rambling-at-midnight

[rambling-at-midnight]

The Roman Empire

Pairing: Jason Todd x Sionis!Reader (Forbidden romance)

Summary: Five times Jason doesn’t confess his feelings, and the one time he does.

Word count: 5.8k

Potential TW for Jason experiencing fear toxin

1.

“How are you so bad at this?” you giggle. The plastic bag of M&Ms crinkles in your hand.

“I’m not bad, you just suck at throwing!”

Batman cuts the two of you a glare and says sternly, “Shh.”

Jason salutes and says, “Yes, boss.”

Another M&M hits the side of his cheek. “Hey!”

“Robin.”

“But she—” Jason points at you, but the M&Ms have disappeared and an innocently confused expression has taken over your face.

“I didn’t even do anything,” you grumble to B, but as soon as he rolls his eyes and turns back to watch the target, you smirk at Jason evilly.

Jason turns his eyelids inside out and points his tongue at you.

A whole handful of the candies hit his face and scatter on the ground, pinging like little pieces of hail.

“B!” Jason shrills.

In a rare moment of human weakness, Batman pinches the bridge of his nose. “All right, you two are off the case. Go home. Both of you.” You earn the glare that time. Jason watches a shiver go down your spine. Living with Bruce and watching the man swan dive into fountains at galas has kind of ruined his Batman intimidation factor with Jason, but you haven’t seen his more human side. Because you never visit the manor as a civilian. Because Jason’s not allowed to know you as a civilian.

Jason thinks it’s stupid that Barbie gets to know your identity because you’re her prodigy or something, and Batman gets to know your identity because he’s Batman, but apparently Robin knowing it is too dangerous. Hasn’t he shown that he can keep a secret? No one knows his secret identity!

“The Batmobile will pick you up outside the Surh Complex,” Batman said, tapping the device on his gauntlet. “Batgirl, I’ll be tracking your progress home.”

“Sir, yes, sir!” you both chant in unison, hands up in salutes.

Jason swears he sees one of Bruce’s lenses twitch with irritation.

Normally he would argue about staying out later, but stakeouts are the most boring thing to have ever existed, especially when you’re not there. So he grapples off the roof in the direction of the complex, knowing instinctively that you’ll be close behind.

They parked the Batmobile a long way away, so as not to scare off the target they were watching. If it was to come roaring in at breakneck speed to pick Jason up, there would be no point in doing that. So he watches its slow, silent progress on his tracker screen. He has probably five minutes before it gets here.

That’s plenty of time to do what he’s been gearing up to do for the past week.

Jason’s palms are sweaty in his Robin gloves. He hopes you can’t see the sweat on his face. Just to be safe, he turns away and scrubs at his forehead before turning around. “So, Batgirl, I was thinking…”

“Yeah?”

Jason’s mouth goes dry when he meets your gaze. There’s something about your eyes that tugs at his brain. He must know you from somewhere.

“I was wondering if you wanted to—”

A gunshot drowns out the rest of Jason’s sentence.

“Batman!” you cry out. “Come on, Robin!”

The two of you sprint back to where you’d left Batman and find an empty roof. Judging by the sounds coming from the building across the street, he’d ended the stakeout and started the fight.

You and Jason swing through the window and land in the middle of a goon fight.

Twenty minutes later, exhausted and wincing from a good kick to the ribs, Batman sends you home. Jason’s knuckles will be bruised tomorrow, but otherwise he came out pretty unscathed. He doesn’t remember about the question he’d wanted to ask you until he wakes up the next morning, swearing and disappointed.

Oh well. There’s always next time.

(There isn’t a next time. There’s Felipe Garzona and being benched and Ethiopia and the Joker and his mother and a bomb.)

2.

He makes sure that his boots scuff against the roof when he lands.

You whirl around at the noise. The lenses of your mask widen at the sight of him, and before he knows it there’s a crossbow pointed at his face.

“I’m not here to fight,” he says, raising his hands.

You scoff. “Like I’ll believe anything that comes out of the mouth of the dude that shot me and dunked me in the Gotham River.”

Jason winces at the reminder. These days, he’s angry more often than he isn’t. But he’s tired of being angry, so he’s trying to make amends. “In my defense,” he says carefully, “you did shoot me first.”

“Blunt arrow,” you say shortly, waving the crossbow slightly. “Real bullet. And Gotham River water in my real bullet wound.”

“My bad?”

You snort. “You’re just lucky I didn’t contract anything. Don’t you know how filthy the water is?”

“I didn’t know it was you,” he admits. “I wouldn’t have—I didn’t know. You were my best—you know who I am, right?”

You nod.

“It was pretty stupid of me not to realize,” he says sheepishly. “I mean, Delphi? Pretty obvious you’re close with Oracle. But I wasn’t thinking…”

When he trails off, you just watch him, face blank and eyes hidden. He used to be able to read you like a book. Now he has no idea what you’re thinking.

Jason hates the domino you wear now. Its white lenses match the rest of the vigilantes, but they hide your eyes. Jason hasn’t seen your eyes in years. He doesn’t quite remember the shade, the shape—in the League, sometimes all he could hold on to was the memory of your eyes and your hair. He remembers you laughing after flipping in the air, some of your ruffled hair still caught in your mouth, and himself brushing it away.

How could he have known you were Delphi if he couldn’t see your eyes? He didn’t realize until he heard you scream when he pushed you.

By the time he dragged you out of the water, you were unconscious. Jason saw Nightwing, just a furious blue blur on his way to rescue you—honestly, sometimes Jason wonders if Dick and Babs hadn’t adopted you, based on the way they act like your parents—and ran. He wonders if you know he pulled you out and not Dick.

“I don’t know if you know—” You aren’t a part of the family like everyone else is. Jason doesn’t know why you keep yourself at a distance, but you act as if you don’t like Spoiler, which means Tim doesn’t like you. You keep everyone but Bruce, Dick, and Babs at arm’s length, and he doesn’t get it. As far as he knows, you don’t even like Cass, even though everyone likes Cass. Jason likes Cass. So he’s not sure if anyone’s told you yet— “I’m trying to make amends.”

Your lips twitch. “You’re doing an apology tour?”

“Uh, sure, I guess. And,” he says quickly before you can tell him to fuck off, “I brought these as a peace offering.”

You catch the bag out of thin air and, despite the circumstances, you laugh. For the first time since Jason landed on the roof, the crossbow lowers. “M&Ms? Really?”

“For old time’s sake.”

“Thanks,” you say grudgingly, and Jason’s heart jumps.

“So.” Jason thrusts out his hand. His heart beats a thousand times a second. “Friends again?”

He doesn’t want to be friends. He wants to ask if you loved him the way he loved you as children. He wants to ask if you could love him as an adult. He wants to ask you to spend the rest of your life with him.

But Jason’s a sack of shit that shot you in the stomach and kicked you off a bridge, so he doesn’t get that. He doesn’t even deserve your friendship, but he’s a selfish sack of shit, so he’ll beg for it anyway.

You sigh and heft the crossbow. Jason braces for an arrow—it’s only fair, after all, for you to shoot him after he shot you—but you lean it against your shoulder and hold out your hand.

“Friends again,” you agree.

3.

You’re dead.

Jason’s sure of it.

“Hood, please, listen to me,” pleads Red Robin, “Delphi’s not suited up tonight, there’s no way she was caught in the crossfire.”

His hands won’t stop shaking. Why won’t they stop shaking? He needs to call you. He doesn’t have your number. He doesn’t know your name. All he can do is page your superhero comm, again and again and again—

A hand clamps down on his shoulder: Nightwing. “Hood,” he says in a low, calm tone, “you need to put your rebreather on. Your helmet cracked and you’re breathing in—”

“Don’t touch me!” Jason shoves him away so hard he almost falls.

“B,” says Red Robin, touching the comm in his ear, “Hood’s compromised, I think we need your help.”

Jason’s heart is going to burst out of his chest if you don’t pick up. He doubles over, wheezing. He can’t breathe.

Someone’s arms loop between his, locking them behind his back, and someone else clamps something over Jason’s mouth. “Hood, please,” Nightwing pleads into his ear, “we’re just trying to help. You’re not thinking clearly.”

“No!” Jason writhes, throws his body weight back and forth, whips his head back and cracks it against Nightwing’s nose. His arms falter, and Jason wrenches away, pulling the thing off his face. It was probably laced with something, a chemical to put him down. “You’re compromised!” It’s the only reason he and Red Robin would try to keep Jason from you. They locked you up somewhere, they’re probably hurting you, Jason needs to find you but your tracker’s disabled.

He pages your superhero comm again and again and again—

It beeps, the line turning on, and your groggy voice says, “Hello?” like you’re answering the phone. Did you just wake up, or are you drugged?

“Where are you?” Jason demands.

“Hood?” you sound slightly more alert. “What’s wrong?”

“Tell me where you are. No, stay back!” That’s aimed at Red Robin, who’s trying to slip past Jason’s guard with his bō. He freezes when Jason pulls out his pistol.

“What?”

“They’re compromised,” Jason says in a rush. “What did they do to you? Where are you?”

There’s a pause, and then you ask, “Oracle, what’s going on?”

“No!” Jason shouts. She’s probably compromised too. No one is safe, he has to find you and get you out of Gotham—

“Hood’s breathing in fear toxin,” is Oracle’s calm, if terse, reply. “Apparently he’s convinced that everyone else is an enemy and that you’re in danger.”

“Hood,” you say soothingly. Then, faltering, “Jay—Jason—”

It’s the first time you’ve ever called him by his name.

“I’m safe, Jason,” you say. “I’m okay. I promise.”

“I need to see you,” Jason says. “I—” Need you, love you, can’t lose you. But he can’t get the words around his clumsy tongue. His throat swells at the thought of confessing to you. You’ll laugh and reject him and never want to see him again.

“Oracle,” you sound distraught, “I can’t leave.”

“I knew it,” Jason hisses. You’re being held hostage. “Where are you?”

“No, Jason, I promise it’s not what you think,” you say, and there are definitely other words after that, but Jason’s ears ring. He feels fuzzy, except for a slight sting in his neck. Jason pulls out a needle and stares at it, bewildered.

Batman looms in front of him. His mouth moves, but Jason just hears static. All he knows is that’s his dad, and his dad just sedated him, and he’s talking soothingly but Jason hates needles.

Jason slumps. Batman catches him, and even though he’s two hundred pounds and not a kid anymore, hefts him into his arms. A gloved hand smooths over Jason’s hair, the way Bruce used to comfort him when he had a nightmare, and Jason’s eyes close.

“He’s down, Delphi,” is the second-to-last thing he hears Oracle say. “Go back to sleep.”

Everything goes dark.

4.

Two days ago, Jason traced a large transfer of laundered money back to Roman Sionis. He doesn’t know what the man’s planning, but whatever it is, it can’t be good. He’s been staking out the man’s base of operations for hours, but no one’s come in or out. He wishes that you were here to make it slightly more bearable, but according to Oracle, you’re undercover for a couple days and can’t be reached.

By Jason.

Oracle, of course, can access you anytime.

Jason’s getting real sick of not knowing who you are. As adults, Batman shouldn’t still be governing who knows your secret identity and who doesn’t.

He watches people move around in the building. The microphone he attached to the window showing the room that seems to host the most action picks up mundane conversations. Apart from the occasional comment about a fake bill being obvious, he can’t glean the endgame.

Sionis, unfortunately, hasn’t made an appearance in the day and a half Jason’s been camped out.

Of course, as soon as Jason thinks that, a sleek black car pulls up in front of the building.

Jason checks to make sure his camera is recording. He zooms in slightly when Sionis steps out of the left side of the car.

A woman steps out of the right. Jason can’t tell much about her from this far, but she looks young, young enough to be Sionis’s daughter. Ugh. He really hopes that’s not Sionis’s new, young wife.

There’s an air about her that he can’t quite place, but it’s enough to let him know that she’s dangerous in some way. He zooms in on the side of her face that’s visible. This is a rogue agent he’s never encountered before.

Her shoulders stiffen. She turns to say something to Sionis, and as she does, her eyes sweep the skyline.

