words feeling somehow fragile, as the reality of what he has achieved sets in. It was over. They didn’t need to be apart, not any more. Mary tucks herself against your side. His heart swells at the sight, his family. 

She hadn’t known him on sight, but with a face to the name, it clicks into place for Mary. “Daddy?”

Jason feels like he’s been clubbed over the head with a crowbar. Again. Though this time it isn’t painful, the similarity instead rooted in how after that singular instant, nothing else mattered more than what was happening, every thought, memory, sensation tunnelling away till only one thing remained. His baby. “Yeah. Yeah it's me kid.” he replies, smiling down at her, tears coming back in force now, those two syllables seeming to have shifted the very axis of his world. “I got you a little something - I see you like superheroes huh? Well then, you should like this little guy.” Jason passes her the teddy in the red hood costume, which she reluctantly takes. “Red Hood? Doesn’t he do bad stuhhf?” if the sentence wasn’t so heartbreaking, seeming to shatter the very world her words had just tilted, the lisp her missing front teeth caused would have been adorable. Jason looks back to you to see you cringing in … not guilt, embarrassment, pain on his behalf. “Mary has a friend at school who tells her all about the different good guys and bad guys in Gotham” you say, your teeth gritted and enthusiasm forced “it's so helpful.” If nothing else, it was at least a relief to know it hadn’t come from you. 

“Right, I see.” he says, pocketing the bear, his face pink with shame, the same shame he had felt so often when he’d first began the work to earn his place back with the bats. “Green Arrow is my favourite.” she says, her tone jovial, excited to share anything at all with him, near desperate to connect to the man she knew only through the stories of those closest to her. Jason Todd, a near mythological figure in her eyes rather than a father. It felt good, to look down at his baby and see adoration, but it hurts to know he will never, ever deserve it. “He’s… cool.” he forces the words to carry the needed enthusiasm for someone talking to a small child utterly unaware of how what she had just said could tear the justice league apart in a civil war. Jason steps across the threshold, and instinctively he goes to kiss your cheek, an action he hasn’t done in so long, but had done virtually every time he came home. You bend down slightly to pick Mary up, causing him to miss in a way that at least allows him to act as though it hadn’t happened. He hands you the flowers, feeling utterly unmoored, and you smile. He feels his stomach flip, taken back to the other, wonderful times he's seen that look on your face, and in that second he almost feels like he’s soaring through Gotham with you in his arms all those years ago. A lifetime ago. As you lead him into the kitchen, Mary babbling in her excitement to tell him all about her entire collection of green arrow assorted memorabilia - Jason could work on that later, he hoped. God, he hoped there’d be a later. There had to be. You set the flowers in a vase, and he sees a moment of indecision cross your face before you pull him into a hug, and he takes the chance to whisper into the shell of your ear, his breath warm against your skin. “He’s dead; it’s over.” “Oh Jay…” you whisper back “It won’t ever be over.”

[everydaymj]

Chapter Two - four years later.

Gold digging bitch is perhaps one of the kinder titles Gotham's pack of vultures had seen fit to bestow upon you. Jason had told you the truth of course, but the story cooked up by the bats had been different. The resurrected  son of the prince of Gotham couldn’t just have a divorce in privacy, and you had needed to put on a show for the Black Mask, so a more exciting version of events was created. 

The story went that you’d caught Jason in bed with another woman. He’d insisted on being the bad guy, knowing that he’d be better equipped to put the scandal behind him than you. However it hadn’t completely protected you. Publicly, the story was that you’d made it out of the divorce like a bandit thanks to a good lawyer and a series of compromising photos of Jason and his fictional lover.

 Reality was that Jason had insisted you keep the apartment, the car, virtually all of your shared assets, reasoning it was Bruce’s money, and that he’d be well provided for, himself only taking some valuable art and collectibles to seem like there had been any sort of fight, and the rings, the only sentimental request he had made.

 He ranted and raved about how you had total custody, and yet still managed to bleed him dry with child support, bemoaning the unfairness and your cruelty to all who would listen, playing the role of the bitter ex in a oscars worthy performance, which the press devoured like the pack of jackals they were. 

Behind closed doors, he had initially offered nearly double the amount before you talked him down. 

It hadn’t been pretty, even if you understood his reasons, even if he’d tried to make it easier for you however he could, it had still hurt. You were still angry. But when all was said and all was done, Mary came first. Her safety and happiness were all that mattered, and eventually you came to terms with the fact that Mary being safe was ultimately synonymous with Jason being gone from your lives. Except that wasn’t quite right; the problem wasn’t Jason, but Red Hood… and you weren’t sure one existed without the other.

You had stayed in touch with the Wayne's as a whole - there was no need to deprive them all of Mary, nor Mary of her extended family, so long as it was done carefully, normally in the form of sleepovers at Wayne manor, carefully scheduled to be done when Jason was elsewhere, and any signs of the families more exciting nightly activity hidden away to preserve her ignorance.

 It had taken him two years, but eventually, he came home. No. You remind yourself, no, not home, not his home, not anymore. He had come to your apartment, bearing gifts, a hopeful smile, and word that the Black Mask was dead.  

For two whole years since the Black mask had been killed - since Jason had killed him, he’d largely stayed away. Telling him he still needed to, because even with The Black Mask dead, someone else could step into his place at any time had been the hardest thing you’d ever had to do, short of watching his coffin be lowered into the ground. Jason staying away had hurt, but not nearly as much as when he didn’t. Days of absence didn’t hurt nearly as much as days like this, when the Red Hood landed on your balcony. 

You can’t see his face, but you know him. You know exactly the expression that’s under his mask, the smile that fills your heart with longing and anger all at once, sheepish, yet somehow cocky. He taps on the window, and you snap out of it, turning away to shut the bedroom door, snipping the lock to deter your precocious seven year old before you open the window, letting him in. “What's wrong?” you ask. You can’t manage small talk. Not with him. You’d do something stupid, like admit you missed him. 

Because he was right, as much as it hurt. You missed him so much in the beginning it was hard to breathe, though it had dulled to a throbbing ache. You’d always love him, but the fact was… your baby is safer the further away you stay from each other. The Black Mask may be dealt with - but it could easily happen again, worse than the last time. 

“Think I hit my head…” he says, all but falling into your arms as you help him to the bed, to the bed you’d shared oh so long ago. He takes off his helmet, his gaze piercing your soul, those too green eyes seeming to see into your heart. “Hey pretty girl.” He whispers, as though the mere sight of you took his breath out of his lungs - if he wasn’t concussed, he’d probably insist you did, if you brought it up - not that you would, because it would hurt, and it wouldn’t change anything. “How bad is it?” You ask, trying to assess the damage, turning his head in your hands to check if there were cuts, an egg, any indication of how bad it was to your limited medical understanding. “I’ve been worse.” He says, leaning into your hands. “Honestly I think I’ll probably be fine, but dizziness and nausea and grappling across Gotham seemed … blagh.” “How eloquent.” You tease. “I suppose you best stay the night, in that case.”

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

“How eloquent.” You tease. “I suppose you best stay the night, in that case.”

This isn’t Jason’s proudest moment. Nor were any of the other times he’d done this. He was hurt, genuinely. But he could have called for backup, instead of using it as an excuse to see his two favourite people, but well… he couldn’t keep away. He’d killed Roman two years ago. To his surprise, Bruce had hardly even protested. He was, in all honesty hurt, given the exception had not been made for him, but it also reassured him to know that if anyone came for his baby all bets were off. As they damn well ought to be.

“You're so good to me, darlin.” He’s laying it on thick, perhaps too thick, and with any luck you’ll blame his concussion. He should back off a little, just in case. “I’ll make it up to ya.” He whispers, resting his hand on top of yours, keeping your hand cupped to his face, if only for a moment more. You smile then, something that sends his heart into double time. “Rest up, I’lll call the cave, let them know you're safe… Just…” You stand, moving to the lesser used bedside table - his old one. You toss a pair of his sweatpants and a hoodie onto the bed next to him, kept there for just his occasion. Mary was only seven after all, too young to grasp the weight of her fathers secret, to carry the burden.  

“In the morning, prepare to be a climbing gym for the world's most excited first grader… she missed you.”

Jason’s stomach backflips, and not due to his nausea. It hurt. Fuck, did it hurt to know he’d hurt his little angel. It almost hurt as much as that first visit, two years ago now.

“Well.” Jason starts removing his Red Hood gear and pulling on the sweatpants. “I suppose there are worse ways to wake up. How… How is the little Cherub?” He moves to start undoing the body armour on his torso, but in his slightly dazed state he can’t quite manage the straps and buckles. “ ‘d you mind…” he gestures his chin to the problem, and you nod, moving to undo them for him as you answer the question. 

“She’s doing well. Still practically worships the green arrow.” Jason grumbles, half a laugh and half a groan. “I blame you for that angel.” Your hands falter in their work, a small sad smile on your face. “I confess I … encouraged it. Call it post divorce pettiness.” You say with a quiet chuckle, before continuing. “She’s doing so well at school - she inherited your love of reading, I think.” Jason grins, leaning back on his elbows to give you better access to the various attachments, and you suspect a better view as they come off, but you're in no mood to call him out on it, not now. Partially because you prefer talking about Mary then the mess the two of you made, and partially because well… Jason was quite the view. He was covered in scars, bruises and scrapes, all earned in battle for Gotham, and for the greater good. Not to mention, the training for said work had him built like a fucking adonis. “That's my little girl.” He says proudly. “In more ways than one… she can be a little menace when she wants to be… I worry about Uncle Damian’s influence.” you say, only half joking. “Next time you're at the manor, please remind him that swordplay lessons are not an appropriate bonding activity for our seven year old?” Jason laughs, and nods, now shirtless. The only thing left on his torso is a leather braided cord which holds two rings - one of which had once adorned your finger, the other his. You knew he’d kept them, of course. They’d been the only thing he put up any semblance of a fight for… but you had no idea that he’d done this, kept them literally close to his heart all these years. You have to glance away as he pulls  the hoodie over his head, or you might just tear up. “Don’t worry, pretty girl, I’ll talk to him.” he promises, clearly amused by his adopted brothers somewhat chaotic and warped views of what was appropriate for a seven year old. You feel your heart stop and start at the same time, the nickname stirring feelings that for Mary’s sake, you cannot allow to be stirred. You open your mouth, but then you look at him, bruised and tired and his mind not firing on all cylinders, and decide it can wait till morning. Jason moves to wrap an arm around you, but you push him off. “Right. I best make that phone call. You get to the couch… Do you want anything? Food, water, some - wait can you take pain killers?” Jason shakes his head “No, not with a potential concussion… but the first two sound great. Thank you.” You can’t cook, without risking waking up Mary, so a packet of goldfish, a granola bar and a glass of water will have to suffice, and you drag yourself back to bed, the urge to walk back into the living room and invite your former husband to join you slowly increasing in strength and pull every minute of the rest of your sleepless night. There was a lot to be said… but it could wait till dawn; you’d put it off for four years, you could refrain from completely breaking his heart a few hours more.

