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rev-wrath · 4 days ago

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THE CROWBAR WASN'T THE WORST OF IT (WATCHING YOU FORGET HOW TO SMILE IS)

pairing arkham knight! jason todd x (vigilante) male reader

you'd recognize him anywhere—even through the armor, even through the years. the arkham knight moves like a ghost, but you know the weight of his footsteps, the hitch in his breath when he lies. and when he saves you from a bat to the skull, you do the one thing that might break you both: you pretend not to know him, the boy under the armor who still wears your old hoodie beneath his kevlar.

the night is thick with the scent of rain and blood, the alleyway slick under your boots as you drive another fist into a henchman’s jaw. his head snaps back with a wet crack, teeth scattering across the pavement like broken glass. you don’t stop—can’t stop. not when every punch is another scream silenced, another debt paid in the name of the boy you lost.

there are too many of them. twelve, maybe fifteen, all armed, all desperate. one swings a knife at your ribs—you twist, catching his wrist and snapping it backward until the bone juts white through skin. he howls, but the sound is cut short when you slam his face into the brick wall. another charges, crowbar raised; you duck, driving your elbow into his gut before kneeing him in the chin. blood sprays from his mouth as he crumples.

you’re faster, angrier, but exhaustion claws at your muscles, your breaths ragged. your knuckles are split, your ribs scream with every movement, but you don’t care. pain is just another reminder that you’re still alive when he isn’t.

a fist clips your temple—stars burst behind your eyes. you stagger, tasting copper, but lash out blindly. your fingers find a throat, squeeze until the man gurgles, his face purpling. you drop him like trash.

you don’t see the one behind you.

the glint of a bat swings toward your skull—

a gunshot rings out.

the henchman drops before the bat can connect, his body slumping like a puppet with its strings cut. your head whips toward the rooftop where the shot came from—just in time to see a shadow detach itself from the darkness. the figure moves with lethal grace, dropping down in front of you with a heavy thud that sends cracks spiderwebbing through the pavement. the dim glow of the streetlight catches on his armor, painting the edges of his helmet in flickering blue.

the arkham knight.

your body screams at you to move, to fight, but exhaustion weighs your limbs down like lead. instead, you shift into a defensive stance—not aggressive, but wary. this man just saved you, after all. you’ve heard the whispers about him. a ghost in armor. a mercenary with no master. but the way he stands, the tilt of his head, the way his weight shifts ever so slightly to the left—just like he used to.

and then he speaks.

“you’re reckless.”

his voice is distorted by the modulator, mechanical and cold, but beneath it—beneath it—there’s a cadence you’d recognize in your sleep. the way the words curl at the edges, the faintest hint of a growl that used to tease you, scold you, laugh with you.

your heart stutters.

no. no, it can’t be. god, please don't give me hope. i don't think i'll be able to recover if this isn't him-

but then he shifts again, and the scent of gunpowder and leather hits you—buried under the sharp tang of metal and sweat, but there. it’s the same smell that used to cling to his jacket when he’d sling it over your shoulders after patrol. the same smell that lingered in your apartment long after he’d left.

and his breathing—even through the helmet, you can hear it. steady. controlled. the same rhythm you used to match when you’d lie beside him under the stars, counting each inhale like a prayer.

your throat tightens.

it’s him.

you know it’s him.

the lump in your throat feels like a stone, heavy and suffocating, but you force your voice steady anyway. “thanks for the save.” the words come out quieter than you meant, almost lost in the ringing silence after the gunfire.

he doesn’t answer. just turns smoothly—too smoothly, the way only someone trained by the bat could move—and fires two more shots. the bullets hit their marks with brutal precision, dropping the last fleeing henchmen before they even make it three steps. the alley falls deathly still, the only sound the distant scream of sirens and the drip of blood from your split knuckles onto the pavement.

“you should leave,” he says, still refusing to look at you. his voice is flat, controlled, but you hear the tension underneath. like he’s holding himself back. “cops’ll be here soon.”

you don’t move. can’t. your fingers twitch at your sides, itching to grab the edge of that helmet, to rip it off and see for yourself if his eyes are still the same stormy green that used to roll at your bad jokes. but you don’t. you play the game—just like old times, when one of you was being dramatic and the other had to pretend not to notice. back when things were easy. back when he was alive.

“you’re not sticking around?” you ask, tilting your head the way you know would’ve made him smirk.

he hesitates. just a fraction of a second, but you catch it. “...not my style.”

“then why help me?”

this time, the pause stretches longer. you can practically hear him weighing his words, calculating how much to give away. when he finally speaks, his voice is quieter, the modulator struggling to hide the roughness underneath. “...you fight like you’ve got something to prove.”

you almost laugh. you have no idea.

instead, you shrug, flexing your aching fingers. “maybe i do.”

he watches you—you can feel the weight of his gaze even through the mask, familiar and intense—before jerking his chin toward the fire escape. “come on. unless you wanna explain this to gordon.”

you follow. like you always would have. like you should have. like part of you never stopped.