Jason ducks behind the camera, sweating. Did she see him? How did she know to look for him? He watches through the camera feed as she says something to Sionis. He puts a possessive hand on her back and ushers her inside, though not with a sense of urgency like he would if she’d just said that the Red Hood was staked out on the roof opposite their operation.

Jason stops the recording and rewinds. Yes, right there her eyes widened. She’d definitely seen him. There’s something oddly familiar about her, but Jason can’t put his finger on it.

Jason downloads the footage and taps his comm. “Oracle?”

Her response is immediate: “Yeah, Hood?”

“I’m sending a clip your way. Can you run facial recognition on this woman, see if we get any matches?”

A couple minutes of silence go by, on his end and hers. Did the woman truly say nothing? Why wouldn’t she?

Oracle’s voice cuts into his paranoia: “What are you doing with Sionis?” Oddly enough, she sounds—defensive, or angry, or something he can’t place.

“What we always do with Sionis,” he responds. “Shut down his plots.”

“Listen,” Oracle says. “This one is handled. Trust me. You should focus on something else.”

Jason frowns. “Who’s handling it?” Tim would have said something. “Is it Cass?” She’s always held a grudge against Sionis after what he did to Stephanie.

“Yeah,” says Oracle, lying.

So who’s handling it?

Jason gets his answer when the mic picks up a new voice, presumably the woman he’d watched walk inside with Sionis. The man’s sexist enough that he rarely employs any woman goons. She laughs at something someone says, then makes a remark about Central City’s incompetent police work. Her voice is lyrical, light, and devastatingly familiar.

The voice, and the familiarity—Jason looks at the screen, and those eyes—

Jason makes a strangled noise.

“Hood,” Oracle warns. “Don’t.”

“Who is she?” he demands, even though he already knows the answer.

“Drop it,” Oracle snaps.

“You know I can’t. She’s in there with Sionis, O. She’s not safe.” He still remembers what happened to Stephanie. The haunted look in her eyes.

Roman Sionis is an unpredictable sadist, and Jason won’t leave you alone in there with him. It doesn’t matter what plot he’s up to if you and Jason arrest him, right?

It’s a simple change of plans. What could go wrong?

Jason packs up the recording equipment and checks to make sure he has all his weapons. Then he takes a deep breath.

And shoots the window.

He fires the grapple and shatters the glass feet-first, landing awkwardly with a skid in the middle of the room. About fifteen goons, Roman Sionis, and you stare at him with shock.

Several things happen at once:

Roman Sionis drags you behind one of the desks the goons are counting counterfeit bills on, Jason and the goons draw their guns in unison, and someone sets off a smoke bomb.

Bullets fly blindly. Jason aims as best he can, making sure to keep far away from the desk you’re hiding behind. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea, but it’s too late to back out now.

People shout. Someone screams with pain. They aren’t you, so Jason doesn’t care. Then you do scream, and Sionis yells, “Stop firing, you idiots!”

The stream of bullets ceases.

When the smoke clears, Jason finds himself in, oddly enough, a multiple-way standoff.

Someone whimpers on the ground, clutching a shoulder with a bullet wound in it. Sionis is unscathed, holding a gun not at Jason, but at a man with his arm around your neck and a gun to the side of your head. Jason’s heart jumps to his throat. He takes his gun off Sionis and aims it at the man, but with you acting as a human shield, there’s no good angle. The goons not hit during the skirmish can’t decide where to aim between Jason and the traitor in their midst.

“What the fuck are you doing, Brady?” asks Sionis.

“The Bats made us,” the man whimpers. “I’m not going down for this!”

“You take your hands off her,” snarls a blonde man in a suit. He’s ruffled from the skirmish, but otherwise unharmed. Odd to be so protective over you, but you are important to the boss, apparently. What kind of cover have you built with these people, for Sionis to level a gun at the man threatening your life?

“You’re a Bat now, Hood,” says Brady. “You wouldn’t let an innocent die, now would you?” He snorts. “Well. As innocent as this one can be.” And what is that supposed to mean?

The hand holding the gun to your head quivers. If his finger twitches just a bit too much—

Jason says calmly, “I’ll give you to the count of three to let her go. You won’t like what happens if I make it to four.”

“No. No way.” He shakes his head. “Here’s how this is gonna go: I’m gonna take the little girl—” He shakes you and your eyes gleam with rage, but whatever cover you’re using must not have combat skills. You could easily throw him over your shoulder, but you don’t. “And I’m gonna walk out of here. And you two are gonna stay right here. I’ll let her go in three blocks, but if I see even a hint of either one of you following me—boom.”

“That isn’t a smart idea, Brady,” says Sionis. “You know I’ll hunt you down for that. Now, I can chalk all this up to a mistake when you panicked at the sight of the Red Hood, but continue to threaten her life and it’ll be the last thing you do.”

Brady’s mouth trembles. So does his hand.

You grab it, pull down, and twist.

In a perfect world, the bullet would burrow into the floor. In a less perfect world, it would graze you.

In this world, you have Brady’s arm in both your hands, and he fires directly into your stomach.

You make the same punched-out gasp as when Jason shot you. It’s a sound he never wanted to hear again.

The shot is deafening. The mingled sound of Jason and Sionis firing at his skull are even more so.

Brady crumples to the ground. You don’t. The gun clatters out of your hands, and they go to your middle. You look up, bewildered, as blood starts to leak out of the hole in your abdomen. It covers your hands, so dark it looks black.

“No!”

Jason crosses the room in three strides, but Sionis is closer. He pulls up your shirt to take a look. It’s just a small hole, but it was shot at such a close range—

“No exit wound,” he says calmly, like you’re not bleeding out. He stabilizes you with a hand on your spine when you wobble. You’re deathly pale already, eyes unfocused. “You’re going to be alright.”

“She needs to go to a hospital,” Jason says. Oh, God, you’re shot again. It’s his fault again.

“I have my own doctors,” says Sionis. “Samuel, get Dr. Kriezak on the line. Tell him to prepare for emergency surgery.” The blonde man nods and dials immediately. “Now, are you going to arrest me, or are you going to let me save her life?”

What is she to you? Jason wants to ask, but he doesn’t have time.

“I know a better one,” he says.

Sionis snorts. “I guarantee you do not—what are you doing?”

Jason scoops you up into his arms. Your head lolls, but your eyes are open. That’s a good sign. “Stay conscious,” he orders.

Sionis levels his gun at Jason. “Why does everyone want to kidnap my daughter today?”

Daughter?

Jason hurls a Batarang. Sionis ducks, and in his distraction Jason leaps out the window.

You groan faintly when he lands on the roof. Jason taps his comm and says frantically, “Oracle, I need help.”

“What happened?” she asks immediately.

“Delphi’s shot.” Babs makes an involuntary sound. “Abdomen. I need emergency transport to the Cave. Fastest—”

“The Batmobile’s below you,” she interrupts. “I called it as soon as you decided to be an idiot.”

Jason looks down. True to her word, there it is, looking incongruous in the daylight. “Oh, thank God.”

“How bad is it?” Oracle asks when you’re situated and autopilot is on.

“Not too bad,” Jason says, voice higher than usual. You’re still bleeding. He packs gauze on the wound, then ties a bandage around your abdomen as tightly as possible. You’re still bleeding. He presses down on the wound until you groan again. You’re responsive, still. Good.

“Hey, hey,” Jason coos, brushing the hair away from your face like he used to when you were children. Your eyes are closed. “It’s going to be okay, all right? Delphi, can you hear me?” He taps your cheek until your eyes flutter open again. “There’s those pretty eyes.” How could he ever let the precise shade and shape fade in his memory? “Stay with me, okay?” he begs.

For a moment your gaze sharpens. You recognize him.

“I need you,” he confesses. “I—I—”

You pass out.

5.

DELPHI (AGENT)

IDENTITY: SIONIS, Y/N

RELATION TO SIONIS, ROMAN: DAUGHTER

Beneath that is your age, date of birth, contact information, and blood type.

Jason stares at your file on the Batcomputer screen until his eyes burn. One of the most encrypted files on the Batcomputer, hidden behind about fifty ghost files and labeled ‘Catwoman surveillance footage.’ Of course no one found it. None of Bruce’s children would dare look at that file.

It wasn’t a cover.

This whole time, you’ve been the Black Mask’s daughter.

Hours later, Alfred puts a gentle hand on Jason’s shoulder and informs him that the surgery is over. You’re stable. You’ll survive.

He collapses in the chair by your cot in the medbay. Somehow, despite the utter panic that clouds his thoughts, Jason falls asleep.

He wakes to the sound of people muttering and groans. His head aches. When he lifts it, even the dimmed Cave’s lights hurt his eyes.

Sometime during his sleep, his hand found yours. Yours is cold and limp, but the heart monitor steadily beeps to continually assert the fact of your life.

Steph and Tim stand at the foot of your bed, whispering to each other. Dick and Babs share a cot pressed right up to yours, faces tense. Babs in particular looks furious. The tirade she’ll give Jason soon is well-deserved.

As soon as they see Jason wake, Steph says, “She saved my life. When Black Mask had me. She let me go.”

“Did you know?” Jason can’t even muster up any anger.

She shrugs. “I guessed.”

Jason makes eye contact with Tim. “Did you know?”

Tim shrugs. “I had to know.” He’s as obsessive as Bruce.

“So everyone knew but me.”

The hand in Jason’s tenses. A hoarse voice croaks, “You knew?”

Jason whirls around, but looking at you is like staring into the sun; he can hardly bear your pallor and exhausted air. Dick and Babs bolt upright.

Dick exclaims your name, hands fluttering around. “What can I do? What do you need? More painkillers?”

You’re awake and staring at Stephanie, completely ignoring Dick’s fussing.

She shrugs. “You have a distinct fighting style. I wasn’t sure… I always wondered what happened to you. After you helped me. You didn’t patrol for a couple weeks.”

Your brow furrows. You look supremely uncomfortable. “I was fine.” At everyone’s disbelieving looks, you exclaim, “I was!” then wince.

“Lay back,” Jason commands without quite looking at you.

“I know how to handle him,” you say, pushing back against Jason’s hand as he tries to get you to lay down. “I’m sorry—stop it, Jay—that you were there so long. I got there as fast as I could.”

“I know,” Steph says softly.

“Pillows,” Dick says abruptly.

Jason goes to get pillows. Wincing, you sit up so he can put them behind you. You sit back with a relieved sigh, now upright and able to look them all in the eye. He slumps into his chair, scowling, ignoring you when you try to catch his eye.

Tim says, “That’s why you always kept your distance. You thought we’d hate you when we found out.”

“Well, don’t you?” You look around at them, confused. “I’ve been reaping the benefits of my father’s cruelty for years. No matter what I—what anyone does, the justice system won’t prosecute him, and Arkham can’t hold him.” You’re heated now. “I could have stopped it all. I could have killed him at any time, but I’m a coward. There. That’s why you should hate me.”

“He’s your father,” Dick says softly.

You look away. “That doesn’t matter.”

Babs touches your hand. You let out a shuddering breath. “Roman Sionis may be your father,” she says softly, “but you’ve been risking your life to make Gotham safer for years. We wouldn’t have stopped half as many of his plots without your help.”

You’re saved from responding by Bruce staggering into the Batcave, haggard and rumpled. “Why is Black Mask threatening to wage war on me?” He spots you, unmasked and obviously fresh out of surgery, and says, “Oh.”

“I have to go back.” You wince, sitting up again.

“No,” Jason says immediately, looking at Bruce.

“I have to,” you insist. “People will die if I don’t.”

“He’s a monster,” Jason tells Bruce. “You can’t send her back there.”

“Jason.” Your hand touches his. It’s like an electric shock. “I’ll be fine.” A touch of bitterness enters your voice when you say, “I’m a very well-kept pet.”

No matter where Jason looks, he sees no support. For the first time since you woke up, he looks at you. Voice cracking, he says, “But I—”

Everyone looks away.

Jason’s a coward.

“I almost lost you.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I can’t.”

You blink. Your mouth parts, but nothing comes out. Jason thinks that might be enough. You might understand without him saying the words. Hope swells in his chest like a bubble.

“I’m sorry.”

The bubble of hope pops.

You look to Bruce. “Will you take me home?”