[everydaymj]

Chapter One - Till Death Do Us Part

Till death do us part. The words swim in Jason’s mind as he lays in bed beside you, the wedding band heavy on his finger, a once comforting weight now seeming to burn, as though the metal of your shared promise made manifest was burning the very flesh of his hand, stoked by a fire of guilt and worry. 

Till death do us part. 

Sometimes, he had wondered how he got so lucky, how you could be so foolish as to pick him. 

He was scared, he was broken, he had done terrible things. He didn’t deserve anyone as good as you. As kind. As … forgiving. He might have deserved you once - he had met you a lifetime ago, a bright eyed boy wonder still growing into his mantle as Robin, a teenage Jason Todd so sure he could change the world, because he was Robin, and Robin made him magic, a force for the better. Maybe that version of him deserved you. But that boy is long dead. 

Till death do us part. 

Except you hadn’t. He had died. You were parted. Yet when he came back, there you were. Reaching out a hand of love and understanding as soon as you knew who he (as the Red Hood) was. Batman - No, it was a personal, emotional call - Bruce. Bruce had called you in, because if anyone could help pull him out of the spiral he’d been in, you could. You did. You didn’t save him - no one person did. His family did, and he did. 

Till death do us part.

You were family, he’d realised. His rock. His best friend. A title that felt utterly shallow compared to what you were to him. Roy became his best friend… and you his world. His family. You were more than just his girlfriend… and after a proposal on the snowy grounds of Wayne manor on christmas morning, his fiance, and then his wife… Until the day the doctor confirmed your pregnancy, you had made up the whole of his world, which only grew when little Mary was born. 

Till death do us part. 

You’d always known the risks. Even when you were kids, when he was still Robin, rescuing you every few weeks when your mothers position as a judge got you in hot water, you had been aware of how much worse falling for him could make things for you, and you had fallen regardless.  You knew when you first held his hand and kissed his cheek, first been spotted by the Gotham paparazzi with a Wayne, first helped stitch him back together after a patrol gone wrong, you knew the risks. To him, and to you. You might be used against him. He might not come home one day. 

Till death do us part.

Jason turns to his side, watching you sleep. You looked so happy. So peaceful. You looked like you knew you were safe - and you were. He’d die again before anyone touched you. Either of you. 

He stands, slowly and quietly, so as not to wake you as he creeps down the hall to the nursery, where Mary lays sleeping. The room is glowing faintly green from the glow in the dark decals on the wall, and the unicorn nightlight by the bed illuminates her sleeping face. He doesn’t lift her out of the tiny, child size bed - she was a light sleeper, and given she was rather energetic, getting her to sleep again would be difficult, as tempting as it was to hold her in his arms, never to let go. 

He’d cried when you told him, and when he held her for the first time - and quite a few subsequent times. She had grown so much, and yet she was still so small. So small. A sad smile comes to Jason’s face. His little cherub… his baby girl… he’d never, ever forgive himself for what happened today.  

Till death do us part. You both had wanted this. He had wanted a family with you. In his dreams, Mary would be the first of at least three. Maybe when they were older they’d take up their own mantles - maybe they’d live normal lives. He’d adore them regardless. He’d watch his kids thrive as he didn’t get to until Bruce. He’d be the father he never had, loving and attentive, and thanks to his … previous extra legal activity and Bruce’s habit of spending his billions irresponsibly when it came to his kids, they’d want for nothing.  You’d move to a city a little safer for raising kids.  He’d retire the Red Hood when you both got older and you insisted, protesting, but secretly glad to finally be able to spend his evenings curled up by the fire with you. Maybe he’d write a book. Maybe he’d get a dog. There were a dozen maybes that were each as lovely as the last, but the only certainty he’d known for this beautiful future he’d dreamt up is you’d be at his side. 

Till death do us part, afterall. He’d meant his vow, just as you had meant yours.

Today, that had changed. Roman Sionis had changed it. It had been a standard patrol, when a man in a dark suit approached. Best Jason could tell, which really meant the best Oracle could tell, was the man was a PI, a civilian. That plausible deniability on whether or not he truly understood who exactly had paid him was the only reason he was still breathing. It had been a close call. 

The man had handed Jason an envelope, inside it a blurry photograph. 

It was you, sitting near the window of the penthouse apartment Bruce had given Jason and you as a wedding gift, feeding Mary. A message scrawled in black ink on the back lists your name, your place of work, and a musing that it would be a terrible thing for an example to be made out of a pair of innocents if the Red Hood couldn’t stop sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong. 

Jason still wanted that life. Roman Sionis had made it clear it could never be. 

He’d kill him. Code be damned, no one threatens his wife and child. 

But that would take time, time where you and Mary would be in danger. 

 You had known the risks, on one level. Both of you had. But when it became real, no longer theoretical…

Staring down at his sleeping daughter, Jason makes a choice.

The next morning when he drops Mary off with Alfred at the manor, so he knows she’s safe, and so that you too can properly talk, without needing to worry about her while you have what is surely to be the worst morning of either of your lives. “Thrilled as I am to see the young miss,” Alfred says, taking the bottle bag, Diaper bag, stroller, cuddly robin toy and the child that bears his mothers name, handling the sudden handoff with deft proficiency, “Might I suggest master todd that if you and Ms Todd wish for alone time you kindly call ahead?” On another day he might have laughed, but not today. 

His shoulders slump ever so slightly, and he shakes his head. “Not exactly that kind of alone time Pennyworth.”

Seeing the look on Jason's face, Alfred quickly hands little Mary off to a passing Cass, ushering Jason into the kitchen and pressing a cup of tea into his hands. “What’s happened lad?” It rushes out of him like word vomit, like bile forcing its way up his throat as he recounts it all. 

The photo. Roman. The threat. As long as you are with him, as long as he is in Mary’s life, as long as Roman Sionis is alive, you can never be safe. How he needs to divorce you, and how he needs Bruce’s help, Barbra's help, hell, Dick’s help, everyone's help, to make the story convincing enough for Roman, and how he has no idea how the fuck he’s going to tell you. 

He hopes desperately to be scolded that he’s being dramatic. For Alfred to say something pompous about how he’d be a fool to do this. The way Alfred instead rises from his seat at the table and pulls him into a hug, is the final nail in the coffin for that hope, as Jason cries into his grandfather’s shoulder. 

[everydaymj]

Fata Morgana Chapter Three - A Choice Made

Roman Sionis, being of a family as old as your own, is a marvellous dancer. You can’t help but grant him that, at least. “You dance well.” You say to break the silence. “Easily done, with a partner as skilled and beautiful as yourself, Princess. Though you seemed a good deal happier dancing with the Captain.” You raise an eyebrow and take a breath as you move your shoulders in anticipation of the game, and how aggressively the Earl wishes to play it. Part of you is almost happy. You often scheme, play the innocent doe eyed ninny. To be openly called on your behaviour is thrilling as it is off putting.

“Captain Todd-Wayne is a dear friend. I imagine you, more than most of the gentry must have been thrilled by his return. You served with him at the Battle of Arkham did you not?” Roman tilts his head “I did not serve, my place was in the advisory tent. But yes, we indeed were both present on that glorious day.” “A day that served you most … auspiciously then, as a man who never took up the sword.” As your partner waltzes you around the room in a twirling pattern with your fellow dancers, he laughs, deep and from the chest. “Indeed I did. Though I do try not to brag about it. Pride, they say, goes before the fall.” 

He can’t help but feel grateful. It would not do to break down so publicly. He only hoped no one had seen his brother escort him aside. That his princess had been too wrapped up in her new fiance to notice. “Jason?” his brother asks, pressing a stemmed glass into his hands, which he drinks without hesitation. “Don’t fall in love.” He says with a humourless laugh. “And not with someone above your station.” Tim just looked at him. Often Jason hated that look Tim fixed people with. As though he was a sheet of tax information for the local peasantry. As though all his problems and fears and ambitions and joys were simple data that while he could never make complete sense of where to his little brother completely obvious. Once, there was a time Jason would have thought he hated Tim. He’d never felt the Duke loved him as he had the others. Dick, the heir who had come to the Duke through great tragedy, and became a golden example of the Wayne name. Then him. He’d been robbing the stables. He’d expected to lose his hand. He’d been taken in by a man spiralling, in need of a project. He’d been given status, education, all the things that by birth he’d never ought to have. Then he’d given him a sword and sent him away. 

He’d taken in Tim. A boy of noble birth who he’d always seemed, in Jason’s eyes, one he’d always favoured. Then the bastard. Jason had no personal objections to young Damian - at least not by reason of his birth. He owed his mother … everything. But death - because he had died, surely, that day - had a way of giving perspective. 

Damn the Duke's favour - his brothers were his brothers. “Her Highness?” Tim says, that analysing look falling away to sympathy. “Her Highness.” He concurs. “If I may… While you may not be the heir… you are a war hero. Our father would surely grant funds in your name enough to persuade the King. You could be wed.” “She’s engaged.” Jason manages, the words poison in his throat. “Except … there’s been no such announcement. Not yet. Deals, maybe. But no formal engagement. There is—-” “Roman Sionis will not take well to a slight so great.” “Why do you care so deeply about the opinion of Sionis?” “In truth… I have no proof. But whatever happened to me, I fear he was its mastermind.” Tim’s expression darkens. “I’ll see what I can uncover. But you have to understand… It's been so long now. If no witness came forward then, it’s unlikely I’ll get far.” “I know. But if he does manage to wed her…” Jason shakes his head. “There’s not a damn thing I can do to save her from this.” He fights a laugh, not of humour but of despair. 