(´▽`ʃ♡ƪ)

the rooftops hold their breath between you, the city sprawled beneath like a bleeding masterpiece—neon smears of violet and gold reflected in rain puddles, shadows stretching like fresh bruises across alleyways. he stands apart, but not far enough that you can't see how the armor clings to him, how it sculpts the familiar breadth of his shoulders, the stubborn set of his jaw even beneath the helmet. his arms are crossed, but you remember how they felt wrapped around you once, all lean muscle and warmth, and now they're corded with new strength, thicker with the weight of whatever hell he's survived. his fingers press into his own biceps hard enough to dent flesh, like he's physically holding himself back from reaching for you.

you pretend not to notice the way his chest rises just a little too fast under the plating. pretend not to trace the lines of him with your eyes, relearning what time and pain have reshaped. he's taller now, broader, a weapon honed sharp where he used to be all reckless angles and grinning bravado. but he still carries himself the same—like the world is something to be challenged, like he's bracing for impact.

"so," you begin, letting your legs swing over the drop like you're dangling over the edge of everything you've lost and everything that's just been given back. the wind claws at your clothes, impatient. "you just make a habit of saving random vigilantes?"

"you're not random." the words tear free like they've been ripped from him, raw at the edges, and his whole body goes rigid after, shoulders hiking like he can choke them back down.

your lips twist into something that might pass for a smile if it didn't feel like your chest was cracking open. "oh? you know me?"

"i know of you." each syllable is measured, careful, like he's walking a tightrope over an abyss. "you've been... active."

active. such a small word for the carnage you've carved into gotham's bones. you've painted the streets in the language of your grief—knuckles split on teeth that will never say his name, ribs bruised against pavement as you chased the ghost of a laugh you'll never hear. every fracture you've dealt, every scream you've pulled from the dark—love letters written in violence to a ghost who was never really dead.

"someone's gotta clean up the trash," you mutter, watching a distant police siren bleed red across the skyline. your fingers skim the rough edge of the rooftop, where concrete crumbles into nothing. just like the edge you've been balancing on since they handed you a closed casket and a lie.

now you know.

now you see.

the silence stretches between you, thick enough to choke on. the city's distant hum fades into nothing, until all you can hear is the ragged rhythm of your own breathing and the quiet creak of his armored gloves tightening into fists. then, barely louder than the wind—

"what made you start?"

the question lands like a punch to the ribs. you stare down at your hands, at the blood crusted in the grooves of your knuckles, at the fresh crimson welling up from split skin. each scar, each bruise—a confession written in violence.

"lost someone," you murmur, and the words taste like rotten milk.

"...who?"

you close your eyes. the image comes unbidden—wild dark hair, that stupid half-smirk, green eyes bright with mischief. you. i lost you. i lost you and it broke me.

"a friend," you force out instead, swallowing around the lump in your throat. "he was... good. too good for this fucked-up city. better than any of us deserved."

the arkham knight goes statue-still. even the subtle whir of his armor seems to freeze.

"what happened to him?"

"joker happened." the name sears your tongue, venomous and vile. your hands shake. you clench them. "he was robin. the second one. jason todd." his name—his real name—shatters between you like glass.

you hear it—the sharp, aborted inhale. see the way his fists clench so tight the armor groans in protest.

you can't stop now. the words are clawing their way up your throat like they've been waiting years to be free. "he was brave in that stupid way that made your heart stop. reckless like he had something to prove to the whole damn world." your breath hitches, the night air suddenly too thick. "stubborn as hell—once he got an idea in his head, nothing could shake it loose." the ghost of his grin flickers behind your eyelids, that infuriating, beautiful smirk that always meant trouble. a wet, broken laugh escapes you, tasting like salt and regret. "god, he pissed off all the right people. had a mouth on him that could start fights in an empty room and a laugh that could make you forgive him for it instantly."

your voice cracks like thin ice under the weight of memory. "he was my best friend. my—" the truth burns behind your teeth, everything. he was my sunrise and my last good night's sleep. the reason i breathed easier and the reason my hands won't stop shaking now. "and i didn't save him." the admission carves through you, fresh as the day they told you. "i should've been there. should've ignored the rules, should've followed him that night, should've—" your fists clench, blood welling in crescent moons where your nails meet flesh. "i should've died with him if i couldn't save him. anything would've been better than this." the words hang between you, raw and bleeding, all the things you've never said aloud finally given voice in the shadow of the boy they belong to.

the air between you shatters like thin ice underfoot, the pieces glinting dangerously in the dim light. the arkham knight jerks away as if burned, his armored shoulders curling inward like he's trying to fold himself into nothing. the weight of his name—his real name—and your confession hangs between you like a noose, and for a breathless moment, you swear you can hear his heart pounding through the armor.

"you cared about him." his voice is scraped raw, the modulator struggling to contain the tremor beneath. it's not a question—it's an accusation, a plea, a prayer.