+1

For two months, you’re radio silent. No one, not even Babs, hears from you. The only reason Jason hasn’t lost his mind is that he checks every cemetery’s records in Gotham daily. No one matching your description has died in the last two months.

Of course, that’s almost worse. Who knows what Sionis is putting you through?

All this time, all these years, Jason was sending you home to a monster. He can’t stop kicking himself.

He assumes the knock on the door is one of his siblings running from Bruce’s incessant mother henning. Jason isn’t prepared at all to open it and see your face. Well. Covered by a scarf and big sunglasses, looking like the rich girl he’s discovered you are. But your face.

You smile tremulously. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Jason says dumbly.

“Can I come in?”

He’s in the middle of the doorway. “Oh! Yeah.” He moves out of the way and shuts it behind you, doing a quick sweep of the hall as he does, just to make sure no one followed you.

Once inside, you pull off the scarf and sunglasses, and there you are.

Your bare face. He’s only seen it twice before. The first was from far away. The second was just after you nearly died and looked like it.

He feels like a bolt of lightning just struck him dead. You’re more than stunning, you’re striking. You suck up all the light in the room.

Jason feels lightheaded.

You cough.

Why is this so awkward?

“Hi,” you say again. “Um, I got your address from—well, nevermind. I wanted to let you know that I’m fine; Babs told me that you’ve been pretty frazzled. Dad had me on pretty tight lockdown while I recovered, but see—” You pull up the hem of your shirt. Just the flash of your bare midsection is enough to make his mouth go dry. “Dad has some pretty good plastic surgeons on standby. The skin grafts didn’t even leave a seam.”

It’s true. Your skin is completely unmarked, even after years of crimefighting. Jason wonders how you explained it to your father every time. If Sionis even knew.

Jason, on the other hand, is riddled with scars and pockmarks where he fished bullets or shrapnel out himself and didn’t bother to waste the time stitching the wounds up.

Next to you, he looks like Frankenstein’s monster.

You take a deep breath. “I thought you should hear this from me. In person.”

“Wait, before you say anything.” Jason had a lot of time to think over the last two months. He can’t afford any more cowardice. He can’t afford any more hesitation.

“No, really, let me go first.”

“Y/N, if you don’t let me say my piece, I’m afraid I’ll chicken out. Please.”

You close your eyes as if pained. “Jason…”

“You’ve always been my best friend,” he rushes out. “But—and you don’t have to feel the same, but what we do is dangerous, and I can’t keep putting it off—”

“Jason, please—”

He raises his voice and plows on. “You’re the most important person in my life, you’ve always been the most important person in my life, and you deserve to know how I feel about you. Y/N, I—”

“I’m engaged,” you say quickly.

The words don’t compute. “What?”

You reach into the pocket of your coat and pull out a ring with a hugely impractical diamond. You slip it onto your ring finger. “I’m engaged. I’ve been engaged for two years.”

Jason feels like you kicked him in the chest. He would rather that you had. “What are you talking about?”

“It was arranged between our fathers,” you say, twisting your scarf in your hands. “They wanted the wedding immediately, but I convinced them that I needed an education first.” You let out a slightly hysterical laugh. “No idea how I got them to agree to that.”

Jason narrows his eyes. “It’s that blond man, isn’t it?” Of course he wasn’t a regular goon. He was wearing a suit!

“Yes,” you say, still twisting your scarf. “Samuel. He’s a decent man—”

“He works with Black Mask.”

“So do I,” you say sharply, “and anyway, it’s his father, really. I don’t want you to worry about me, all right? Samuel is kind. He’ll be a good husband.”

“Not for you!”

“Please, you’re making this harder.” A seam pops in the scarf, and you look down, surprised. “Jason, think about it. I know what you were going to say, and that would make things so much worse. Be rational. If I ran away from my father, I couldn’t stay in Gotham.”

“We could go—”

“You can’t leave! These people need you! You care about Crime Alley, you want to do good for the people that live there. If you ran away with me, you’d regret it forever, and I don’t want a marriage filled with resentment.” You brace your shoulders. “I can’t sneak out as Delphi anymore, not with Samuel sleeping next to me.”

Another man sleeping next to you. Jason can hardly bear to think about it.

“But I can do work from the inside. I’ll do my best. But I can’t see you anymore.”

“Why?” Jason asks weakly.

“Haven’t you figured it out yet? I may be a liar and a criminal, but I’m not a cheater. I won’t cross that line. And I would, if I’m around you. Or I would want to. But if I have to get married, it’s going to be a good marriage. I won’t be unfaithful.”

Jason’s mind works a mile a minute, but he can’t find a way around this. There has to be a way. “I should have said something sooner. You don’t know how long—”

“Probably as long as I for you.” You stare at the floor. “Goodbye, Jason.”

“Wait,” Jason says desperately when you turn to leave. “Y/N. Don’t go. I—I love you.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, Jason realizes just how easy they are to say. That he should have been saying them for years. He should have told you every minute of every day: I love you, I love you, I love you.

“I love you too,” you say softly. “But one day you’ll realize that you’ve forgotten all about me, and I hope that day comes soon. I want you to be happy, Jason.”

“You make me happy.”

You make a sound that’s half-sob, half-laugh. “You’re the only friend I ever had,” you confess.

“Please don’t do this.”

He watches your back expand and deflate with your breathing. Your hand rests on the doorknob, but you don’t turn it. “Jason, close your eyes.”

He can’t watch you walk out of his life forever. He closes his eyes.

Your footsteps are soundless, so the hand that winds through his hair is a shock. You pull down, and puffs of air wash over his face when you murmur, “Just once.”

A pair of warm lips press chastely against his own.

On instinct, Jason’s hands rise to cup your cheeks, but you slip between his fingers like a ghost.

By the time Jason opens his eyes, you’re gone.

DC Taglist

@evalynanne @mismatchsposts @cliosunshine @fictionalwhor3 @bellathecatastrophe @lonely-star2044 @flanhog @pastelsweaters-and-bubble-t

I had actually so much fun writing this I wrote it all in one day. If you enjoyed reading it, maybe check out my ko-fi to help me out while I slog through grad school?

[rambling-at-midnight]

Iced Out

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

Summary: Jason's dating an avid hockey fan, and when your team faces off against the New Jersey Devils, the rivalry can spread all the way to your apartment. Too bad Jason doesn't care about the game. He only cares about getting you in his arms.

Word count: 2k of pure fluff

Your side of the bed is cold.

Jason’s hand feels around the mattress. He groans when the blind search leads to nothing, and prepares to begin the arduous task of wrenching open one eyelid to pinpoint his target, reel you in, and hold you in his arms as long as he can convince you to stay in bed. You’re a restless sleeper, so did you just shift over during the night?

Jason’s hand meets air: the end of the bed.

His eyes fly open, and just as quickly shut. He blinks against the morning light squeezing through the curtains at just the right angle to hit him straight on and, grumbling wordlessly, turns over to haul you against him. It’s his day off, dammit, and he’s determined to sleep in. With you.

Where are you?

The panic icing Jason’s veins fades as soon as he registers the sounds in the kitchen: the radio, just low enough that he can’t hear the words, just a steady stream of white noise; the stove, and whatever is on it hissing as it cooks; someone’s slippered footsteps softly scraping against the floor as they walk.

Jason knows many things. Many, many things. Such as: the floor of your apartment is vinyl, which you consider too cold even during the summer, so you wear slippers around the house. Such as: you don’t wear the slippers if you’re only walking for a brief moment, like dashing to the bathroom or from the bed to the front door when you realize you’re about to be late for work.

Jason realizes something terrible.

You’re awake. For the day.

There go his hopes for sleeping in while cradling you in his arms. Because of your busy schedules, it’s a luxury you two aren’t often afforded, and only during periods of light sleep—you’re kicky when you reach REM, and as soon as you’re fully awake and raring to go for the day, you can’t fall asleep again.

But Jason is nothing but adaptable, so he prepares himself to leave the warm bubble beneath his blanket pile and venture into the cold unknowns for a warm cup of coffee and an even warmer hug.

As soon as he shuffles out of the bedroom and realizes what you’re wearing, Jason is forced to accept the fact that he can get one, but not the other.

At least not for a couple hours.

Jason is a born and bred New Jerseyan Gothamite, attitude and reckless abandon for traffic laws included. You aren’t. You were lured to Gotham by the Wayne Scholarship, which pays for someone’s full tuition to Gotham University, regardless of GPA or financial status, as long as they sign a legal agreement stating that they won’t become supervillains. Usually the horror of living in Gotham City outweighs even the most desperate student’s desperation, so it’s still not wildly popular for students outside New Jersey. Still, it lured you in, and Jason had never been so grateful to Bruce in his life.

Unfortunately, because you weren’t born in Jersey, you were raised slightly differently than Jason. You root for different sports teams, for example.

Like hockey.

Mainly hockey.

Jason doesn’t even care about the New Jersey Devils. He doesn’t watch hockey games, he’s never felt the urge to pick up a stick and bat a puck around, and he certainly doesn’t follow the NHL like some people follow it.

As understanding as you are of Jason’s busy schedule, that he has to cancel or postpone plans constantly, and his vaguely criminal activities, the one thing you’ve never understood about him is that he doesn’t care at all about the Devils, because you’re probably the biggest fan in the world of your home state’s hockey team.

Their logo is large on the beanie on your head and the scarf wrapped around your neck. The name of your favorite player is written in capital letters across the back of your jersey. Your heating isn’t broken; in fact, under all the layers, you’re flushed and a little sweaty.

It’s a little ridiculous. Jason’s lips twitch with fond amusement. He tries to give you a kiss on the cheek while he says, “Good morning,” but you twist out of the way, eyes glinting.

“No, you take that back,” you say. “It’s a bad morning. A terrible morning.”

“Oh?” Jason asks, trying to play dumb. “What’s wrong?”

“We’re at war,” is your serious response.

“Are we?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I wasn’t aware that you’d issued such a declaration.”

You tsk and shake your head. “You should have known when you woke up.”

“Oh, was that what our cold, empty bed meant?” Jason tries to pout for sympathy, but you roll your eyes and gesture to the stove with your spatula.

“Scrambled eggs and bacon, if you want them.”

Jason’s over two hundred pounds of muscle and eats like it. Of course he wants them. He forgoes a plate and eats right out of the pan. Mouth full of steaming hot eggs, he asks, “What time is the game today?”

“It’s a noon game. Which is terrifying. Sometimes the boys don’t lock in for the noon games.”

“I’m sure they’ll do great,” Jason offers, which earns him a glare.

“They’d better!” you exclaim like you’re threatening Jason.

He checks the time: almost ten. Good. There’ll only be about two hours of you twitching with anxious energy before the game starts. It’s funny how seriously you take it, except when the Devils are playing your team, because the rivalry infects your apartment and every so often Jason catches you glaring at him as if he’s a Devils player himself. “C’mere,” he invites, holding out an arm because he wants to hug you.

You shake your head and wrap your arms around your body as if you’re cold, even though that couldn’t be further from the truth with the jersey, beanie, and scarf. “I don’t fraternize with the enemy.”

“You sleep with the enemy every night,” Jason points out.

“You’re not the enemy those nights,” is your response. “But you are now.”

“You know what, I hope the Devils win today.”

You let out a scandalized gasp. “How dare you!”

“And I bet your favorite player doesn’t score.”

“Jason!”

“We’re gonna get a shutout,” Jason continues. “And we’re going to score on you eight times.”

“You’re going to eat your words.”

“Make me.”

You’re face-to-face with him now, and for a second Jason thinks you’ll crack and kiss him. You’re tempted; your eyes dart down to his lips, and you wet yours instinctively, but then you look away and take a couple steps back. “We’ll see who’s laughing in a couple hours, mister.”

“Yes, we will,” replies Jason, though he doesn’t care. It’s just cute to see you so excited.

Because you cooked, he washes the dishes once he’s finished eating. You head to the living room to read on the couch while you wait for the game to start. Your cat immediately jumps into your lap and starts to knead while your fingers scratch up and down its spine.

Jason’s insides feel warm at the sight. Even one year ago, he never would have thought something like this was attainable for him. He loves the domesticity of it.