“And the worst thing is, I could have. True, I’m not worthy of her. She deserves someone better. Someone softer and kinder and untainted by atrocities. But at least if it were me I’d know she was safe. She was loved. Because… unworthy as I am, content as I ought be to be her shield and her sword… I love her. And she’s trapped with that fucking SCOUNDREL, and I can’t do a damn thing about it and maybe once I could have but it’s too late—-” His rant is cut short by Tim crushing his ribs into a hug. “It likely is.” he acknowledges “but give me a chance to see what I can do.”

As your partner waltzes you around the room in a twirling pattern with your fellow dancers, he laughs, deep and from the chest. “Indeed I did. Though I do try not to brag about it. Pride, they say, goes before the fall.” You smile in return, and it does not meet your eyes. From his smug tone, lack of respect for your station or for the Captain, ostentatious suit, and general air, this is the least humble man you have beheld with the lone exception of your father. But ego on its own is a failing you could live with in a future husband. What you could not live with was the cruelty in his eyes, in his toothed smile and too strong grip. What you can not live with is the fact that Captain Todd-Wayne had been dancing nearby until a mere few moments ago… until something had terrified him. He stands stone like, staring at the Earl. You trip, tearing the hem of your dress on your heel “oh. Oh my how silly of me. If you would kindly excuse me my lord… If you could accept such a clumsy partner at the next ball I would gladly make it up, but I ought to exit before anyone notices.” The Earl kisses your hand in parting. “But of course, but of course. How can I complain to have the choicest of partners on yet another occasion?”. You cannot afford to go to Jason’s side. The scandal would be unavoidable then. But still, you are glad to see a young man with the Wayne’s distinctly black hair. Even for one who adopted his heirs, the Duke Wayne had managed that many of his brood resembled him. One Mister Drake-Wayne, you believed. Either way, you had work to do. The two people you cared for and trusted most closely in all the world feared this man. You needed to discover the why. And more importantly then why was the how. Stephanie, her quarrel with him you never knew. Captain Todd-Wayne is not a man who fears easily, and he fears Sionis. You slip out of the ballroom with a whisper to a footman that you need to retire, and not to allow concern should your parents enquire. You can’t afford to panic. You need to think. Roman Sionis had been present at Arkham the day the Captain disappeared. He had directly benefited from that disappearance. That on its own was fortune. But add to the evidence the Captains fear? The earl had done something to your beloved. As you venture back into the corridors of the palace with each step your walk becomes ever closer to a run, until you are running indeed. You lift your skirts, the back of your skirt trailing behind you as you race deeper and deeper into the castle. Golden light from the torches lining the walls bathes your skin and casts dramatic shadows. You have to hurry. You figure you have ten minutes from when you left the ball before Sir Rayner, your guard on duty noticed you had fled. Or, if Sir Todd recovered before then, he’d alert the castle guards at once. Ten minutes till your absence was noted, maybe five more till you were caught if you can keep this pace.  Because you refuse. You refuse. You will not be petals in the wind a second more. You are a hurricane. And god himself can’t protect those who’d try to control your path. 

Fate be damned, illusions and hope could go… could … could go fuck themselves.

You were in charge. And you were getting married.

And you would choose your own goddamn groom. If you read this far, reblog. taglist:

@jasontoddproblems

@sunnie-angel

@stormz369

@love-theangel

@torchbearerkyle

@interwebseriesfan24

Honestly not entirely thrilled with this one, but I was at the point where if I couldn't post this chapter the series would rot and never be completed as I procrastinated and lost motivation. So. Here it is.

[everydaymj]

Fata Morgana Chapter Two - A Dance Earned

Content warnings of violence, death, and outdated views on women.

Sweat drips down Jason's nose, and his breathing is laboured. He cannot wipe it away, not without lifting the faceguard of his helmet. So, he lives with the discomfort, the sting of sweat in his eyes, the stink of it within his metal suit. His arms, one holding his sword, the other bearing a shield strapped to his forearm, ache. His head is pounding. His heart feels as if it may explode with how fast it beats.

He adjusts the grip of his sword to refocus himself. In the edge of his vision, tied to its hilt, the princess ribbon flutters gently in the breeze.

Centred, and reminded of his reasons, Jason levels his sword, and charges to meet his opponent.

The man’s name escaped him - it had been a long day. However his green heraldry told Jason the man likely serves the Queen family. Formidable archers were plentiful in their barracks. It was likely the bow he held had carried him to the final round more than the shortsword at his side. So, Jason would make it his priority to close distance, to force him to rely on melee skill.

He strikes out, his sword colliding with the breastplate of the other, trying to unbalance him, sending a loud clang of metal on metal, almost lost in the cheers of the crowd.

His opponent hurriedly drops the bow, draws his sword and hits back, making Jason grunt as he feels the opponent's sword collide with his dominant arm.

Jason isn’t so easily distracted though, he had fought far too many more deadly foes to drop his blade or allow pain to distract him in the heat of battle. He takes his shield, slamming it into his opponent's chest, sending the man colliding with the ground.

His victory is swift and definitive over the green clad man. In a real battle, he would have ended the lesser warrior with ease. It would be so easy. Something in his blood urges him to do it. A ruthless instinct that had kept him alive thus far. He puts the point of his blade to the defeated’s throat.

The roar of the crowd fades out. Morphs and twists into the screams of battle. Of that battle. Of the fields of Arkham. His grip tightens on his sword, and he looks down, not at the Starling knight, but at the face of a boy. He holds a pike, and wears leather armour that will do little to save him - that will not save him - that didn’t save him as Jason plunges his sword into his heart. He hears the boy cry, not a scream, a whimper. The last, trembling word that leaves his lips as he dies is a call for his mother. He looks up, to a field of bodies. A battle won at last, an enemy army slain… The field of battle soaked in blood, the smell of death mingling with the ocean air. And in this moment he knows himself a monster.

Reality fades back in, and Jason is not looking at the seaside battleground of Arkham, but looking up at the royal box. At her. At his Princess. The princess, he reminds himself - not his.

She looks … beautiful. She always does, in his humble opinion. Today, however, he feels his breath catch at the mere sight of her.

She’s worn red. But not just any red, his red. The same velvet fabric as the ribbon tied to his sword - surely something she had done deliberately. She had planned this for him. He gulps, grateful that no one can see his expression due to his faceguard.

Her gaze trails down to his opponent, still laid on the dust. Yes. Right. The other knight.

“Yield.” Jason demands, his arm flexing as he ever so slightly presses the sword in further to make his point.

“I yield.” The other man says, a little too quickly. Jason sheaths his blade, and offers a hand to bring the man to his feet.

Jason takes a deep breath as he removes his helm, and locks eyes with her.

You are going to die.

It should be illegal, frankly, for Captain Todd-Wayne to look like that.

He offers his hand to his defeated opponent, and you near swoon. To see such an honourable act after witnessing him put the realms warriors to shame all morning near stops your heart.

His hair is stuck to his face with sweat, his face flushed with the effort of the fight. His chest, you imagine, is heaving under his plate. Mentally, you imagine that paired with his half tied shirt from the night before, and are forced to pull out your fan to cool your face.

Your lady in waiting, Lady Stephanie Brown, leans down to whisper in your ear over your shoulder. “Are you quite well, M’lady?”

“Hm? Ah. Yes. It is simply… the heat.”

“But of course.” She replies, in a tone that from anyone who wasn’t a dear, dear, friend, would have you asking if they were daring to imply your dishonesty.

“You there!” She calls to a servant “fetch the princesses parasol!”

Then, turning back to you, she whispers once more “The heat?”

She echos playfully. You swat her arm.

“Hush.” You chide, and in response she wiggles her eyebrows.

You watch Jason leaving the arena, watch him splash a ladle of water over his head from a nearby barrel, and doff his gauntlets to take from an adjudicator a plush pillow, on which rests the crown of roses.

You smooth your skirt and carefully arrange yourself to appear adequately surprised when he approaches. Certainly you knew that as much as your heart was his, that crown was yours - but it would not do well to be too obviously aware of his affections, nor display your own.

Sure enough, you watch as he approaches, bowing deeply to your Father, your Mother, your younger brother, and finally, you.

Jason lifts out of his bow, meeting her eyes and trying not to appear as nervous as he felt.

He knew, of course she would not deny him.

It was testament to her charity that she indulged his annual request, similar to giving alms. A single moment where he could pretend he stood a chance at being anything more than her guard dog.

He knows that should you not wish to allow him this, you would not have given him a favour. Still, his hands, hands that have ended countless lives, calloused and rough from a life of hard, violent labour in her fathers name, but for her sake, shake slightly as he takes the crown in hand.

“Your royal highness.” He holds the crown out, and she bows her head obligingly.

Jason places the roses among her locks, trying not to linger on the sensation of her hair under his fingers. She looks up at him, her eyes wide and so filled with…

Love. His soul whispers. Wishful thinking, he knows. Affection, perhaps. Fondness, even. But it would be prideful to the point of insanity to think she loved him. Certainly she looked at him as if she did… but it could not be. Surely.

He steps back, taking her in the sight of her in his crown, knowing that for a few minutes that evening, he would get to hold her in his arms.

The dress you’d laid out on the chaise for the ball tonight lays forgotten. Not Jason’s red - it would be too overt to wear such a colour twice in such swift succession. So, something close, but something that inspired innocence and femininity. You had risked much in sneaking away from the palace to his tent, much more in wearing his colours. Tonight, you must be the picture of what your father wished of you. Mindful, Demure, even.

You pace the length of your rooms as the sun sets, running a hand down your face in distress.

“And you are quite certain?” You ask, turning to Stephanie, who stands beside the gold coated four poster bed you’ve slept in since childhood.

“Do you think I would tell you this if I had doubts?” She counters, shaking her head. “My source is good. Your father has been made a… rather generous offer by the Earl Sionis in exchange for your hand. A significant portion of fertile farming land.”

You nod. You had always known it would be your fate to form a political alliance, since the birth of your brother had taken the kingdom from your grasp. You were not even particularly opposed. Many such marriages were tolerable, and realistically once your husband had his son, you would only need to see him on formal occasions, and enjoy a life free of strife and hard labour.