"more than anything," you whisper, and the words taste like blood in your mouth. like the last confession of a dying man.

he doesn't move. doesn't breathe. for one terrifying second, you think he might actually crumble under the weight of it all. then, with a shuddering exhale, his hand lifts—slow, hesitant—fingers grazing the edge of his helmet like he's testing the temperature of a flame.

your lungs seize. please. please—

but he stops. his hand falls back to his side like a dead weight, fingers twitching once before curling into a fist. the silence that follows is deafening.

"he'd hate what you're doing," he grinds out, voice cracking under the strain. "the way you're—" a sharp inhale. "throwing yourself into fights like you've got nothing left to lose. he wouldn't—" the modulator glitches, betraying him. "he wouldn't want you to get hurt."

you smile, but it's a brittle thing, all sharp edges and broken promises. "yeah," you agree softly, your thumb brushing absently over a fresh cut on your knuckles. "he was always like that. protective to a fault." your eyes flick up to where his visor gleams in the low light. "guess some things never change."

the arkham knight goes statue-still. not even the subtle whir of his armor dares to break the silence. you can feel the war raging inside him—the desperate need to reach for you battling against the fear of what comes after. the distance between you has never felt so vast, even though you could reach out and touch him if you tried.

(you don't try.)

the moment stretches between you, trembling like a bowstring pulled too tight. you watch the way his armored fingers twitch—reaching, hesitating, pulling back—a dance of want and fear played out in micro-movements.

"he'd want you to be safe," he says finally, voice so low the modulator nearly swallows the words whole. the way he says it—like he's pleading, like he's begging you to understand something—makes your chest ache.

you huff a laugh, kicking a loose pebble off the roof's edge. "he'd want a lot of things." the pebble disappears into the darkness below. "world peace. better pizza. for me to stop stealing his hoodies." you don't miss the way his breath catches at that. "but we don't always get what we want, do we?"

his helmet tilts just slightly, that familiar considering angle you'd know anywhere. "you kept them." it's not a question. "his things."

"like a damn shrine," you admit, rubbing your thumb over a fresh cut on your knuckles. "his favorite mug still sits by my coffee maker. his stupid dinosaur-print socks are in my top drawer." your voice drops to a whisper. "i couldn't let go. not of any of it."

the armor creaks as he shifts his weight, that old nervous habit he never shook. "that's... fucked up." but there's no heat in it—just something painfully close to wonder.

"tell me about it." you lean back on your hands, staring up at the smog-choked stars. "you ever love someone so much it ruins you?"

the silence that follows is answer enough. when he finally speaks, his voice is raw. "he'd hate seeing you like this. all... broken."

"maybe." you turn to look at him, at the way the city lights reflect off that damned helmet. "but he's not here to see it, is he?"

the sharp intake of breath tells you that landed exactly where you meant it to. you watch his chest rise and fall too fast, watch the way his hands flex like he wants to strangle something—maybe you, maybe himself.

"you're an asshole," he grinds out, but there's no real anger behind it. just pain. just longing.

you smile, soft and sad. "yeah. he used to say that too."

the space between your hands feels charged, like the quiet before a lightning strike. you watch his gloved fingers twitch—once, twice—before they finally move. his touch is featherlight, just the barest brush of his knuckles against yours, but it sends a shockwave through your entire body. it’s him. that same hesitant, half-awkward way he’d always reached for you, like he was never quite sure he was allowed to.

your breath catches.

he pulls back like he’s been burned, the armor plating of his forearm scraping against yours as he jerks away. but the ghost of his touch lingers, burning brighter than any wound you’ve ever earned in battle.

"stay," you murmur, still staring at the space where his hand had been. the word comes out cracked, desperate in a way you haven’t let yourself sound in years.

he goes utterly still. you can hear the ragged hitch of his breath through the modulator, can see the way his shoulders tense like he’s fighting against himself.

"you don't even know who i am," he grinds out, voice scraping through the modulator like gravel over glass. it's meant to sound mocking, but the way it fractures halfway through betrays him—there's something shattered beneath that armored exterior, something raw and wounded that no amount of mechanical distortion can hide.

you smile, slow and aching, the expression pulling at the split in your lip. "you're the arkham knight," you murmur, tipping your head back to stare at the smog-choked sky. your voice is calm, too calm, like the eerie stillness before a storm. as if that title explains why his gloved fingers linger near yours, why the space between you feels charged with something electric and ancient. as if you haven't memorized the exact way he holds himself, haven't spent years dreaming of that familiar silhouette against gotham's skyline.

the silence that follows is thick enough to drown in. the city pulses below like a living thing—car horns blaring in the distance, a siren wailing its mournful song, the ever-present hum of neon signs flickering against the darkness. all of it indifferent to the way your heart pounds against your ribs, to the way your pulse jumps when his armored knee brushes against yours. accidental, maybe, but he doesn't pull away. doesn't even pretend to.

you don't either. you can't. not when this is the closest you've been to him in years, not when every fiber of your being screams to reach out and—

the night stretches on around you, heavy with unsaid words and half-remembered promises. the air tastes like rain and gunpowder and something bittersweet you can't name. not yet. but soon.

(soon.)

3k words worth of angst and AHHH MY POOR BOY JASON I'M SORRYYYYY

#yelling #fic rec

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