After the dishes are done, he grabs a book of his own and sits on the opposite end of the couch, though normally he’d sit next to you so that you could lean against him. You like pretending to have a rivalry, so he’ll play along.

As soon as the puck drops, the morning’s tranquility breaks. Your mouth runs a mile a minute, commenting on everything that happens on the ice, contradicting with the commenters as if they can hear you, and when your favorite player scores a goal, you jump to your feet and crow with victory, displacing the cat, who slinks over to Jason with an air of indifference. He’s the spare human, but he doesn’t mind. Just like you’re pretending to feud with Jason, he’s pretty sure the cat’s pretending to be so indifferent.

“Did you see that, Jay?” you turn around, your face glowing with excitement. And all the layers you’re wearing in the relatively warm apartment. “First goal of the game! And in the first two minutes!”

“I saw,” Jason says. “You’re off to a good start.”

“You bet your ass we are,” you say. “In your face!” You pump a fist at the ceiling.

Jason pets the cat and tries not to smile.

The game is exciting. The Devils score twice in the second period, putting them in the lead, and your anxiety ratchets up until your team scores again in the beginning of the third, making the game a tie. That actually ratchets up your anxiety more, and Jason has to lean over and take your nails out of your mouth when you start to gnaw on them. First the scarf comes off, then the hat, but you stubbornly refuse to remove the jersey. “It’s good luck,” you insist. “Almost every time I wear this, we win.”

Jason knows a thing or two about superstition, but he lets it go.

In the last five minutes of the third, the Devils score, and you gasp and sprawl over the couch as if shot. Your nerves are contagious; Jason scratches the cat faster until it swats at him. He wants the Devils to lose because it’ll delight you, so he’s invested in the game, and when your team scores in the last minute of the last period, he exclaims with you.

The game goes to overtime.

Your team has a breakaway and nails a shot into the right corner of the net, slipping just past the goalie’s glove. The light behind the goal turns red. The buzzer sounds.

You jump to your feet and scream as if you’re in the stadium.

Jason winces at the thought of the noise complaint you’ll certainly get later, but it’s worth it: you whirl around, laughing with victory, and launch yourself at him, displacing the cat once more.

Finally, finally, you’re in Jason’s arms, and he holds you tight until you wheeze. You pull back and ask breathlessly, “Did you see that, Jay? We won.”

“You beat us fair and square,” Jason agrees fondly. He pushes a stray lock of hair out of your face.

“The best team won.”

“I’m not sure about that,” Jason teases, just because he knows it’ll wind you up. You wrinkle your nose at him. Quickly, he says, “How about a consolation prize for the losing team?”

The energy in the room changes. Coyly, you ask, “What did you have in mind?” and look at Jason through your lashes. You’re warm in his arms—you make him warm in a way he never is without you—and Jason’s hands sneak beneath the jersey. You jump sharply when his cold hands touch the warm, soft skin of your sides and back, and Jason chuckles. “How about a kiss?”

A shiver runs down your spine; Jason can feel it. You tilt your head and shift, so that you’re not sitting in his lap, but rather kneeling in it. Jason has to look up at you now; his throat goes dry. “I’m not sure that Devils fans deserve kisses.”

“I learned my lesson,” Jason says. “Promise. Tried-and-true fan of your team, don’t worry.”

“Hmm.” You tilt your head. Your eyes glint. “I’m not sure that I believe you. But…” You drag out the word as you carefully arrange your arms over his shoulders and sit back down. Jason lets out a long breath at the weight of your hips cradled between his own.

You twirl one of his curls in a finger, and Jason’s pretty sure he died and his heaven is this: you, your feel and scent and weight, all around and surrounding him until there’s nothing else.

“I think I’ll make an exception. Just for this one special Devils fan.”

The hand in his hair pulls him down. Jason’s lips are chapped, and you’re smiling too wide for it to be a real kiss. He pulls back, clears his throat, says “Good game,” and goes back in for more.

DC Taglist

@evalynanne @mismatchsposts @cliosunshine @fictionalwhor3 @bellathecatastrophe @lonely-star2044 @flanhog @pastelsweaters-and-bubble-t

If there's anything you all want, let me know! And if you like what you just read, considering checking out my ko-fi to help me out with groceries and rent :)

[rambling-at-midnight]

Where can I read part one of Pros and Cons? The link isn’t working :<

whoops thanks for pointing out the link error! that’s been fixed in my masterlist :)

[rambling-at-midnight]

Whatever You Need

Request: Jason helping reader through their period

Pairing: Jason Todd x afab!Reader

Summary: Your period takes you by surprise. Luckily, Jason's there to take care of you.

Word count: 1.6k

Sorry this took so long... I started four different Jason fics, which means none were finished. But they should be finished and posted sometime soon.

Sprawled on the couch in your pajamas, watching an episode of The Great British Bake-Off that you’ve seen at least twice before, you feel the first twinge of pain in your abdomen. You don’t think much of it at first, which is a mistake. There are still two days before your period is supposed to start, and you ate ice cream after dinner even though you’re lactose intolerant and ran out of Lact-Aid a couple days ago. You figure you’ll head to the bathroom to deal with the consequences of your actions if the need arises, but you’re too comfortable to move when the weighted blanket on top of you has a name and that name is Jason Todd.

You’ve been on bedrest (or couchrest) for the past week and a half after a bad fall in the rain during patrol twisted your ankle. It swelled to twice its normal size. The upside was that it happened during winter break so you didn’t have to make the choice between limping to class or skipping. The downside was that you wanted your superhero persona to have more of a presence with Gotham’s goons. As a part-time hero, unlike Jason and most of his family, you get much less respect when suited up than, say, the Red Hood.

As a contestant’s dough fails to rise and they begin to have a breakdown on the screen, your stomach cramps again.

Sometimes, if you ignore it, the pain will go away. You’re too comfortable to get up now.

To distract yourself, you run your fingers through Jason’s messy curls. He doesn’t have a wash routine, so they’re always frizzier than Dick’s, but you’ve never minded. He’s devastatingly handsome either way. At least like this he looks a little bit less like something come to life straight out of your fantasies. He’s just a little more real.

Jason hums sleepily and pushes his head into your hands, a bit like a cat nuzzling at you. It’s been a lazy day for you both. You’ve been in the same position on the couch for hours—you on your back, half-watching the show, half-dozing, and him on his stomach in the cradle of your legs, head pillowed on your stomach, not even pretending to watch the show, judging by his closed eyes.

Your stomach cramps again, and this time you feel it—the ache even lower, and a wet heat blooming between your thighs. “Oh, fuck me.”

Jason takes a minute to respond, still interested in your fingers that make his entire body tingle when you massage in just the right way. Then he cranes his neck up, brow furrowed and bottom lip jutting out with his confused frown. “Okay?” He starts to sit up, hands reaching for the hem of your shirt, but you draw your legs up and out from under him and roll off the couch.

“No, not literally,” you say through gritted teeth. “Fuck—did I stain the cushion?” It was no big loss—you’d found the couch on the side of the road and Jason helped you bring it up to your apartment and sanitize it—but a bloodstain would stand out on the light brown color.

“Oh,” he says with realization as you run to the bathroom and slam the door behind you. “The couch is good!” he calls.

Your pants aren’t. It looks like someone died between your legs. You’ve always had heavy periods, especially the first couple days, accompanied by strong cramps. If you get ahead of them and take pain meds, they’re not too bad. Sometimes you can even patrol. But playing catch-up with ibuprofen is a recipe for disaster.

The rest of the day is going to suck.

Because you always feel gross when you’re on your period, and because no amount of wipes would fully clean up the mess between your legs, you hop into the shower and turn up the heat until your skin is bright pink. Jason pops in for a second to drop off a change of underpants and sweats, then ducks out just as quickly.

Turning off the water starts the race against time. As quickly as you can, you apply your preferred hygiene product before any more blood can leak down your leg. Then you towel off and shrug on the new clothes. You still feel icky, but the new clothes and shower helped slightly.

Something sizzles in the kitchen when you open the bathroom door.

“Hey, honey,” says Jason without turning around, standing in front of the stove. He points at the table. “Meds and water are right there. How are you feeling?”

“Ugh,” is your response. You down the pills and almost set the glass back on the table, but at his insistent look, finish it off. Hydration helps with cramps as well.

“You’re two days early.”

“Well, I haven’t been patrolling. Exercise changes can throw my cycle out of whack.” You sniff. “What are you making? It smells good.”

“Chicken stir fry.” You peek into the pan and see broccoli, bell peppers, and a couple other vegetables frying with the chicken. The covered pan behind it, you know without looking, contains rice. “I also have ginger tea brewing.”

All of it, every part of the meal, is meant to help reduce your symptoms and pain.

You can’t help it. How is he always so thoughtful? You throw your arms around Jason’s middle and squeeze. So he can keep stirring the food, he shifts until you’re tucked beneath one arm. His hair is in complete disarray from your fingers like he just walked through a tornado. When he notices your gaze, red colors his cheeks and he flattens his hair down self-consciously.

You press a kiss to his shoulder, the highest place you can reach without stretching.

“Go sit down,” he pretends to scold.

In response, you lean into him, heavier and heavier, until he’s practically carrying you. Jason doesn’t even blink at the added weight.

“I plugged in your heating pad,” he says. “It’s right by the couch.” Another thing right next to the couch is a coffee table he stole from the manor when he was pissed at Bruce. On top of it is a bar of dark chocolate and a freshly-washed bowl of your favorite berries.

You kiss his shoulder again. Jason kisses the top of your head, then nudges you away with his chin. “Go. Sit down. Rest your ankle and your uterus.”

“That is not how it works,” you say, mirth in your voice.

“It’s how I think it works,” he mumbles.

When the food is done, he brings two bowls over. You lift your legs and he slips underneath them. He uses your shins on his thighs as a makeshift table, balancing the bowl between them, and absentmindedly rubs your weaker ankle with the hand not holding his spoon.

The two of you eat in comfortable silence as The Great British Bake-Off plays. You finish first, and as soon as he sets his bowl down, you sit up slightly and make grabby hands at him. “C’mere.”

Jason pretends to roll his eyes, but judging by the line of kisses he trails from your wrist to the inside of your elbow as he lies down, he doesn’t mind your bossiness too much.

You shiver at every brush of his lips against the sensitive skin of your forearm. It’s almost enough to distract you from the cramping that’s beginning in your abdomen again—a cramping that eases slightly when he’s atop you again, resting the gentle pressure of his weight on your stomach. Warm, fed, and with his weight on you, is it any wonder you fall asleep?

You’re only woken by Jason’s gentle hand shaking you, telling you that it’s been eight hours since you last applied your feminine hygiene product and you need to change it. You’re tired and sore and cranky, but as soon as you blink your eyes open he has pain medication and water for you to take.

You do so in the bathroom in a daze and tumble into your shared bed, tugging Jason in with you. He goes down easily, using his huge, warm form to surround you with his easy, comforting scent. You left the heating pad on the couch, but the thick arm Jason winds around your stomach does the job well enough, and you drift back to sleep quickly, never fully awake in the first place.

The next morning, you wake to an aching back and stained sheets.

You stare up at the ceiling and swear, which unfortunately wakes Jason, who lifts his head and stares at you, one eye still crusted with sleep. His curls are in wild disarray, one side flattened from the pillow and the other on end as if he’s been spending his spare time sticking forks in electrical sockets.

If the cramps have gotten to your spine already, then the next few days are going to be hell. And this was a nice pair of sheets! The blood had better wash out.

Jason grunts and lowers his head. “Everything we own is bloodstained, honey. Though usually it’s mine.”

You leave him in bed. Your hair feels way too greasy, and your skin feels tacky, and even after a half-hour shower, you still don’t feel great.

As soon as you step out of the bathroom, Jason is there with chocolate-chip pancakes he made himself, accompanied by a fresh bowl of fruit and more meds.

Emotion rises in your throat. You want to tell him so much, like that you love him even though you haven’t said it, or that you can’t fathom going through your period on your own anymore, but all that comes out is, “You’re perfect. You know that? You really don’t have to do all this—or stay home from patrol for me.”

Jason tousles his messy curls and shrugs. “Well, I’m gonna anyway. You need me, and I’m here for you. Whatever you need.”