But Earl Sionis? You had heard nothing credible of course, at least to the courts. Only rumours. Only the claims of his survivors, few as they were. Chief amongst them, in your mind, being Stephanie. You knew not exactly what he had done. But mention of his name filled your closest friend with fear and that was enough for you to think the lowest of him despite being unintroduced.

Still, you understood at least the political mechanics of how the match came to be. In the divying of the spoils of Arkham the Sionis line had been richly rewarded. Rewards that may well have been due to Captain Todd-Wayne, had he not been thought dead. Between the peasants, lands, and spoils he had taken, the Earl would have resources enough to make your father amenable to the match.

You sigh, your shoulders falling in defeat, in helplessness. You feel Stephanie move closer, and her arms wrapping you up in a hug. “I’m so, so, sorry.”

She whispers in your ear as you allow yourself to rest your head on her shoulder, and take a deep, shaken breath to fight tears. It would not do well to be seen to have been crying, especially if you could not explain how you had come to know of your inevitable engagement. You take a hankie from your pocket and dab at your eyes.

“Fret not. I… I will be safe while my father lives. He will not risk the Kings ire. I have till his death to endear myself to him.” Your lie tastes of ash on your tongue. But Stephanie seems cautiously comforted by your words. You were, after all, a talented liar. You may well have been a talented mistress of whispers in another life.

This is not that life though, and rather than a mistress of whispers, you are a princess. A helpless, beautiful flower blown by the winds of fate. You are not a talented spy. You are property of the realm. Privileged and pampered property, though property all the same.

You take another, deeper breath and withdraw from Stephanie’s arms. “Well. I have a ball to prepare for and I daren’t be late. I presume the Earl is in attendance this eve?”

“He is.” she confirms, as you ring a bell to summon your handmaidens to help you dress.

“Well then, we must make an impression.”

You did wish to dazzle, of course, but not your potential husband. If this was your last chance to dance publicly with Captain Todd-Wayne? You intended to look your very best.

Jason was not a scared child. He was a seasoned warrior. He was not skulking. He was simply scouting the ballroom's perimeter. The rooms' grandeur, while beautiful, lead to many nooks and crannies for an assassin to take refuge in. He was most certainly not hiding from his adoptive father.

Take for instance the pillar he stood behind. 12 of them lined the walls of the ballroom, made of marble and polished till they shone. Anyone could be using them as cover. The polished tiles with their elaborate design and the way they made voices and footsteps echo and carry to create the most lively atmosphere could conceal whispered threats in their manufactured noise.

Technically he had the evening off. Though when it came to her safety, he refused to let the matter fall into another’s hands. Especially after West’s embarrassment last night, letting her escape. Honestly, she had never tried to flee his company, and couldn’t understand why his brothers in arms struggled so much in containing her.

She was a menace, more often than not. Take last night. He was a man of honour, or at least he would always portray himself as one in the presence of a lady. Perhaps a little less than honourable was that he had given the minstrials a heavy coinpurse to ensure the song that opened the ball was a long one. No harm was caused by his deception, but he felt a treacherous liar all the same.

He reluctantly steps out from behind the pillar, before anyone could dare to accuse him of anything so childish as avoiding the Duke. Besides, the royal family would soon be announced. Traditionally, she would enter with them, but as the crown of roses was hers, she would enter after, as tradition dictated.

Sure enough, The King, Queen, and the young Prince enter, and as he often does, Jason’s eyes rake the crowd, looking for any sign of an unordinary reaction from the gathered peerage. True he bore the King no particular fondness, but a threat to her family was a threat to her.

Jason observes the Earl, Roman Sionis, who uplifts his glass to the King in a smug gesture. It … was no crime. Nothing he did in public was. Nevertheless, it set his bones on edge. He didn’t care for the look in the Earl’s eyes. Then again, something about Roman Sionins had filled him, since his return, with great unease. Nothing the man had done seemed to earn this, beyond the many rumours… what Jason felt was more visceral. But a feeling alone is hardly grounds for an accusation if he did not have a crime.

But then, with an eruption of trumpets, your name is announced. Like a doomed sailor, Jason turns to her. She is his gravity. She is … his everything. She looks radiant. Her dress is a soft pink, like a sunrise, with white underskirts that shimmer ever so slightly as if made of woven starlight. She has worn the rose crown, and jewels fine enough to likely feed half the country for a week.

He moves towards her, A moth to a flame, he cannot look away as he extends a hand. She takes it, and Jason kisses the back of her hand, momentarily despising whichever handmaiden had put her gloves on this eve. “My lady.”

He whispers against the fabric of the glove. He rarely said it. Only when he forgot himself.

She smiles at him, and Jason … can’t help but to notice it doesn’t seem sincere. Well. Her performance of affection had been impressive thus far - he could hardly fault her if her facade wavered.

The nobility move back, clearing the dance floor as Jason leads her to its centre. He places a hand on his waist, the other behind his back. She places a hand on his right epaulette. She stands a slight distance from him, and Jason ignores the desire to pull her closer, flush against his starched black military uniform with it’s red sash and the array of medals pinned to his chest.

Jason guides you by your waist in a series of slow, sweeping circles, before taking your hand and spinning you, first away and then close. You have to stop yourself from colliding with him as you are pulled back by placing a hand on his chest. You feel him tense, which, unlike plate might, allows you to feel the raw strength he possesses. You breathe deeply. Now is not the time for depraved thoughts.

“You fought well today.” You whisper to him he takes your hand from his chest with the one that had been behind his back, lacing your fingers together as you move into a more traditional waltz around the room.

He shakes his head in self deprecation “I was… motivated, my lady.”

You try to fight your smile and your sorrow, which work in a strange dance of their own.

“I am only sorry that this shall be our last.”

Because it would be. While Captain Todd-Wayne was of high enough rank and respectable enough standing he could petition a space on your dance card at many a ball, he did not. Would not. For reasons unknown to you, despite your brazen affection for him, and his for you, you had danced only those four Fata Morganas. And now that was all there would be.

“What?” He asks, his voice pitching higher than you’d previously heard it. It was a risk to tell him, but you trusted in his ability to be discreet. He deserved to know, you figured, that this was in many ways goodbye.

“I suspect myself soon to be wed.” You admit, fighting to keep your voice appropriately light. You needn’t concern him with the worst of the news yet, needn’t ruin the night utterly. You feel his grip on you tighten, and see his expression become mournful.

“Well.” He says, his voice tight and forced.

“I suppose it was a day always on the horizon, Congratulations my- Your Royal Highness.”

You hear the music end, but can’t quite bring yourself to step away from him. Can’t look away from his eyes, the bluest, most beautiful in all the land, you were sure. Neither of you move as you look at each other, as you squeeze his hand back, and fight the desire to tell him you love him before the chance is lost to you forever.

You hesitate too long. Perhaps you will always regret it.

An imposing, stately man approaches. You have never met him, of course, but you know him at once. From his suit so fine it borders on the garish, to the smug and self confident smile on his face. Earl Sionis bows to you, seeming to ignore the Captain entirely.

He speaks your name in a manner far too familiar. He smiles, and speaks with the charm of a cat toying with a half dead mouse. “My Lady, your beauty was not exaggerated in the tales that reached me. Might I have the honour of your hand… For the next dance?”

The deliberate pause is not lost on you, though you pretend it is. He is goading his perceived rival, you figure.

A ridiculous notion. There is no rivalry. Captain Todd-Wayne… Jason, would win the contest for your heart with laughable ease.

But you are petals in the whirlwind of fate, and so you smile, and say you’d be delighted. You do not look back at Jason… Captain Todd-Wayne. It would surely kill you.

[everydaymj]

Fata Morgana Chapter one: A Favor Given.

Content warning for some … outdated views on women. Don’t worry, you can fix him.

The tournament of Fata Morgana brought with it all the excitement of a tournament, but given it fell so close to the annual Festival of Cupid, it held more still. For as well as the honour of victory, a gold purse and acclaim, the winner was given a crown of roses, to give to any maiden he saw fit to choose, and to open the Ball of Cupid by sharing a dance with said maiden. Captain Jason Todd, the knight of Arkham, had won the past three years, and each year, the same maiden had been given the crown.

You.

You, the princess, and only daughter of the king of a small yet ambitious nation. You, who while understanding that your affection for the hero of the battle of Arkham, the captain of your personal guard, could never be fully realised or acted upon. You, who had the last three years watched him compete with baited breath hoping to dance with him once more. You, who after he had first presented you the crown three years hence, had given him a favour the next two years. You, who on the eve of his fourth tournament, are sneaking down to where the competitors have pitched their tents around the competition field, to do so once more.

The air is warm, crickets and the nickering of horses punctuated by the occasional voice. They are stoic, not rowdy or drunken, that will come tomorrow when the contest is over. Tonight, the sense of anticipation and solemn preparation lingers over the field. You find his tent with relative ease, it’s blood red fabric near black in the darkness, but his steed is tied outside and pays you little mind as you hesitate outside the tent flap. There had been no hesitation when you slipped past your guards. No hesitation in deciding to come here. Still, you hesitate now, when the only thing separating you from him is canvas, struck with nerves over what exactly you would say to him.

Your stalling is ended by the tent's flap opening to reveal the Knight of Arkham standing there, staring you down looking less than impressed. Your mouth goes dry as the desert.

He stands there in loose pants, and a white shirt with the top eyelets undone to just above the lowest point of his pectoral muscles. His hair is mused and out of order. You feel your breath catch, and it is only your lifelong etiquette lessons that prevent you from doing something completely humiliating and degenerate like bite your lip. Granted you saw him nearly every day, but there was something about seeing him out of plate, seeming so much himself rather than maintaining stoic professionalism.

“Your royal highness, you ought not be here so late - and where is your guard? God preserve me…” He runs a hand through his hair in frustration.

You try not to stare at the way the action causes his arms to move and flex, or how soft his hair seems. Instead, you force yourself to look him in the eyes, and reply.

“All is well, surely. These tents are filled with knights. Men of honour. I am perfectly safe.” You speak softly, so as not to draw attention to your presence, despite what you verbally claim, you know full well that being undiscovered will better serve you.

Captain Todd-Wayne opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. Sighs. You suppress an urge to smile, practically able to see his mind working on how to respond to that without offending your feminine sensibilities.

“Your Highness while your father’s knights - myself included - would of course never consider harming you, the matter persists you are without escort.”