DC Taglist

@evalynanne @mismatchsposts @cliosunshine @fictionalwhor3 @bellathecatastrophe @lonely-star2044 @flanhog @pastelsweaters-and-bubble-t

Let me know if there's anything you want to see from me!

[rambling-at-midnight]

hey i love reading your work! i just got done with going through your dc jason todd master list and was wondering if you could write something where jason supports afab reader through terrible period cramps? like just really debilitating pain for a week and he’s so fluffy and loving and supportive of reader?

thankyou and i hope you have a great day/night!!

hi!! thanks for your request, i have just started working on it so something should be up in about 3-4 days!

[rambling-at-midnight]

Just binged all your Jason Todd works and just gotta say woah!!! Your writing is so well done, it's such a pleasure to read! I read one and had to read all of it !

Thank you so much!! Reviews like this are what keep me going 🥰😌

[rambling-at-midnight]

i love love loveee how you write jason!!! you write such a great dynamic between him n reader… your fics are some of the best i’ve ever read <3 i dont really have a particular request i’m just excited for anything you write for jay lol

I’m so glad you like the Jason x reader dynamic! I feel pretty comfortable writing Jason in gen fics but him interacting with reader can be tricky. It’s a fun exercise to stretch my metaphorical writing legs! I’m glad you’ve enjoyed so far and hope you continue to 😊

[rambling-at-midnight]

When the Truth Comes Out

Request: Reader asks, "So, when are you going to ask me to marry you?" I hope I did your prompt justice!

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

Summary: It’s been three and a half years since Jason asked you out, and he knows you’re the one. He knows every part of you, the good and bad, and loves it all. The problem is that you don’t know everything about him… and his secrets may ruin everything.

Word count: 3.5k

Jason’s never been one to window shop, but lately he’s been noticing the glint of jewelry.

You give him a weird look when he stumbles in the middle of the department store. It’s because a ring display caught him off guard like a punch to the gut, but he can’t explain that, so Jason waves off your concerned questioning.

You give him a weird look before turning back to the toy aisle. The two of you spent the morning bickering over what present to give Damian for Christmasukkah. You want to give him a keyboard to learn piano, but Jason’s sure that Damian would be happier receiving an art kit. He knows violin, which is a strings instrument, not whatever the piano is. Besides, the kid’s a brat. He’d want a full-size grand piano that originally belonged to Mozart or some shit and costs a hundred thousand dollars, which isn’t exactly pocket cash for the two of you.

And, sure, Jason’s got one of Bruce’s credit cards in his wallet—Bruce offered to give him one in Jason’s name, but it was the principle of using the stolen card, so Jason turned him down—but he’d be damned before he spoiled the kid any more than he already is.

He keeps his eyes firmly on you after that. It’s where they’re supposed to be, anyway.

You end up getting the keyboard after surreptitiously checking your bank account against your projected budget several times. It’s funny. After three years, you still think you can hide stuff like that from Jason. Probably because he pretends not to notice. He makes a mental note to stop by your landlord’s and see if the Red Hood can make any suggestions about lowering rent for your building.

As the two of you walk out of the store, a cold gust of wind tries to steal your breath away. You step closer to Jason, cold fingers twining with his, and he easily drapes an arm over your shoulders to keep you close. “Was that the last one?”

“I think so,” you reply, checking your list again. “The keyboard for Damian, massage gun for Dick, matching pajamas for Cass and Steph, Pokemon expansion pack for Duke, and the fuzzy socks for Tim.”

The socks are decorated with the words ‘I BREACHED CONTAINMENT’ in black stitching. Jason saw them in a tourist trap he saved from a D-list rogue and remembered how Tim looked like the bog monster after falling into the sewers the day before. They’ve been sitting in his closet since the end of August.

“I have too many siblings,” Jason sighs.

“Have you figured out what you’re giving Bruce?”

Jason bites his lip.

You say, “Ah. Well, you still have a couple days.”

Yeah. Jason has two. He’d been supposed to look out for anything to catch his eye in the store, but all he noticed was the stupid ring display.

He opens the car door for you, then shoves the keyboard in its box into the backseat and starts the engine. Jason drives home one-handed. The other holds yours loosely over the console. You’re checking your bank account again on your phone, frowning slightly, thumb brushing up and down Jason’s palm. He keeps an eye on you as he drives, playing idly by squeezing your fingers one by one until you have to try to hide a smile by looking out the window. 

He doesn’t let go of your third finger. Something nags at the back of his mind, like—

Jason realizes that he’s trying to find a ring, and his heart stops. The car jumps forward when he slams on the gas, and he drops your hand to put both of his on the wheel as he swerves around a minivan. You let out a startled yelp, hands flying out for something to grab onto. The stupid keyboard slides off the back seat and into the footwell.

Two cars lay on their horns when he nearly sideswipes them. Jason responds with an emphatic middle finger and cuts across three lanes to get away. The poor car doesn’t respond as well to his driving as his motorcycle does, and the engine whines as he leaves the other cars in the dust until he eases off.

As soon as the car reaches a relatively normal speed, you say, “Jay! What just happened?”

“Sorry,” is all he can say, keeping both arms stiff on the wheel. “Sorry, honey.”

“You okay?”

“‘M good. You good?”

“I’m okay, I was just…” You keep looking at him, and Jason’s skin prickles. Do you know? Can you tell?

Jason creaks like old wood, but he pulls back his right arm and puts his hand on the console, palm up. After a moment, you put your left overtop it. He can feel your pulse racing through the thin skin of your wrist.

He squeezes.

You squeeze back.

The day before Christmas, Jason still doesn’t know what to give Bruce. He’d hoped that baking would fix the block, but as he abuses the poor sopapilla dough, he’s no further to any answers.

You’re at the counter, offering moral support but not physical help. Jason’s a bit of a control freak in the kitchen when he’s anxious.

He’s not anxious. He’s not! It doesn’t matter if he gives Bruce something for Chrismukkah. Bruce doesn’t even celebrate Christmas. ‘Not trying to kill him’ is probably a good enough present.

Or the sopapillas. Sure, everyone’s bringing a dish, but no one said it couldn’t also be Jason’s present. But if he goes that route, then the pastries have to be perfect, and the last batch didn’t fluff up the way they did when Catherine made them.

“Jay,” you say after another five minutes of Jason punching dough that is already thoroughly kneaded.

“Yes, love?”

“I think the oil might be ready.”

Judging by the hiss and pops behind him, it is, and has been for several minutes.

Jason tries his best to follow his mother’s actions through his memory, but this batch doesn’t turn out right, either.

“Here,” he says wearily, placing the overflowing plate in front of you. “Let ‘em cool off.”

You wait as long as you can, fingers drumming on the counter as you watch tiny curls of steam drift up from the pile of pastries. Finally, you give in. “Oh my gosh,” you say around a mouthful that was a little too hot, judging by your wince. “Jay, these are amazing.”

“It’s not right, though,” he argues.

“Jay, I didn’t even think it was possible, but these are better than your last batch.”

He shakes his head stubbornly.

“Well, we’ll keep working on it,” you decide. “But really, if you bring these tomorrow, no one will complain. If they do…” You hold up a fist and shake it, mustering up (what you think is) a ferocious scowl.

Jason’s lips twitch. “What if Damian complains? Are you prepared to hit a child?”

“I can’t believe you would even ask me that,” you say. “I live in Gotham. I’ve been waiting for that moment my entire life.”

Despite himself, Jason laughs. He picks up one of the pastries from the dish and bites into it. They could have used more honey. Maybe that was the problem. But you’re right. These are good, and if they’re not, so what? It’s not like Bruce expects much from him anyway.

Jason’s chest squeezes.

Bruce should just be grateful that Jason is there at all.

Fuck.

It’s getting too hard to deny. Despite all his best efforts, Jason has to admit… maybe he does love his family.

It’s the first holiday season where he hasn’t been incandescent with rage toward one of them or another, and he’d underestimated just how nervous he would be. Despite everything that happened between them, he wants tomorrow to go well. The first night of Hanukkah is the same day as Christmas this year, which hasn’t happened for about twenty years. It’ll be Damian’s third Chrismukkah and the first where everyone is in attendance—Jason wasn’t on speaking terms with the family his first year, and Bruce was in the time stream and Tim was across the world last year.

“Hey, Jay.”

“Hmm.”

You swallow without making eye contact, and if he was paying even a little bit more attention, he would have known to prepare himself for what you said next.

“When are you gonna ask me to marry you?”

Jason is a selfish asshole. It’s a miracle that you haven’t figured that out yet after three years of dating him. He half-expects to come back to the apartment to find his stuff in bags. That’s the main reason he’s still out in the cold.

He’s in the middle of another drag when a teasing voice says from behind, “Ooh, must have been a rough day.”

Jason’s hand twitches for his gun, but he recognizes the voice. So he only rolls his eyes and says around the cigarette, “What do you want?”

“Your partner asked me to check up on you. Apparently you looked pretty freaked when you took off.”

Fuck. Jason groans. “How worried did they seem?”

“Ummm….”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah, you kind of messed up.” Spoiler sits next to him, dangles her legs over the side of the roof, and lets them swing idly. “Or they messed up. I thought you quit smoking?”

He exhales a thick plume of smoke. “I did,” Jason says. Dying from smoke inhalation was bad once, but a habit is a habit.

“If it makes you feel any better, they seemed more concerned about you. Not, like, mad or anything.”

Well, that’s something.

“So what happened?”

Jason grunts. Maybe if he stares into the horizon long enough, Spoiler will give up. That was the technique Batman always used when Robin asked the tough questions like, ‘Why am I going home early so you can interrogate Catwoman on your own?’

It only worked sometimes.

Unfortunately, Spoiler seems immune.

Jason grunts and drops the butt of his cigarette. He itches for another, but you’ll already wrinkle up your nose at the smell of one. And, shit, what are you even going to think about him high-tailing it out after that question, leaving for hours, and coming back stinking of smoke?

“I’m a fucking idiot. And an asshole.”

Spoiler huffs. “Everyone already knows that, dumbass. They certainly do.”

“Thanks,” Jason says drily.

“Anytime!” she chirps.

Her heels beat against the side of the building.

She’s not leaving anytime soon, so Jason sighs and gives in. “They asked when I was planning on proposing.”

Spoiler gasps and jumps to her feet. “Oh my God!”

“Yeah.”

“Oh my God!”

“Yep.”

“So you’re engaged?”

“What? No.”

“What?”

“They asked when I would propose. That wasn’t a proposal… I don’t think so. I mean, there wasn’t a ring,” Jason says helplessly.

Spoiler socks him in the shoulder.

“Ow!” Damn, but the girl can pack a punch. He rubs at the sore spot, scowling.

“You stupid idiot!”

“I know.”

“And you just ran away?”

Jason cringes and admits to his lap, “Yes.”

Spoiler hits him in the exact same spot on his shoulder.

“Goddamn it, stop that!”

“I’m going to kill you, Jason Peter Todd.”

“You could certainly try, Stephanie… Brown,” he shoots back.

“You don’t even know my middle name?”

“I don’t care about you.”

She lifts her fist again, but Jason twists out of the way before she can hit him a third time in the same shoulder. It’ll be bruised tomorrow.

“You don’t get it,” he says, balancing on the edge of the roof and feeling exceptionally unstable, even though he’s walked across ledges like this since he was twelve.

“What don’t I get? That you have an awesome partner waiting for you at home? One that wants to get married? One that—”

“One that has no idea who I am,” Jason hisses. He brandishes his helmet at the girl. “We’ve been together for three years. They have no idea that I’m the Red Hood. It made sense, at first; I can’t go around telling everyone I kiss what my identity is—”

“Right,” she scoffs sarcastically, “like you’re some kind of serial kisser, Todd. Half the city would know your identity if you did that.”

“Shut up,” Jason half-says, half-groans, and by some miracle, she does. “At first, obviously I couldn’t tell them. Then I wanted to keep waiting. I wanted to know that they were, you know, the one and everything.”

Spoiler fake-gags. Jason ignores her.

“And after that it was just too late. I waited too long. I can’t marry them unless they know about the mask, but who would agree to marry someone that’s been lying to them for three years? The entire time they’ve known me?”

“Huh,” says Spoiler.

‘Huh’ indeed.

“So I ran,” Jason says. “I don’t even know if I said anything. The next thing I knew, I was in the street with a pack of cigs and a lighter in my pocket. I came up here to smoke a couple before going back and ending things.”

“You—wait, ‘ending things?’” Spoiler’s head whips around, the white lenses of her domino widening. “What are you talking about?”

“I can’t lie to them,” says Jason. “When I go back, I’ll tell them the truth. And they’ll break up with me for lying for years. I was just trying to put it off.”

The worst thing was, he wasn’t even trying to lie for most of it. You took his excuses easily, believed him about a boxing gym membership to explain away the bruises, and never uttered a complaint about the odd hours he worked. Every time he was late to a date or canceled, you understood. Every time he forgot something important, odds were that you’d forgotten, too, without him to remind you.

All things considered, Jason might have found the single least curious person in all of Gotham, if you hadn’t figured it out after three years. But he’d gotten so comfortable that he’d forgotten that it was a secret, really. It had all rushed back in when he heard your words like a smack to the face, and he’d panicked.

“You don’t know that,” Spoiler says softly.

“Could you forgive someone for something like this?”

She stays silent, and that’s answer enough.

Jason huffs. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He reaches into his pocket, pulls out the pack of cigarettes and lighter, and considers them. Then he sighs and drops both on the ground. “Might as well get this over with.”

The cold Gotham air whips away the reek of smoke by the time he’s back at your apartment. Jason looks at the door like a condemned man looks at the gallows. He could sneak in through the window like he usually does, but he selfishly wants you to open the door for him. Show that he’s welcome now, even though he won’t be for long.

Seconds drag on like torturous minutes until he hears the familiar click of the lock. The door inches open with a screech.

Jason’s mouth goes dry at the sight of your wide eyes. “Hey, darling.”

Wordlessly, you open the door further and step aside to let him in.

Funny how a place he’s practically lived in can feel so unfamiliar. Jason shifts between feet as you re-lock your door.

The moment you turn around, he blurts out, “I’m sorry.”

You say the same thing.

“What?” Jason asks.

“You don’t need to apologize,” you say.

“No, I was an ass,” he insists. “I shouldn’t have left.”

“I didn’t mean to push you. I just saw you looking at rings, and we’ve talked about it, but still, marriage is a big step, so I wanted to be prepared,” you ramble. “I mean, we said that we could get married, but we never discussed when, or when the proposal would be—”

“Honey!”

You fall silent.

“Just wait,” Jason begs. He can’t stand any more of your endless understanding. You’ve only ever understood him, no matter what, and he’s going to miss it so much. He’s going to miss you so much. “Wait one second.” He retreats to the bedroom and returns a moment later with something clutched behind his back. Your eyes dart to the awkward way he’s contorted his arm.

Your face goes blank when he pulls out the spare helmet he keeps below your bed. He’d only used a domino when out with Spoiler, but that wouldn’t do for the grand reveal.

“I’m the Red Hood,” he says in a rush, then braces for your judgment.

You don’t react except to say, “Jason.”

He doesn’t understand. You’re not scared of the killer in your apartment. You’re not furious at the man that’s lied to you for three years. Obviously you don’t understand what he’s saying. “Honey, I’m the Red Hood. The vigilante.”

“Jay—”

You’re still just standing with no reaction. Jason holds the mask up so you’re making eye contact with it.

You push it out of the way and cradle his face with both your hands. “Jason Peter Todd, look at me,” you command.

Jason holds your gaze. It’s the last time he’ll ever be so close to you, and he never wants to forget what your presence feels like.

“Jay, I’ve known basically the whole time.”

What.

Jason blinks.

“What?”

“I already knew.”

“Honey, I don’t think you understand what I’m saying. I’m the—”

“Red Hood, yes, I know.” You muster up a tremulous smile. “And Bruce is Batman. Dick is Nightwing. Steph is Spoiler, Damian is Robin, Tim is—”

“Oh my God, you knew? How did you know?”

“Jason. My love. My darling. My honey bunchkin.” You give him a mildly scolding look. “I’m not an idiot.”

Jason’s ears heat. “And you’re not… mad?”

“That you’re the Red Hood?” You cock your head. “Of course not. I worry about you, of course. But you have to do it. I know that. Or am I mad that you tried to keep it a secret for three years?” You press your lips together to hide a growing smile. “No. I’m not mad about that either. You can’t exactly go around telling your secret identity to everyone you kiss. It’s just something I had to figure out on my own.”

“You knew,” Jason marvels. “You knew this whole time.”

“Most of the whole time,” you say. “But yes.”

“Oh my God.” Jason’s moving before he can stop himself, and he wraps you up in his arms and spins you around. “I thought you would hate me,” he confesses, still clutching you like his life depends on it. “When I finally told you.”

A soft hand runs through his hair. “Is that why you ran?” you ask softly.

“Yes. I’m so sorry, honey, I just—”

“I get it,” you interrupt.

“You were scared.”

A thought occurs to Jason with such clarity he nearly drops you. “Wait, so you were going to marry me even after you knew about the mask?”

“Of course,” you say. “I love you, Jay. Mask and all.”

“I don’t have a ring.”

“I don’t need one. Don’t you get it? I only need you.”

“I only need you, too.”

“Good.”

“Good,” Jason agrees, and he probably looks like a fool with his wide grin, but you can’t stop smiling either. He dips his head, and you rise up to press your lips to his, even though with both your grins you end up clicking teeth.

“Good,” you repeat.

“Good,” Jason says, just for good measure, and this time he makes sure the kiss is better. Lightning shoots up his spine and he pulls back to ask, “Wait, are we engaged now?”

“Um… yes?”

“That’s awesome.”

Your smile is so wide that your eyes nearly close. Jason’s pretty sure he looks the same as he sweeps you up and spins you around. You fit perfectly into his arms. He’s never going to let you go.

“My fianceé,” he says fondly. “I’m never going to get tired of saying that.”

“I’m marrying you,” you marvel, sweeping your thumb over his mouth. “I have the prettiest husband-to-be in the whole world.”

“I love you,” Jason confesses. “So much.”

“I love you, too.”

Seconds before your mouths meet for another kiss, Jason’s phone buzzes. On the off-chance it’s an important alert, he pulls it out, but it’s just Spoiler asking for an update.

Jason stows the device. “I have an idea.”

“Yeah?”

“I think I know how to make the sopapillas the right way.”

“Oh? And how’s that?”

It turns out that Jason’s right.

Making them with your help turns out to be what was missing the whole time.

DC Taglist

@evalynanne @mismatchsposts @cliosunshine @fictionalwhor3 @bellathecatastrophe @lonely-star2044 @flanhog

My inbox is open! Stop by to request something or just to say hi!

[rambling-at-midnight]

Will there be a part 2 of The Midnight Subway? Thatd be really amazing 🙏🙏

ahhhh yes i will write one! glad people liked it, but now i have to come up with a plot…

[rambling-at-midnight]

May I request a Jason Todd blurb/fic and reader asks "So, when are you going to ask me to marry you?" casually and completely out of the blue, but 100% serious

oh my god?? yes?? your mind >>>>

i’m getting a baking or perhaps cooking aura coming from this prompt…

[rambling-at-midnight]

How would Jason take care of and comfort reader who is overstimulated?

—🎭

I hc Jason to be an introvert, so I think he’s had his fair share of overstimulating experiences. What works best for him is to leave and go somewhere quiet, so that’s what he does for you.

Wayne Family Dinner:

The Waynes live in an actual manor, but their dining table still hardly fits them all, and they’re all the kind of people that willingly decided to become vigilantes. It doesn’t matter how big your family is—the Waynes are bigger. And louder. And there’s so many inside jokes. You already feel like a bit of an outsider; Dick brought Barbara and Tim brought Bernard, but they both have other friends within the family. You’re the only one here solely as a significant other, and you feel a bit like a hanger-on.

Maybe it’s the noise that gets to you, the conversation that’s changing topics before you can draw a breath to voice your opinion. But it all gets too loud too quickly, and all you can think about is that you don’t belong.

Jason notices that you’re being quieter than usual, but it takes him a moment to realize that something is wrong. As soon as he does, though, he’s standing up and pulling you with him. Both your chairs screech against the floor, and the chatter around the table lulls as everyone looks at the two of you with surprise.

“I’m full,” he announces to the room at large. “We’re leaving. Bye.”

He tugs you away, and you hear a couple people muttering about how he always pulls stunts like that and wondering how you put up with it. But the blame is on him, and you try to suppress a smile as he leads you through the enormous manor and to his room. It’s just like you imagined it. Jason makes sure to lock the door behind him. He checks the latch on the window, too, and draws the curtains. The only light he flicks on is a lamp that gives off a soft yellow glow. Then he tugs you to the bed.

“Sorry,” you mutter, flopping onto the soft mattress. He flops right next to you, bouncing you into the air, and smiles at your giggles.

“Don’t be,” he says casually. “That was about all of them I could stand, anyway. Did you eat enough?”

“Mm-hmm.”

It’s a lie.

Laughter in his voice, Jason says, “Well, that’s a shame, because I know for a fact that Alfred’s going to bring us the rest of the meal. Guess I’ll have to finish your portion, too.”

“In your dreams.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

The two of you lay in silence for a moment, admiring the glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling.

“You can take a nap,” he says softly. “I’m just gonna read. That okay with you?”

“Sounds perfect.”

You close your eyes to the sound of rustling pages and think to yourself that maybe he needed the quiet time as much as you did.

[rambling-at-midnight]

DC Masterlist

Jason Todd x Reader

(Complete) Pros and Cons of Midnight Snacks, Part 2, Part 3

Don’t Go Disappearing On Me Again

(Complete) Second Chances, Part 2

Please Come Home

Nightlight

Guide me Home

When The Truth Comes Out

Whatever You Need

Iced Out

The Roman Empire

Blurbs:

Jason taking care of overstimulated reader

Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist

[rambling-at-midnight]

Supernatural Masterlist

A Nice Day Off (Supernatural/TUA crossover)

Sam Winchester x Reader:

(Complete) False Image: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

(Complete) Angel: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

(Complete) Four Years: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

(Complete) The Dangers of Sarcasm: Part 1, Part 2

Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist

[rambling-at-midnight]

Marvel Masterlist

Peter Parker x Reader:

Dating Peter Parker Would Include…

(Complete) Hacked: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11

Sharing a Brain

Meddling

Insomnia

(Complete) Inferno: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5

Wanda Maximoff x Reader:

Art

Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist

[rambling-at-midnight]

The Umbrella Academy Masterlist

Five Hargreeves x Reader:

The Midnight Subway

(Complete) Number Eight: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

Invincible

(Complete) Pick Your Battles: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Epilogue

Ten Years

Ring

(Complete) Snowflakes Melt Too Quickly: Teaser, Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 5.5 (Alternate Ending)

See You Later (Or Not)

Midnight

(Im)Possibilities

Jealousy

Shy

Klaus Hargreeves x Reader:

You know?

Don’t You Believe Me?

Gen:

A Nice Day Off (Supernatural/TUA crossover)

Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist

[rambling-at-midnight]

Guide Me Home

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

Summary: While walking downtown, you inhale fear toxin. It's up to the Bats to find you before your heart gives out.

Word count: 3.1k

Warnings: Scarecrow attack, (kind of) graphic hallucinations (only a small allude to blood though)

Fun fact: As I wrote this, 'quiet' started to not look like a word anymore.

You rub at your eye, muttering below your breath. Wind has been whipping through the Gotham streets all day, drying out your contacts to the point of discomfort.

The next time you blink, one flips up. Cursing, you cup a hand over the affected eye and blink until the stupid contact rights itself. Digging around your purse, you find your suspicions to be true: after the last time you needed to use your emergency backup contacts, you forgot to replace them. The small bottle of contact solution is missing, lost to the abyss of the purse or somewhere else. All you know is that it’s not here.

The only alternative is your glasses, and those are always a last resort. With an outdated prescription, uncomfortably heavy bridge, and scratched lenses, they’re far from ideal.