You bat your eyes, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to you. “You are the captain of my guard, and have acted as my escort a great many times.”

His jaw clenches, and he makes no attempt to rebut the statement. “Who was meant to be guarding your door this evening?” He asks tiredly.

“Sir West.” You supply.

“Well. Rest assured that by sundown tomorrow he shall be thoroughly reprimanded for allowing this to happen.” He says, anger brewing under his carefully stoic features.

You sigh, but do not argue. You came for a reason, and you will not be distracted by his ire in your goals accomplishment.

You reach into your pocket, and produce a thick, blood red ribbon of finest velvet.

You hold it out, and he takes it, carefully not touching your hand, but where the ribbon hangs from your fingers.

“Best of luck in the morrow.” You say softly. You hope he understands what you really mean. What you cannot say.

You hope he knows you love him.

You turn back into the night before he can respond, the soft look of awe on his face, though the same each year, too great a source of pain and longing for you to take.

___________________________________________

Later that night, Jason lays on the temporary bed in his tent, staring at the ceiling as he idly runs the ribbon through each digit, feeling its weight, its softness. He slides it through his fingers, pulling it through and winding between each with his opposite hand. He closes his eyes and his breath shakes as he recalls its owner. Imagines it in her hair, tying it up, exposing her neck and …No. No. No.

He clenches his hand into a fist, his eyes snapping open. He was a knight. Her Knight, Her protector.

He would not dishonour her with his perverse thoughts.

He refused to.

She had done him a great kindness, in extending her favour. Clearly she knew of his affections, given his actions at the three Tournaments of Fata Morgana past even a woman could deduce the truth of his pathetic circumstance.

It was a great kindness indeed that she allowed him to indulge, one night a year in an unreciprocated fantasy, even feeding into it with this, the most generous of gifts.

Fata Morgana. An illusion. How terribly fitting, his lone solace, the one mercy he allowed his starved soul. To dance with her, once a year. To lay the wreath of roses in her hair, and pretend he was more. That he was worthy.

That he was not the second, adopted, common son of his father. That he hadn’t been sent off to be a squire so young that the Wayne estate no longer felt like home. That he had risen to his honoured rank of his position because he deserved it.

They’d said he was. The king had called him a hero. The people called him a legend. It would not surprise anyone if his story outlived him three generations. Jason Todd, the hero of the battle of Arkham. He had rallied his men, and turned what should have been a massacre into an unparalleled victory, but when the screams fell silent and the dust settled, he had disappeared. He had been declared dead. Turned into a martyr. A fallen hero.

Until he had been found in the woods of the Al Ghul estate, with no memory of who he was or how he came to be there, six months later.

The greatest of healers had helped his mind return - but what happened to him in the lost six months escaped him still.

His Father had asked him to recover at the Wayne estate. He had refused. He said it was duty. It was. But not to his king. It was duty to her, and to his heart. He had not spoken to his father since.

He knew she surely saw only a knight. How could she see more, given how little he was? A knight pinning after her to be sure, but not one she would seriously consider as a marriage prospect. He was not heir, afterall. He was not respected, he was a novelty. A fearsome novelty.

Sleep finds him eventually, a merciful reprieve from his spiralling consciousness. Only to take him away to the same nightmare he has had each night since his return.

That flash of sky, of rocks ascending skyward, the smell of salt and of decay. Pain. Nothing.

[everydaymj]

Complicated.

Complicated.

The arrangement you had with Gotham’s very own boy wonder wasn’t complicated. 

“Churros.” Robin decides, flashing that charming cocky grin. “For my incredible, dashing rescue—-” “You took five minutes longer than normal” You interject, mainly to tease. “I do keep reminding you, it would go faster if you would scream for help a little.” He scoffs, before continuing. “For my brave, incredible actions to save my favorite perpetually placed in distress damsel in all of Gotham, I demand a churro. Or next time I will let the assholes throw you into the harbor.” He jokes, throwing an arm around you as you walk along the dock. You lean into him a little as you walk, your arm coming over his shoulder in turn. “Well, anything for my knight in shining spandex.” You laugh… but part of you knows that in truth… maybe you would do anything for him. That in truth… you might love him, and while he may flirt, you have no idea if he feels the same.

Complicated. 

Love, on the other hand, was complicated. Especially when you had no idea who he truly was. You had hoped it was infatuation, a crush, a Pavlovian effect of association between Robin and safety. But as you found a vendor, purchased and handed him the snack, your hand brushing against his gloves, you feel your heart skip a beat. Robin grins, and holds up a grappling gun “Desert is always best with a view - how about it princess, do you trust me?” he asks his other hand moving around your waist. “But of course.” “Best hang on then pretty girl.” He says, pulling you tight against his chest as you wrap your arms around his neck. You feel like you leave your stomach on the ground, as the two of you are pulled towards the roof of one of Gotham's many towering buildings, the wind stinging your face, so you tuck against his shoulder and neck, your hair whipping in the breeze, and over the whistle of the swiftly moving air, you hear Robin’s almost crowing laugh, a grin breaking onto your face quite beyond your control. 

Complicated. 

Loving Robin was a little grappling through Gotham. Like flight. Like freedom. The most wonderful feeling in the world. And frightening. You had no idea who he was, what he thought of you beyond the playful flirting, and even if you did… What then? Being with him was still a frightening prospect, even if he wanted you in return. Your mother’s work as a judge already had you in danger at least thrice a month, if you became linked to Robin? That danger would increase a thousand fold. You feel his feet hit the ground, then yours, as you land on a rooftop. Somewhat reluctantly, you remove your face from his cape.

Complicated.

Maybe you didn’t need to worry though. Maybe it wasn’t that complicated. Robin had always protected you, and as much as you doubt his real reciprocation of your deeper affections, you do believe that even if he doesn’t love you back, he is your friend, and even if he wasn’t, he’s a good person - and he’d always protect you. 

As you sit with him at the roof's edge, your legs dangle into the abyss. Robin breaks his churro in half, and you take it with a smile. “I can’t imagine powdered sugar is easy to wash out of that.” You muse, gesturing to the suit he wears. “No.” he agrees, his mouth full. “No, I imagine PennyOne will rip me a new one for this.” He says with a rueful smile. “Penny one?” You ask, licking some powdered sugar off your thumb and - oh, oh yes, Robin is definitely looking at that. You feel a surge in your confidence, like adrenaline, an urge to act on the tension that on your side at least, has been building for months. “The boss” Robin expands. “And here I thought Batman called the shots.” Robin winks “Batman thinks that too.” “Pfft” you exhale, resting your head against his shoulder, looking out at the glimmering city lights. “You okay, Pretty girl?” He asks, concern edging into his normally confident demeanor. “It wasn’t exactly my first rodeo, I’m fine.” “No bumps, no bruises?” He says, looking down at you. “Not a scratch. Fishing for compliments are you?” you tease “fine - I’ll indulge you. You pulled off an excellent rescue today, thank you. If you weren’t here, if you didn’t come for me as often as you do, I’d probably be dead.” “Probably, but I won’t let that happen.” He agrees, pulling you a little closer. You glance up at him, some powdered sugar resting on the corner of his mouth.“You have some…” you gesture to the corresponding point on your own mouth, and he wipes it with the back of his gloved hand, only to smear it more. “Mm?” He grunts, seeking confirmation. “No uh… let me.” You lift your hand to his mouth, and behind his domino mask his eyebrows raise. “A-Alright.” he agrees, his tone slightly panicked. Your thumb brushes over his bottom lip, plump and supple. He breathes out, a ragged exhale, and you feel him tense against you as you tilt his head to see his face more clearly to better brush the sugar away, feeling your heart pound wildly, knowing your face must be red from how warm it feels, and your eyes wide as saucers. Fuck it.

Complicated.

Kissing Robin was anything but. It felt simple, it felt right, like it was always supposed to happen. Your hands tangle through his soft curls, and his, after a moment of awed indecision, cup your face and hold you there as your lips locked, as though he’s afraid you’re going to change your mind any second. It tastes of sugar, and when he finally comes up for air, Robin's grin could rival the Jokers, putting the knot in your stomach to rest. “Well, Damn princess. That was… I’ve wanted that for a long time. Then again, I suppose a kiss IS the traditional reward for a prince charming.” You laugh, relieved, amused, and ridding a high of pure serotonin. “Maybe you can have that as a future reward instead of desert.” “Instead? No no no - As well.” he says, pecking you on the lips once more. “Though perhaps we could spend some time together … without you being kidnapped?” He asks, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck. “Like… a date?” You ask, trying to contain how excited you are. “Might be a bit complicated with the…” you touch his domino mask, not to remove it, but to feel the contour of his face beneath it. You feel it lift with his cheeks as he smiles sheepishly. “Yeah I… I can talk to bats. Maybe I can … I don’t know. We’ll… work it out.”

Complicated.

Whatever came of today would surely be a complicated mess. But you could handle complicated things, because you had each other.

[everydaymj]

False Accusations (You know I KNOW right? Chapter Two)

Let me first say thank you for all the kind reception part one received. It was … a surprise, and a welcome one.

Also, a massive thank you to @sunnie-angel for beta reading. If you haven’t read their work… Do yourself a favor and check out their masterlist!

This Chapter takes place over a few days in two mini stories., and I would appreciate being told if at any point this causes confusion. Currently how I’ve done it is as tilted segments. Content warning: this chapter has themes of sexual harassment in the workplace up to the point of groping (from an OC), and corruption. Proceed with caution. Be safe.

The morning after. You are going to murder your partner, Grayson. Perhaps with a gun. Maybe your own two hands. Or maybe you just need coffee.

It's probably the coffee thing. Coffee, then you’ll decide if you're going to kill him and how. As you sit at your table, surrounded by notes you’d made at 4am, the urge to throttle Grayson slowly subsides. You hadn’t slept a wink. You’d had a weird night. But if you were going to do this, help him find this killer… you’d need a plan for if it all goes to hell. A diversion. A plan so that if you’re made, maybe the killer will think you’re on the wrong track. A dummy investigation. But simultaneously one that you won’t overthink, so that you can devote your time and brainpower to the truth. Luckily for you, you have the perfect person to pretend to accuse. After all, your partner, Grayson, is an incredibly weird guy. 8:55 am finds you walking into the station sipping your third coffee of the morning, only to find Grayson sat at his desk. Shirt pressed, tie perfect, hair shampoo commercial glamourous yet slightly messy. The urge to murder your partner returns, just a little. How dare he be so… normal? So unaffected? How dare this man fight crime by night, and be smiling at you as he is now, chipper and bright and perfect, before 9am? The nerve. Maybe you could hit him with a patrol car and claim it was an accident. “Morning detective… Long night?”

Oh.. This fucker. Your partner, Grayson, is the most annoying man alive. You hate how badly you have to fight the urge to grin at the sheer audacity.

She looks exhausted, the poor thing. Dick remembered the feeling, but at some point he’d adapted to running on less sleep than was by any means reasonable. He hoped she wouldn’t need to. That this would be over in a few weeks and she’d be back to getting a full eight hours. “Morning Detective… Long night?” She glares at him like he’s caused personal offence. He raises an eyebrow at her to prompt a response. Inside though, he panics. Had he done something wrong? Could she suspect? No. no of course not. But whatever she said next would surely be important. It was a test of sorts. What would she say she’d spent the night doing? Would she betray his alter ego? Could she sell the lie if she didn’t? “Just had a night in, had a little too much to drink,” she shrugs, opening her bag and removing a notebook. Casual, calm, partially true and nearly impossible to disprove short of a blood test or breathalyser, and even then there was deniability. Dick nods, and looks back down to his computer to hide the grin that splits his face in half. He knows he can’t dwell on it, knows he can’t act on it, but it’s completely unfair that she was that smooth. That helpful. She’d agreed to help him - as Nightwing - instantly. Her words about how Blud owed him a debt had played in his mind on loop for the rest of his patrol. He knew what it felt like to fly. To flip through the air at dizzying heights, gravity a mere afterthought. It was cruel, frankly, that he’d found someone who made him feel even better than that, only for her to be someone he couldn’t be with out of principle and professionalism. It wasn’t that he objected to her as a partner - short of his family, she was possibly the best he’d ever met. Frankly, if she was transferred to Gotham, the bat signal would be turned on far less frequently. And he didn’t object to rules about dating fellow officers, especially one’s partner. Objectively it made sense. But it didn’t change the fact that her smile was the best part of his day. That on the rare times she laughed he could swear he heard an angel just straight up quit its position in the heavenly chorus out of pure envy. That when she’d said she’d help he’d wanted nothing more than to grab her face and kiss her till she was breathless. But he can’t. Or at least Dick Grayson can’t. A new voice breaks him from his spiralling thoughts. “Detective Grayson.” The man standing behind his partner's desk has a hand on the back of her seat, preventing her from swivelling around. 

“We haven’t met yet, I’m Sergeant James McElroy. Seems you spent most of my first day back stuck on a stakeout.” “Pleasure.” he responds, with all the charm he’s learnt to use at galas and parties, forcing down the venom incurred by the way his partner had seemed to lose a gallon of blood at the sound of his voice, and the way she had seemed not to breath since the name was spoken.

He's not touching you. Of course not. He knows better than to do anything so blatant. It's how he’d gotten away with it for so long last time. He doesn’t touch you, or say the things he was so clearly thinking. He would masterfully walk the line between making you feel unsafe, alone, and naked, while never crossing over into anything actionable. Till one day he had. It had been in a crowded lift where he’d used the crush as an excuse to grab and to feel, whispering something vile in your ear. 

He’d figured he’d gotten away with it when you tried to tell your captain and he’d asked if you had a witness. You’d thought he’d gotten away with it too. Till a uniformed officer, Janet Rodwell, had stepped up to have your back. You should have known, really. For the second time in 24 hours you feel like a fool. But while the first time it had been accompanied with a dizzying realisation of love, this time the realisation is dark and chilling to your core. You’d thought you’d won, that it was over. But he’s back and he’s not touching you, but you feel the ghost of his hands all over. You can’t win. He’d been sent away and you thought you were safe again, but he’s back and he’s a sergeant now. Because Bludhaven, as it is, rewards men like him. You can’t bring yourself to look over your shoulder at him, so you look straight ahead, across your desk and to your partner’s adjoining one.

It's not Dick Grayson’s eyes you meet though. They aren’t cheerful, carefree and beautiful. Well, they are beautiful. But they are angry, intelligent, and fierce. You meet Nightwings gaze, and you feel the claws around your lungs relax, even if they do not recede. 

His partner did not rattle easily. Did not panic unnecessarily. 

Pinned down by the Penguin’s smugglers, he’d thought their goose had been cooked unless he could work at his true capacity, so he had shot out the lights and gotten to work. He’d taken out nine, but been unable to find the tenth, until he’d heard the struggle. 

She’d taken him down blind, without drawing her gun. When he’d asked her why she hadn’t, she’d told him she’d lost sight of him in the chaos, and was unwilling to risk it. He wished he hadn’t shot the light out so he could have seen it. 

Still, he had been oblivious. It had hit him like a batarang to the face last night, in that moment where she agreed without hesitation to help him find a serial killer. He’d known she was beautiful, and brilliant. That he had a crush. 

He’d realised last night he was in far, far deeper trouble than that. So, if she was frightened and upset by the presence of this man, then Dick would take his looming over her as a serious threat. He trusted her gut. “You haven’t introduced yourself to my partner, Detective—-” He’s cut off with a dismissive wave that boils his blood. “Oh we’ve met. In fact, she was my partner first. Until the misunderstanding.” There are many ways to snap someone out of a panic. He’s seen sheer rage do it many times. As it does now. “There was no misunderstanding,” she says, her voice firm, her teeth gritted. “Well. I want you to know-” he moves from directly behind her, to her side, leaning down over her, invading her space. Dick wanted to hit him. “I understand that what I did could have been seen as invasive, and you may have felt that I overstepped. I have completed a course, as demanded by HR, and will attempt not to cause you to feel that I have been inappropriate again.”

She takes a deep breath. He can practically hear her count in his head. He stands, moving around the desk to stand beside her, not quite a barrier but a comforting presence, or at least he hoped. “Well. Whatever occurred, we have work to be getting on with, if you don’t mind.” It takes a great deal of the restraint his training has given not to add the words ‘you bastard’, or something far more creative. “But of course. Detective. Detective.”  

Your hands shake as you sit back down in your seat. Your partner, Grayson, returns to his own, his gaze - Richard’s gaze, never leaving your face, crumpled in concern. “I don’t want to overstep… but are you alright? What … did he do?” “I…” you want to tell him, in part. Or maybe you don’t, and you want him to know without having to go through the ordeal of rehashing it all. Maybe by consulting whatever ‘oracle’ he used as nightwing. But you can’t right now. So you don’t. “I… need some air.” Your partner just gives you a comforting smile, a nod, and lets you leave without question. Wingding in the window 

It's five days later, on his patrol, when he notices it. The wingding left in her window. He stops on the roof of the building adjacent to her. As far as city roofs go, this one’s relatively nice. Someone’s placed some potted plants around, in an eclectic attempt at a rooftop garden. Some of these pots contain small pebbles as cover for the soil from the wind. Grinning to himself, he takes a handful. 

Was this a good idea? No. 

Was it deceptive? Well, no more than anything else he did as Nightwing… well, maybe a little more. 

But it hurt, holding her at arm's length, when a part of his soul he tried to ignore yearned to be as close as she would allow. He knows it’s not good. He knows it’s a violation of the utter trust she seems to hold in Nightwing. Really, it would only make things even more messy for his chances as Dick. But he wants to make her smile. Blush, even. He knows she finds him attractive, and in both contexts, but he wants more than that. Over the last week he’s realised just how much he wants to have with her, and it terrifies him. 

If it was simple lust he could deal with it.  But it wasn’t, and so here he was, about to attempt the cheesiest move known to hallmark films, just to see if it would make her laugh at him again. 

He’d managed to be professional while surrounded by highly capable, badass women in skintight clothes for most of his life. He’d had crushes before and gotten over them. He wanted everything with her. And that was not something he knew how to handle, given the mess of their situation. Dick shakes his head, snapping himself out of his doom spiral. He had a detective to meet, and a serial killer to find.

Bap. Bap. Bap. You look up from your book. You’d been getting ready for sleep, wearing your cosy pyjamas, curled up in bed with a book and a hot chocolate. You go still, listening. Bap. Bap. A pause. Then, the rap of knuckles on glass. “I ran out of rocks”

You know that voice. “With you in a moment.” You pull on a dressing gown, and take a moment to curse the fact that your slippers are rabbits before pulling the curtains aside. Nightwing is crouched on your windowsill. You lift it, stepping back as he enters through the window with all the grace of a cat. You know that you shouldn’t be embarrassed to be in your pyjamas, it's late, you had no means of knowing when he’d arrive. But he looked divine in that suit. An adonis. And you're in your old bathrobe and bunny slippers. Truely, you must have done terrible things in a past life. “Nice footwear.” Nightwing says with a smirk. Curse him. Curse his cheekbones and the way his lips look so damn inviting. “You picked up what, five rocks?” you sass right back. Nightwing makes a noise you suspect was supposed to be a scoff, but is more of a squeak. “Do you see a lot of pocket space on this?” 

“Fair.” you say, leading him out of your bedroom and into your living room. He sits on your couch, one leg spread wide, the other’s ankle resting on its thigh, as you open a drawer on your coffee table and produce your masterpiece. Nearly five metres of red string. Names, photos, dates, all studded with pins so pressed so tightly in they haven’t a prayer of accidental removal. You prop it up on the coffee table. 

Maybe your friends were right. Maybe you did need to touch grass. A line of thought for later. You look at Nightwing, who’s no longer relaxed and laying back on your sofa like he owned the place. 

Its years of maintaining a poker face in interrogations and more recently, dealing with his shenanigans that prevents you from grinning. 

He's as pale as you’ve ever managed to see him, and leaning forward now, elbow on knee and chin in hand. “Well, this is… impressive.” He sounded like he’d inhaled helium. “Shall we start with Sergeant McElroy?” you offer, smiling your best ‘there’s nothing wrong’ smile, enjoying making him squirm. “You seem to have … a significant amount of evidence against Detective Richard Grerson?” You fight the urge to roll your eyes as you take a ruler, poking your picture of him between the eyes. You hadn’t planned to do him first, you’d hoped to discuss evidence that would actually lead somewhere. 