It’s fine. You’ll splash some water on your face when you get to the cafe and blink a lot. They’re fine.

Your friend is already sitting by the time you get there, but hasn’t ordered their drink yet. You haven’t seen them for several months, though you used to see each other every day during undergrad. They’re only here for a work conference. They live in Metropolis now, and are wearing an ‘I SURVIVED MY VISIT TO METROPOLIS’ shirt to show it. A couple Gothamites around them are actively laughing into their hands at the sight of it. After all, compared to this city, really nothing is worse.

After the usual greeting, hug, and exclamations over how long it’s been, you say, “Sorry, but my contact’s actually killing me right now. I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll watch your stuff,” they say cheerfully.

The bathroom’s about as good as someone could hope for in Gotham. The remains of scrubbed-away graffiti lingers on the wall around the mirror, and a paper towel with a suspicious red stain hangs over the edge of the trash can. Not quite the vibe this place is going for, judging by the painted ivy around the walls and the hanging plants, but oh well.

You blink, squeeze your eyes shut, rub them, and open them again. Much better.

There’s a drink in front of your friend by the time you make it back to the table they found, pushed in the back corner where things are a little quieter. “They have seasonal syrups,” they say, sipping the drink. “Though a lot of them are named after supervillains.”

You scoff and shrug off your coat. “Please. Clayface is hardly a supervillain. He’s just a washed-up actor.”

“That must be nice,” your friend says wistfully. “Did I tell you I had to replace my car last month?”

“No!”

“Yeah! Some alien dictator had beef with Superman. A lot of cars were thrown in that fight.”

“Ugh,” you say wistfully. “We had some good memories in that car.” They’d had it since undergrad.

“Gone but never forgotten,” they say, holding their cup up for cheers, and you both remember that you haven’t ordered anything yet.

Even though you’re on a bit of a caffeine ban—boyfriend’s orders—you order a coffee. One a day won’t hurt you, not when you were averaging at least four during the recent busy season. The pathology lab you work at always has a huge rush of biopsies ordered between Thanksgiving and New Year’s. Now that it’s a little into January, you’re not scrambling quite so much.

With your drink in hand, you head back to the table to keep catching up. Your friend started a new job with a much better boss than their old one. They’re thinking about proposing to their partner of five years. Their dog got into their family’s big holiday meal and they had to order last-minute Chinese takeout instead. And they can’t decide whether to cut their hair or keep growing it out.

Then it’s your turn. You’re four years into your job at the lab, kind of feeling like you want a change, but the generous Christmas bonus is making you think twice. Your apartment is okay but not nice. Your cat is healthy and happy and extremely spoiled. Your family lives across the country, all with separate plans, so you stayed in Gotham for the (surprisingly uneventful) winter.

“What did you do for the holidays, then?” your friend asks, their drink long since finished. Judging by their eyes drifting back to the counter as you speak, they want another.

“My boyfriend’s family celebrates Hanukkah and Christmas,” you say. “Nothing too fancy, of course, none of us are terribly religious. But it was nice to see each other on a regular basis for a week straight.” Jason would disagree, but only out of principle. “We’re all busy people.”

“And your boyfriend? Jason, right? How is he? What does he do for work, again?”

Here comes the hard part. No matter what happens in your personal life, you can’t talk to anyone about it unless they’re in the know. Keeping Gotham safe requires a fairly large system; you and several other scientists or similar professionals are able to contact the Bats through Leslie Thompkins, Lucius Fox, and Commissioner Gordon, but of that number, only a fraction know their identities.

Working overtime at the lab as a new hire, you were the only one Leslie could reach at midnight when Black Bat came in contact with a mysterious substance through an open wound. From midnight to eight a.m., you collected blood and skin samples with hands that shook under the scrutiny of Batman’s white-lensed gaze. Your treatment was a gamble but a success, and after that, the Bats started to come to you more and more. So many of their rogues use biowarfare, after all. Still, it took over a year for Black Bat and Spoiler to take off their masks around you. At that point, you’d only seen Red Hood once, when he brought Robin in and ordered you to never tell Batman that he’d done so. Months after that, he took off his helmet around you, but only because of a nasty cut on his neck, and the domino mask beneath it stayed on. You’d known each other for a year and a half before he spoke more than five curt words to you at a time. Analyzing a new street drug was the first time you two ever worked together, and it was fun. After that, he just kept coming back.

It took so long to gain their trust, and you won’t risk it. But there are so many secrets. How can you explain to anyone else that not only is your boyfriend related to Bruce Wayne—yes, the Bruce Wayne of Gotham, billionaire, CEO, activist, and philanthropist—but he is, in fact, the man’s very publicly dead son?

So you can tell people about your boyfriend named Jason. You can’t introduce him to anyone from outside Gotham; the jagged scar on his cheek and glowing green eyes tend to raise more questions than answers. You can mention that he has a large family. You can’t tell them who his family is. You can tell them that Jason works flexible hours, usually at night, so the two of you see each other often despite your busy schedules. You can’t tell them what Jason actually does for work.

“He runs a not-for-profit community service organization,” you lie, the words familiar and tasteless from how often you’ve had to say them. And he sort of does, but with a lot more violence and criminal cavorting than most other not-for-profits. “He’s really passionate about helping Gotham’s kids that come from low-income households.” The foster system reform laws passed last year were lobbied by Wayne Enterprises, but it was the Red Hood showing up in politician’s houses in the dead of night that really sped up the process.

“I talked to Avery the other day,” your friend says. “They’re convinced you’re making him up.”

You sigh. Avery is another friend from college. You two were in the same friend group for years, but were never particularly close outside of it. “We don’t like to take pictures together, okay?”

Your friend eyes you with a faint air of dissatisfaction. “Well, if you say so. I was actually hoping to meet him while I’m here.”

You try not to let it show how your heart leaps into your throat at the thought. Around the lump, you say, “I’m sure he’d love to, but he’ll be stuck all day at the office.” Lie. He’s at home right now, baking muffins and wearing an apron with the words ‘Kiss the Cook.’ Damian and Tim scribbled over the two ‘S’s with Sharpie to make it ‘KiLL the Cook,’ but the sentiment is still there.

“Right,” they say slowly.

The meetup doesn’t last long after that. At the end of it, you hug and promise to meet up more often, even though it’s unlikely. With a wave, they head off for their conference, and you’re almost out the door when you blink wrong and—

Half the world goes blurry.

You feel the contact fall down your cheek and onto the ground.

“Goddamnit,” you hiss under your breath.

Glasses it is.

You’ve been wearing contacts for so long that you can take out the other one without breaking stride. The wind hasn’t let up in the slightest, and it makes your nose run.

Sniffling slightly, shoulders hunched against the chill, you don’t see the pumpkin until it’s too late.

They’re after you.

It’s not safe, not for you, not for anyone, they want you, they’re grabbing you, hands on your shoulder, people screaming—screaming at you—for you to stop—no—for—for something to stop?

Something is wrong. Dimly, in the back of your mind, you know something is wrong, but your hands are shaking and your bag is ripping, someone is clawing at you, screaming, desperate, they want you to fall back so they’re safe (from what?) and someone else shoves you and you go spinning out, bag in one direction and you in the other and—

They’re changing, the person clawing at you, turning into a monster, and you scream.

They’re after you

(who is after you)

They want to hurt you

(why)

(what is going on)

And you can’t see, something is wrong, you hear glass crunch and then the whole world goes out of focus.

You can’t see.

They’ll get you if you can’t see, and now you can see them, the dark shapes rising from the shadows, claws out and maws gaping, hungry, hungry, hungry for you and your marrow and your heart and they’re going to get you—

You run.

You trip over something (or someone; something like a bone crunches) and your heel slides and your hands catch you but not really, chin clipping the ground so hard your teeth click, and your hands burn, and your chin aches, but they’re still behind you, behind and getting closer—

You run.

You run and they get closer and you see the corner of something dark and blurry, and maybe it’s another monster or maybe it’s a building, and you skid to a stop and throw yourself behind it.

It’s not a monster. It smells awful—a dumpster—and the ground is wet, you hope from rain, but maybe it’s blood

(you’re sitting in a pool of it)

(you’ll be covered)

(the monsters will smell the blood and come running and they’ll hear you shuffling, they’ll hear you panting, they’ll hear your heart pounding, pounding, pounding—)

You scramble to the farthest corner between the brick building’s corner and the dumpster—maybe their clawed arms will be too short to reach you—and hide your face in your hands—you need to stop breathing so loudly—you need to be quiet, quiet, quiet—

People continue to scream. The city, the city Jason and his family try so hard to protect, everyone is dying and you’re going to die and maybe they’ll die, too, or maybe they’ll survive, and maybe they’ll find your dead body and that would ruin Jason, or maybe they won’t and you’ll rot behind the dumpster, smelling just as bad as the trash inside it—

Quiet quiet quiet.

You can’t stop shaking, your teeth won’t stop rattling, and you have to be quiet quiet quiet.

But your heart keeps pounding, faster and faster. It hasn’t slowed down since the monsters came, it’s only getting louder and faster.

Dimly you think you might be having a heart attack.

Everything gets a thousand times worse when one of the monsters shouts your name.

How do they know your name?

Footsteps on the pavement and people have stopped screaming.

Dead, you think. And you’ll be next if you’re not quiet quiet quiet.

The monster shouts your name again. It’s louder—they’re closer. You curl into a tighter ball. They can’t find you.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Your chest hurts; your heart wants to jump out of it.

Jason, you think wildly. Jason will save you. If Jason finds you, he’ll keep you safe. Your hands fish at your side, but find empty air: your purse is gone. There’s no way to reach him, and he can’t even track your location through your phone.

The monster shouts your name again. It has a deep voice.

Another voice joins it, deeper, pitched lower. You can’t quite make out the words.

“They’re around here,” the first monster insists. “B, we don’t have long, this strain is strong—”

“They’re strong,” says the second monster. “Their heart can handle it.”

Something thumps and a third monster says, “Everyone else is clear. Signal had to take two people to the hospital, but they’ll be fine, don’t look so upset, B.”

“You have the antitoxin?” the first monster demands.

“Relax, Hood,” drawls the third monster. “‘Course I do. So you tracked them here?”

“Yeah, I just—” Again it shouts your name. It sounds almost upset. “Please, it’s me, I can help you. Come on. You’re safe. You inhaled fear toxin, I know you’re terrified, but it’s me. You know me.”

It’s trying to lure you in. You won’t fall for it.

You squeeze your eyes shut and hold your breath. Let them move on. Let them search somewhere—

“There you are.”

A hulking figure is blocking the light.

The monsters found you.

“Stop it!” you yell, trying to sound brave. “Leave me alone or—or you’ll regret it!”

“Please,” it wheedles, “I’m just trying to help you. Don’t you recognize me?” It reaches out with clawed hands and you kick frantically, but there’s nowhere else for you to go.

“Hey, aren’t these their glasses?” asks the third monster. “What happened to their contacts?”

“Don’t come any closer! The Red Hood will get you, I know him, if you hurt me he’ll kill you! Stop it!”

“I’m really sorry about this, honey,” the monster says, and its clawed hand latches around your ankle and you howl. The sharp points dig deep through skin into muscle and sinew, and it hurts and you’re going to die—

“Jason!” you shriek. “Jason, help me!”

“I’m right here,” the monster lies. “Please, I’m right here, look at me—”

You won’t. You won’t do it. You can’t watch while it kills you. “Jason, please!” you bawl again, but it’s too late. The monsters have you, you’re surrounded, he’ll never forgive himself but what could he even do against them—

Sharp teeth dig into your neck.

You’re dead.

“There we go, darling,” the monster says. Strong arms wrap around you—it wants to crush you to death—and you struggle, but there’s no use.

Except—

You can hear now, kind of, the rush of blood in your ears is receding a bit, and something heavy lands on your nose. This time, when you blink your eyes open, the world’s edges have sharpened. And the monster in front of you—

Well, you recognize the dark hair with a shock of white, and the brilliantly green eyes would be visible if not for the white-lensed domino mask, and the jagged scar on his cheek.