This was still going to be fun though. You take a deep breath, and pause for a suitable level of dramatic effect, and begin your game. 

“Detective Richard Grayson. He’s my partner. He’s an excellent detective, and a good man. You might have heard of the charity he founded.” Nightwing makes a noncommittal humming noise. “But is it all too good to be true?” you ask, moving to your first notecard. “Exhibit one. He asked about the file. On its own, innocuous. But then, exhibits two through four. He’s prone to frequent disappearances on cases. He often knows a little too much about the criminal underside of Blud. Things that I have triple checked are not in any police database.”

You run a hand through your hair. “He’s a highly trained combatant. I once saw him take down nine men armed with guns, in the dark. They don’t teach that at the police academy.” “No? No.” Nightwing says, clearing his throat. “I mean yes. That is… suspicious.” “Incredibly. Which brings me to exhibit five. Now I’m no behavioural analyst or shrink. But I know my basics. Childhood trauma and instability can have… lingering impacts. I… don’t feel the need to dredge up his past, but I did look into it… and it’s grim. He was then taken in by Bruce Wayne. His relationship to his father, whatever it is, is something he’s even tighter lipped about then… everything else honestly. It’s not on the board because it’s circumstantial at best… but he has this skill of being able to hold long conversations and yet you come away not having learnt anything deeper about him.” 

He was pretty sure he’d been nodding for a good thirty seconds at this point.  

It would be funny if it didn’t hurt so much. 

The worst part was that it was all well reasoned. Practical. He had done everything she accused him of. She had just drawn a far more down to earth conclusion, that he was a corrupt cop, rather than Nightwing. 

It made sense. Too much sense. How could he shut this down without seeming invested in his own innocence? 

That isn’t what causes his lungs to burn though. No. The root of that was that even if he’d forced himself to maintain a professional - if friendly - distance from her, he would have hoped that she trusted him. 

But in this moment, looking at the evidence, looking at her holding that ruler to his photo’s face like a judge's gavel ready to condemn… he knows. He knows that she will never look at Dick the way she does as Nightwing, happy to see him, believing in his mission, ready to help as soon as he’d asked. Even if he clears himself of this crime, she would surely suspect him of others. 

He’d known it, at least on one level, ever since he’d first met her. He knows it now all the deeper, and he wants to scream. Dick Grayson will never get to tell her how truly wonderful she is.

How highly he regards her. 

How she is one of the reasons he keeps fighting for Bludhaven. 

Dick Grayson will never get to tell her that he loves her. 

But… perhaps Nightwing could have something. Because if she was his north star, then the way he’d felt when she agreed to help him had been like being engulfed by a supernova. 

If she was water, then seeing her cosy and ready for bed and smiling as she let him in through the window had been an oasis in the Sahara. 

If music was the food of love, her attempts not to laugh and stifled giggles over his peeps popcorn had been a symphony orchestra. 

But he’d never have her as himself. Not at all. Nightwing though? She at least found him attractive. Aligned with his ideology. No, he’d never feel that warmth of 10,000 stars directed at the real him. 

No, he’d never be able to be quenched by her life saving presence. 

No, he’d never feel her laughter shaking his bones as if in a musical crescendo.

But even the dimmest and most distant star gave off some light.

Even the last drop in an empty water skin was better than nothing.

Even the memory of a melody could be sweet. True, he would only ever have scraps of her affection. True, he could flirt, and perhaps go even further… but he’d never truly be with her. 

But who was a starving man to deny scraps of sustenance? He’d take what he could have and try to ignore the lingering hunger. 

“Perhaps we should discuss… another suspect?” he prompts, realising how long he’s been silent. How long she had been too, watching him with a strange, concerned look.

She nods, and moves on to their Captain.

Dick is almost relieved when some ten minutes later Oracle calls in a robbery downtown. “Well - sorry Sherlock.” He takes a picture of her board for further study. “I’ll be around next week to continue this discussion, and look over this in my own time till then. Duty calls.” “Be safe,” She says softly, as he’s halfway through the window He looks over his shoulder. “As you wish.”

Taglist: @jasontoddproblems

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If you would request to be added to my taglist, please reblog the fic. Honestly please just reblog it anyway? I worked hard on this. Nothing more demotivating than a fic getting only likes. If you want part three, reblog part two. 

[everydaymj]

Your new partner is Grayson.

He’s a weird guy.

Not necessarily a bad guy, but a weird one.

He’s not cold, in fact he’s rather friendly. However, when you really consider it, he volunteered very little information on his personal life. Reasonable, you suppose. So long as he has your back in the field and gets his reports done, you don’t need to be best friends.

Your new partner Grayson is a recent Gotham transplant. You’d never personally been, but you weren’t oblivious to how utterly mad the city was. You could hardly blame him for getting out.

Your new partner Grayson, tenses up whenever someone mentions the Batman, or any of the nutcases he fights. You don’t pry.

You do your own research.

Your new partner Grayson watched his parents die. He’d been taken in by Gotham’s favourite son, a man he seemed reluctant to speak of. He’d had, and lost a brother, to the most deranged man Gotham, if not the world, had ever known.

You stop mentioning Gotham around him after that.

Your new partner Grayson is a weird guy, who seems constantly surprised whenever you demonstrate competency.

At first you’d suspected sexism. It wouldn’t have been your first partner to have that failing.

After a few days though, you catch him being equally surprised when officer Jackson makes a connection on a string of breaking and entries, and realise that perhaps he’s just not used to the cops not being utterly reliant on a very scary angsty furry and a small child without pants.

Your new partner, Grayson, is a weird guy, who disappears sometimes. Middle of a chase he’ll be gone, and you won’t see him again for sometimes as long as hours, before he’s back. More often than not, somehow through some insane luck, the perp will have been taken down by Bludhaven’s new vigilante, and tied to a lamppost for you to find. You both hated and envied his luck.

Your new partner Grayson was a weird guy… and he was a damn good cop.

He made connections like no one else. It was like he had some sort of sixth sense. You’d asked him once, about how he seemed to know all he did. How he seemed to have access to a whole other database of clues you just couldn’t see.

And he’d smiled that cheeky smile of his, and told you he’d been consulting an oracle.

Your new partner, Grayson, moves like nothing you’ve ever seen.

You’d initially attributed it to his past as an acrobat. The way he could simply parkour over and around anything in his way, run faster then he had any right to, chase down a perp like a bloodhound.

It was more than that though. You’d say without hesitation that if you were in a firefight, he’s who you’d want at your side. You must’ve owed him your life three times over by now. Even in those situations though, when no one would have blamed him for the use of lethal force, he never had.

You’d been pinned down by a smuggling ring. You, Grayson, and ten of them - all armed to the teeth.

He’d been incredible. Superhuman, almost.

Someone had shot out the lights. He’d told you one of the smugglers must have missed. You’d never once believed him.

Ten smugglers. You’d managed to knock out and cuff one, unwilling to risk taking a shot blind.

The other nine? Those had been your partner. He had them unconscious in a heap by the time your eyes had adjusted.

No bullet wounds. He’d done it hand to hand.

You didn’t know exactly what he was hiding, but you knew he was hiding something. You decided not to call him out on it. Not as long as you trusted that whatever he was using his … inexplicable skills for was good.

And trust you did.

Grayson was a good man. Even knowing little about him

Which was why this betrayal hurt so badly.

“Say again?”

You’d sat in relative silence in an unmarked police car for about half an hour on a stakeout, and Richard Grayson had just said the worst sentence you’d ever heard. You’d never been so utterly horrified.

“Peeps popcorn.” He says, holding up the tupperware containing an atrocious biohazard, grinning from ear to ear.

“One more time please?” you fight to keep up your faked anger, but fail in the face of that fucking smile.

Honestly, it should be some sort of crime to smile like that. Like everything would work out in the end, so long as you could keep him smiling at you.

“Peeps. Popcorn.” He says it a third time. He’s trying and failing not to laugh at her, at the way her mouth twists and flails to maintain a frown.

He was tempted to tell her it was in vain. He’d broken Batman, and he’d make her smile too.

Honestly, she had such a pretty smile. Not that he’d say that, she was his partner, and they needed to keep things professional.

“It’s my turn to provide stakeout snacks, and so,” he lifts the lid of the peeps popcorn balls.

“Peeps popcorn.”

She rolls her eyes, and looks out the window of the passenger side. But she’s smiling. “It is one of life’s great injustices,” she huffs “that you can eat like that and maintain your… impressive physique.”

Dick feels his chest puff out a little. While he had been able to tell all along that she had a crush on him, but he’d never risk acting on it. Still, it felt nice to be complemented by her.

“Seriously, do you clock off and just do the ninja warrior course all night or something?” She muses, her head against the window, looking at him out of the side of her eye.

“Not exactly,” he replies, sitting back in his seat, bringing his foot up onto the cushion. “Try one.” he presses, poking her side with the container.

She takes one, rolling her eyes and nibbles at the neon cluster of popcorn.

“No. no.” she gags, “oh that's nasty. Oh, it's so sweet. Why? Why Grayson. Why would you do this to me?” she asks, setting the sticky concoction on the divider between their seats.

Dick just laughs “I am determined to make you a peeps convert.”

“Never, regular marshmallows are fine.”

“Peeps are rainbow.”

“How old are you?”

“There is no age too old to enjoy whimsy, Detective.” he responds, biting into his own.

“Besides, are you implying that rainbow marshmallows are irregular? In this day and age? Tut tut.”

“We are not making me out to be a homophobe over peeps!” she protests, still laughing, slightly taken aback at the audacity.

“If you say so.” he says, stretching his arms over his head and into the backseat. Stakeouts were terrible. He was not built to sit still in a confined space for hours at a time. However, this one provided a useful opportunity he cannot afford to waste.

Not to torment her with his war of attrition for peeps supremacy - though that was fun.

He needed to be sure of something else.

“Well. You being wrong about peeps aside. I … wanted to check back on a file from a few months ago. You uh… you didn’t move the Holt murder file, did you?”

“Holt.” she clicks her tongue in thought “the guy with…” she gestures to her chest.

“That's the guy.”

“Not knowingly. I haven’t had cause to reopen it. No new leads. I tried to track down the kid… He didn’t want a bar for me. Guess I can’t blame him. I offered the help I could… but well… the last time someone helped him his dad got brutally murdered. He’s staying in the tent city by the docks, best I can figure.” She seems to feel guilty as soon as she says it, but Dick doesn’t blame her.

He had paid for that room. If he hadn’t… who knows what might have happened?

“But if someone moved it?” he prompts, not wanting to dwell on that gnawing guilt.

“Wasn’t me.”

Your new partner, Grayson, was a weird guy who ate strange and terrible foods.

He blames himself for what happened to poor Mr Holt. Because he was good to the core, and somehow that had led to something utterly twisted.

He’s also standing on your balcony. On the 20th floor.

And it all makes sense now.

Your apartment isn’t particularly nice. It was small, and frequently disorganised. Especially when you got overly invested in a case.

You’d been texted many gifs of the conspiracy board meme by friends over the years.

Work life balance? Not something you’d ever seen much value in.

And now, your unfairly attractive new partner Grayson was in your apartment, in full vigilante getup.

You need to find a way to be normal about that in ten seconds or less, because he’s staring at you, and you're staring at him, and it's starting to get awkward.

“Hello.” you eek out.

He greets you as Detective, followed by your first and last name.

Unusually formal, for him. Unless… unless he somehow thinks a few inches of fabric in the shape of a wingding is going to fool you.

Unless he thinks he’s got you hoodwinked.

“Nightwing… to what do I owe the pleasure?”

He leans in the doorframe, his hands braced against its top, so he is leaning into your space without touching you, and giving you plenty of ability to step back if you so chose. You don’t.

“I have reason to suspect there’s a serial killer moving though Bludhaven. And that whoever they are, they have someone in your precinct on the payroll.”

You fold your arms, bristling.

“Not sure I appreciate the accusation.” Sure, the bludhaven police department was ridiculously corrupted. But you’d hope that your partner would have at least the trust in you not to think you’d help a serial killer.

“No accusation.” he reassures “a request for help. I need someone I can trust inside the department. And my source says that’s you, sherlock.”

His source? Was he kidding?

No. No he wasn’t.

Oh this was madness.

This was hysterical.

He really, truly thinks that you can’t know him outside of his streetwear. And he’s trying to pass it off like he doesn’t know himself either.

Perhaps you should tell him you know.

But… Grayson and his peeps tomfoolery isn’t the only one who can have fun.

“So… you’re asking me to… what, exactly?” You prompt, unfolding your arms, willing to give him a chance.

Nightwing offers you a smile. It’s slightly different from Richard Graysons.

It’s just as sunny, and it makes you feel just as warm and fuzzy and giggly inside. You have to fight even harder to stop yourself blushing, given how much less this getup leaves to the imagination then his usual dress pants, shirt and tie.

But it’s a little more … brazzen. Flirtatious. More… cocky. Sure, He was always at least a bit of a show off, but as nightwing? He was one of the most capable, incredible people alive, and he wasn’t shy about it.

Oh, you were doomed. But that was a problem for later.

“I’m asking you to keep an eye on the ‘heartless’ case. Holt… he’s not the only one and I think there’s going to be more. And, to be blunt?”

He stands up straight, and puts an arm on your shoulder.

“It’s a big request. But you might be the only person in that station who I have real confidence in.”

You wonder what that says about his relationship with himself, but like so many things with Richard, you don’t ask.

“I can do that.”

“And I understand that it’s dange— I’m sorry, did you just agree?” he cuts himself off, staring at you.

You laugh then, just the once.

You owed him your life many times over as his partner. But as nightwing?

Since he’d come on the scene, you’d actually felt like something mattered. Like change could happen.

Like someone was willing to help the people of Bludhaven not to reap a profit, but because the system you’d once hoped to help restore was broken at its very core, and restoration wasn’t the solution - reformation and fundamental change was. And you didn’t know how to do that.

But then Nightwing had come onto the scene, and started kicking the asses of the worst of the worst, and you had felt like you had when you’d joined the force, bright eyed, bushy tailed, and determined to make a difference.

Before the incident. And every other day, when you’d felt that optimism slowly being crushed to death, into a fine powder and blown away in the wind.

“Yeah.” you say, and agreeing to help is one of the best feelings in the world. You get to help. To make a real difference.

“Bludhaven owes you a hell of a lot, Nightwing… seems like the least I can do is tell you if anything weird comes up.”

“Right. Thank you.” he clearly wasn’t expecting this. Maybe he’d thought it would be a harder sell.

“If I do… have anything for you, how should I alert you?”

He passes you a wingding. “Put this in your window. I’ll check in every few days.”

You raise an eyebrow “all your fancy tech and you don’t have a phone”

He shrugs “phones are traceable. Plausibly just something you picked up on a case as a trinket that you ‘forgot’ to log in evidence left on a windowsill? Lot harder to trace.”

“Fair.” you acknowledge.

“Besides.” he steps backwards onto your balcony once more “your place is on one of my main patrol routes. Can’t let anything happen to the best looking detective Blud’s got.”

You scoff, without any real offence. You know he’s only playing, and that he does, as Richard, respect your intellect more then your appearance - but you suppose as ‘nightwing’ he doesn’t know you that well.

“I think you mean best detective full stop.” you respond, and he gives a small bow of playful deference.

“But of course, sherlock.”

And then he’s gone.

That night, you don’t sleep.

You felt so stupid. He’s nightwing. He’s been nightwing the whole time.

The skills. The disappearing. The way he seemed to just… know things.

The way he tensed whenever someone mentioned Gotham.

… the timing of Robin reportedly becoming a child again.

Had your new partner, Grayson, been Robin?

Had he been using the Batman's archives to solve cases? Was that his so called oracle?

… wait.

Was Bruce Wayne the FUCKING BATMAN?

You screamed into your pillow. You were laying awake, face down in your bed, because now you had realised far too many things in one night.

The first: Your new partner is Nightwing.

The second: Bruce Wayne might be Batman.

The third: you, enchanted by that fucking perfect smile, had agreed to help track down a serial killer stealing hearts.

The fourth: Your new partner, Richard Grayson, between his stupid snacks, the Alfred Pennyworth foundation he’s been working to get off the ground, and his work as Nightwing, will save Bludhaven, you know it to your core.

And the fifth. The worst, and scariest part of your night: You may very well have fallen in love with him.

If you read this far, reblog?

Divider credit: @strangergraphics

Tag list:

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First time writing Dick! Feedback is welcome.

[everydaymj]

we all talk about doing it scared doing it alone doing it weird etc. but the the hideously awful truth is that you also often have to do it stupid

[everydaymj]

Jason Todd as Blue Jay

[everydaymj]

Hey, um… with the whole “Bluejay!Jason” concept… has anybody ever considered it as an Inkheart reference instead of just a play off his name?

Follow me here, and sorry in advance, this turned into a ramble.

In the second book of the Inkheart trilogy, Inkspell, one of the main protagonists adopts a Robin Hood-esque approach to defeating the tyrant king, and adopts the name of ‘The Bluejay’ from famous folk legends and songs written by a beloved poet and often sung by travelling minstrels. He’s -Inkspell spoilers ahead, though this book is unironically older than I am- known for toppling said tyrant’s throne through the binding of a magic book (a recurring theme throughout the series, if you’ve never read it, which you should). He’s a champion among the Motley Folk, who were that world’s equivalent to a travelling circus and also regularly aid him in his quest to topple the Adderhead (the tyrant king mentioned above), and sought to help the poor and downtrodden. The Bluejay is aided and abetted by his family and friends, which include a shapeshifting wife, a daughter with the ability to make anything she reads come true, a fire-dancer who can speak to the flames, and a knife-throwing 'circus' prince with a black bear companion. (They're not called the Motley Folk for no reason, people!)

Now, consider for a moment: Little Jason Todd, in the local library, absolutely devouring the Inkheart series. It's everything a little kid could dream of in a fantasy book! And there's three of these fat books, what more could you possibly want? And he has an excuse to sit in a warm, safe building for a few hours.

Now imagine, Inkspell becomes his comfort book. Of course it does- every kid had one, and I can't imagine an orphan who grew up alone on the streets of Gotham picking anything other than a story about a strange man helping the opressed and downtrodden in a land he grows to call his own with the help of his family- and The Bluejay is an excellent father to his daughter, too, of course Jason pictured himself as part of that family, as whisked away into that world.

And of course, the rest of the series is wonderful too -Inkheart is where it all began, after all, and Inkdeath is the final triumph over evil!-, but Inkspell is a story about becoming. About learning to be more than you were born as- after all, if Mo the simple bookbinder could become the hero The Bluejay, what could Jason the street orphan become?

Maybe, instead of discovering this book in a library, he found it in the trash. And maybe he wondered, as he read it, why anyone would ever want to throw away the tale of Mo the Blujay, of Meggie the Silvertongue, of Resa the brave swift, of Dustfinger the loyal Fire-Dancer? (And maybe the last one took a while to get there, but he did get there! Eventually! And maybe Jason can understand why it took Dustfinger so long to truly come to trust someone again, because trust is a terribly dangerous thing to give to someone, because you can never really know what they'll do with it.) Maybe he read it through without knowing anything about Capricorn or The Shadow or why they feared the man named Basta, because they hadn't thrown away the first book, only the second. Maybe he wept for the death of Dustfinger, at the very end, because he didn't know that Death wouldn't keep him, because they hadn't thrown away the third book.

Maybe Inkspell found its place among his most treasured possessions. Maybe, when he met Batman and Bruce Wayne in one night and his life changed forever, Inkspell came with him, with its familiar story and characters and world and sorrows.

Maybe one of the first things Bruce did, upon seeing Jason reading that same battered old paperback, was to order Inkheart and Inkdeath and leave them in his room. Maybe that was when Jason started to realize that he wasn't going to leave forever.

(Maybe Jason and Dick would play Motley Folk together, because Dick was in the circus and could most certainly throw knives, even if it gave Bruce a heart attack every time he saw it.)

And maybe, after he could no longer have Robin, he remembered that old paperback book, that old story and that old world, and he thought of a new name for himself.

Bluejay, he thought, as he picked up the book that had been his constant companion for so many years. I'll be The Bluejay.

(I don't really know what this is. I saw some Bluejay!Jason art the other day and just started thinking of the Inkheart trilogy and the fact that Jason would absolutely have read it and probably loved it. And then it spiralled.)

[everydaymj]

[everydaymj]