“Jay?” you murmur, hand coming up to touch it. He doesn’t flinch away. It took so long for him to stop flinching when you touch his face. Over his shoulder, you see Batman and Spoiler watching with satisfaction and slight worry. “What happened?”

“Scarecrow,” he says grimly. “He gassed the street, but only about twenty people were affected. I was patrolling nearby, and when I saw your purse on the ground—” He grimaces, then fixes you with a hard look. His two hands can span most of your head, and he takes it to press a firm kiss to your forehead. When he pulls back slightly, without looking away, “I want their heart checked.”

“The antitoxin—” Batman starts.

“I don’t care,” Jason snarls.

Your hands loosely hold his forearms, still shaking a little. “How’d you find me?”

“I tracked you,” he says softly.

“But my phone—”

“Honey,” he says gently, “of course that’s not the only one.”

Well. You should have guessed that, honestly.

“I’ll go check on the victims,” Batman says suddenly. “Come on, Spoiler.”

“Glad to see you’re okay,” Spoiler says to you, then dashes after Batman. In a whirl of capes, they’re gone.

“I’m so sorry,” Jason says in a rush.

“Jay—”

“I should have protected you,” he grits out, white lenses turning to slits as he squeezes his eyes shut. “This should never have happened—”

“You couldn’t have known,” you say softly, letting go of his arms and wiggling beneath them to wrap yours around his torso. Your nose wedges against his chest kind of uncomfortably, but now you can smell him, the familiar gunpowder and a little bit of sour sweat, and the faint tremble in his bones that mirrors the one in your hands. He clutches you close, head buried in the crook of your neck.

He croaks, “I’m so sorry, so sorry, so—”

“You saved me,” you mumble into his armor. “I knew you would.”

“I almost didn’t.”

“Jay.” You pull back to look at him seriously. “Even when I couldn’t think straight, I knew you would come. I’ll always know that, no matter what toxin’s messing with my head.”

Judging by the twist of his mouth, he doesn’t quite believe that. He’ll beat himself up internally for days, you know.

But you also know that while Bruce runs his tests in the Cave to make sure there’s no more toxin in your system, he’ll hold your hand the whole time. You know he’ll hold you tight in the bed you share tonight. You know, as long as Jason lives and breathes, he’ll always protect you.

“I love you,” he says thickly. “So much.”

“I love you too.”

“Let’s get you checked out.” He helps you up and holds you close and you know that you’ll be okay.

Jason’s here, so you’ll be okay.

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@evalynanne @mismatchsposts @cliosunshine @fictionalwhor3 @bellathecatastrophe

Let me know if there's anything you want to see from me. Inspiration strikes at odd intervals, and I get lonely.

[rambling-at-midnight]

Nightlight

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

Summary: Jason comes home to find the reader dealing with an ocular migraine as they finish an assignment due at midnight. He takes care of you.

Word count: 1.9k

Warnings: non-graphic references to past injuries.

Jason tumbled through the apartment window with a black eye and a newfound appreciation for Duke. Fewer criminals tried their luck during the day, yes, but those that did were arguably crazier than the ones that used darkness to hide.

Speaking of using darkness to hide…

Jason squinted. Every light in the apartment had been turned off. Had you gone to sleep? It wasn’t that late.

He called your name, vigilante-honed instincts prickling as he clomped further into the living room. “You here?”

“Yeah,” came your voice from inside the bedroom. You sounded annoyed, though Jason couldn’t figure out why. When he’d left in the morning, you’d been perfectly cheerful, assuring him that you would spend the day catching up on homework so the two of you could have an interruption-free Saturday. He’d only patrolled today because Duke offered to look over Crime Alley while Jason was gone. All the other little shits Bruce adopted wouldn’t do it.

Jason cautiously pushed open the bedroom door. You sat on the bed, the only source of light in the room your glowing laptop screen. It lit up your face and the thick glasses perched on the bridge of your nose.

Ah.

Jason was pretty sure he knew what was going on. Still, just to make sure: “Your head hurt, honey?”

You just grunted.

Jason’s lips twisted. He never liked seeing you in pain, of course, but it was sometimes… ironic how a headache could put you in such a bad attitude when you could handle other kinds of pain without batting an eye. He hated seeing you in pain, of course, went out of his way to make sure that you stayed safe and happy and healthy, but an unavoidable part of life was discomfort.

After scalding your hand on the side of a pan on the hot stove, you’d asked him for assistance making the rest of dinner, with only your white-pressed lips an indication of the pain. Dinner went unfinished, of course, when Jason saw the burn and took you to Leslie, despite your loud and vocal protests that all would be fine. Then when your hand slipped while chopping cucumbers for a midday snack and the knife drove deep into two fingers, almost to the bone, you just called to Jason that you would be back in a little while. He’d been occupied with a book on the couch, and it wasn’t until your absence made him twitchy that he checked your location to see you at the hospital.

That had been a heart attack and a half. He checked over you every time you left the apartment now.

Hmm. There was a common theme with your injuries, actually. Maybe Jason should just keep you out of the kitchen.

Through all that pain, you kept on a good face and a better attitude, more focused on calming Jason than yourself. But as soon as a migraine came on, you scowled at him for opening the door. For talking. For breathing too loudly. Heaven forbid he shut a door with more than the quietest of clicks, for fear of a loud and exaggerated huff from you.

“It would hurt less if you turned off that laptop,” he pointed out.

You scowled. Migraines shorten your temper. “I have to finish this essay.”

“Couldn’t you take a nap and finish it in a couple hours?”

“It’s due in a couple hours,” you snapped. “Do you even know what time it is?”

Jason checked his watch and, shit, he’d stayed out a lot longer than he’d meant to. It was nearly nine, and this essay was due at midnight. Taking a nap wasn’t really an option.

He slipped off his boots, then padded further into the room until he could peer over your shoulder at the screen of your laptop. “You’re nearly there,” he said encouragingly. It had to be five pages, and you were at the end of four.

“I know,” you said, then sniffed and wrinkled your nose. “You smell like shit.”

“Yeah, well, the Gotham sewers aren’t known for their—”

You let out a little shriek and pushed off the knee he’d propped up on the bed. “You were in the sewers today and you got into our bed without changing?”

“I’m joking, I’m joking,” Jason said hastily. “No, I didn’t go into the sewers.”

You eyed him with no small amount of suspicion, but evidently love and trust and everything else that people felt when they dated, yada, yada, won out. “Well, go shower anyway.”

He pointed at you faux-sternly. “You better have that finished by the time I’m done.”

You pretended to snap at the tip of his finger, but he didn’t flinch. You rolled your eyes, which obviously hurt, judging by your flinch and that you immediately closed them. “Yes, yes,” you said. “Glad you’re home safely and all.”

“Oh, my beautiful love, your cup doth overflow with affection,” Jason said drily.

“May yours overflow with poison,” you muttered.

The bed dipped when Jason leaned back over to you, propping himself with his hands and one knee; you sat in the very middle of the mattress, just slightly out of reach from the sides. He pressed his lips to the side of your head, both to kiss and to judge your temperature. No fever. It was just a migraine. It didn’t stop him from worrying. “Should I be worried the next time you bring me a cup of coffee, darling mine?”

“Just go shower,” you muttered. When Jason shuffled back, one finger crooked in the collar of his jacket, and a pair of soft lips pressed into the corner of his mouth. Jason blinked at the not-quite kiss. “Love you and all that.”

“I love you too.” He tried for a real kiss, but you swatted him away, informing him sternly that you had to submit the essay on time and couldn’t have him distracting you. “Did you take any meds?”

Your silence was answer enough.

“What about water?”

Again no response.

“Well, no wonder,” Jason muttered under his breath, slipping out of the bedroom and into the kitchen for a cup, and then into the bathroom for the painkillers kept in the cabinet. You took what he offered with little complaint, focused on typing.

Jason showered quickly. He always had. You were the opposite. He had no idea what you even did when you stood under the stream of water for forty-five minutes. He emerged from the bathroom with a gust of steam—while neither of you agreed about the optimal length of a shower, you both agreed about the best temperature. Hot water was a valuable commodity growing up. Jason would never forget to appreciate it.

The room was entirely dark, your laptop discarded. Jason flipped the switch for the bathroom light and squinted as his eyes adjusted. You were back on your side of the bed, not curled on your side as you usually slept, but rather on your back with an arm thrown over your eyes. It took you much longer than that to fall asleep, but Jason made sure to move silently. He pulled aside the covers and slipped in as gently as possible, but you still let out a sound, drowsy-soft and innocent in the way Jason could never be. He wiggled under the covers until his shoulder brushed yours, then turned onto his side. The pillowcase was already growing damp from his wet hair, but he didn’t care. With his eyes adjusting to the darkness, Jason could make out the angles and planes that made up the face he loved.

Your mouth twitched. “I can feel you staring,” you murmured.

“Can’t help it,” Jason whispered. “I ever tell you you’re pretty?”

“Mm. Maybe a couple times?”

“Let me do it once more.” Jason lifted the arm over your eyes to kiss your temple. “You’re so pretty sometimes I look at you and think I’m just going to die.”

“I think that’s the poison affecting you, actually.”

You rubbed your eyes, wincing. When you had migraines, you’d told him, it felt like sandpaper rubbing in your eye sockets and a hammer beating from the inside of your skull. Jason didn’t really understand when you described your vision going staticky, but it made him nervous. Unfortunately, despite his many requests, Bruce refused to investigate whether summoning a humanoid form of the concept of migraines and killing it was possible. Probably because it probably wasn’t.

“I’d ask you how patrol went, but I really don’t want to hear anything right now,” you whispered.

“If you really want to hear about it, I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

“I do,” you said, more a sigh than any actual words. “You’re warm.” You scooted closer and Jason hummed, dipped down to press his lips to your shoulder, then rested his cheek against it. Your legs tangled with his. An eternal question: how were your feet always so frigid?

“No more talking,” he said gently. “Just sleep.” It was the only cure he’d figured out for the headaches.

Instead of a response, your other arm wedged beneath Jason so he could use it as a pillow. He slung an arm over your waist; your fingers drifted along his scalp. “Ugh. Your hair’s wet.”

Jason smiled. “Yeah, I just showered. Now shh.”

Never a good sleeper, it took the better part of an hour for your hands to still in Jason’s hair—it would look ridiculous come morning—and your breathing to even out. When he was reasonably confident that you were asleep, he lifted his head. Yep. Your face finally looked relaxed.

Jason allowed himself to follow after you into sleep.

He woke to the sound of a toaster beeping and the smell of coffee. Bleary-eyed, he rolled over to see you standing in the doorway with two mugs. “Morning,” he grunted.

“Morning,” you said, obviously recovered and in a much better mood. “Here.”

“Wow, what did I do to get the breakfast-in-bed treatment?” Jason raised an eyebrow. “You really trying to poison me, honey?”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous.” After Jason took a sip, you pressed a kiss to his lips, morning breath and all. “If I was going to poison you, it wouldn’t be with something in your drink. That’s too obvious.”

Jason chuckled and tried to sit up, the movement of which slopped coffee over the edge of his mug and onto his shirt. He hissed. “You’re hilarious.”

“You certainly think so,” you pointed out, one eyebrow raised.

He took another sip of the coffee and asked, “Feeling better today?”

“Yes.”

“And you finished your essay?”

“Mm-hmm.”

Jason flushed when you just kept looking at him. “What? I got something on my shirt—besides the coffee?”

“Nothing,” you hummed, drinking from your own cup. “Just thinking I’m lucky to have you, I guess.”

Jason tried to hide the color in his cheeks with the coffee mug by taking a generous gulp, but he was pretty sure it didn’t work, judging by the way you took it, set them both on the stand by the bed, and cupped his face with your hands. You squeezed his cheeks together, making him give you the ‘pufferfish face,’ or so you called it. “Thanks for taking care of me,” you said, then kissed his puckered lips. “Now, tell me how patrol was.”

“Before or after you set our kitchen on fire?”

“What do you—oh, shit!”

You scrambled out of the room to get to the smoking toaster before it set off the fire alarm in the whole building. A terrible thought crossed Jason’s mind, and he threw the blankets off his legs and chased after you. “Whatever you do, Y/N, do not try to get that toast out with a fork!”

He really needed to keep you out of the kitchen.

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