#so he followed bruce all the way to crane

[jasonsbruce]

[envysparkler]

When Jason died, he’d still been a runt.  A black dog that could barely reach Bruce’s knees, more fur than shadows, eyes that had not yet started turning red.  He easily fit into the lap of whoever was holding him, wriggled into nooks in the Manor that Batman would never be able to follow, had an unerring ability to stumble upon dead bodies.

Jason had felt his own death before he ever laid eyes on the bomb.  It was a horrible thing, knowing you were going to die but not knowing how or when.  Knowing that Batman would be too late.  Knowing that this was the end.

A Grim’s power was always stronger closer to death.  To someone else’s death.  To their own.

The Joker left, not because he was done playing games, but because something in those blue eyes had begun turning red and there was a flicker of fear amidst that carefully calculated crazy.  The Joker left before Jason Todd started leaking shadows.

The bomb went off.  A baby Grim died.

But you couldn’t kill something that belonged to Death.

Jason woke up.  Jason came back.  Jason opened eyes of liquid green fire, and fully transformed, he stood higher than most men, a terrifying amalgam of shadows and fear.  A giant canine, solid black and reeking of Death.

Because that was the thing about Grims.  Their full powers only kicked in after death.

~#~

Tim shuddered as he walked towards the control room, fighting the subconscious chill.  The thermostats all registered the temperature as a balmy seventy-four degrees, but he’d been shivering for the last ten minutes and he was determined to find the source of the problem.

It was dark, the sky outside so cloudy it looked like night, and even the lights seemed dimmer than they usually were.  Just perception, Tim tried to convince himself, darting glances over his shoulder at an empty hallway, but it didn’t quite stick.

The darkness closed over him like molasses, sticky, slow and inextricable.

~#~

Tim woke in a rush, like someone had jolted him, and struggled blindly up in the instinctive reaction to an alarm, before his mind woke all the way up and helpfully pointed out that he was restrained.

Before Tim could register anything more than an increased heartbeat, the binds tightened, and a low voice said smoothly into his ear, “Calm down.  Deep breaths.”

Calm down?  Calm down?  Tim felt like he’d gone five rounds with Crane, and he was being restrained, and the room was too dark to make out any significant details, and—

Something slid through his hair, pressure on the right side of a massage.  “Shh,” the voice instructed.  “Your heart rate is too high.  Robin, slow down.”

Tim instantly untensed, the reaction ingrained after years of hearing the same words in Batman’s growl.  The voice was on the edge of familiar, and it was enough to bypass his climbing anxiety and drop him into a lull.

Had he been hit with fear toxin?  He didn’t remember—and then Tim went very, very still when his mind pulled up what he did remember.

“Robin?” the low voice asked.

Tim started, voice scratchy, “There was a—” A dog?  A wolf?  What could he even use to describe such a monster?  “A creature.”  Tim swallowed, and opened his mouth again, to try and detail specifics, but they were nowhere to be found.

Red eyes.  Tall, taller than him, filling the entire corridor, black and shadowy and Tim had been unable to move, unable to breathe, unable to think—

“Robin, calm down!” the voice cursed right into his ear and Tim felt himself being pulled up.  The restraints across his chest was a pair of arms, one hand pressed flat above his heart, the other stroking through his hair.  His legs were pinned by a boot-clad leg clamped around his knees, and Tim became aware that he was half-reclined in someone’s lap.

“The creature’s gone,” the voice said.  “He’s gone and not coming back, stop panicking.”  The voice sounded on the verge of panic itself.  “Just—just breathe, goddammit.”

Tim obediently breathed.  In and out, slipping into the breathing pattern Bruce had taught him—a breathing pattern mirrored by the man holding him, and things gradually began to break through Tim’s spiral.

Details.  Facts.  Conjecture.

Detail—the voice sounded very, very familiar.  Hoarser than he remembered, but familiar.

Fact—Tim was still in Titans Tower, still in one of the most fortified bases on the planet.  There was no one else visible.  They appeared to be alone.

Conjecture—Tim let out a slow breath and kept his limbs relaxed, waiting for his captor to release his breath before Tim twisted as fast he could.  He wasn’t aiming to break their grip, just to see—

Green eyes in a surprised expression.  A random white lock of hair.  A familiar, set, stubborn jaw.

“Jason?” Tim felt like he was drowning again.

[plathfiles]

You Found Me | BW

pairing: Bale!Bruce Wayne x fem! reader

warnings: angst, character death, mentions of blood, some fluff, sad ending im sorry, the reader being stubborn, sad boi Bruce. Alfred bringing the wisdom. Use of y/n — sorry :( im not sure what possessed me to write this 🤦‍♀️ not proof read

summary: based on the song “you found me” by the fray.

a/n: lmk if you want to join the taglist <3 im also taking requests

☽☽☽

“But losing her, the only one who’s ever known, who I am, who im not and who I want to be,”

Bruce should have know better. Keeping you safe was his first priority, but you slipped through his fingers.

Why did you have to follow him? Why couldn’t you just stay with Alfred. You were so stubborn and as much as he loved you, he couldn’t fathom why you just wouldn’t listen.

“You could die, Bruce. I’m going with you,” you said with urgency.

“No, you can’t come. I need you here with Alfred. I can’t lose you,” Bruce argued back.

“I’ll be fine. You need my help. I’m the only one that can get into Crane’s security wing and you know that,” you huffed, arms crossed stubbornly.

And he agreed. Bruce knew you were right. You were always right. Right now it was aggravating because he was worried about you safety. But usually your good judgment and correctness saved him from being swallowed into the darkness.

You followed along with Bruce. Both getting into the Batmobile. He turned to you, looking at your beautiful features softly. “I love you. Do as I say when we get in there. Please,” Bruce said.

You nodded, but it wouldn’t be enough. When you got there Crane appeared with a bomb. It was a trap and Bruce should have known. Crane wanted to blow up any evidence he had that could get him into more trouble.

When the bomb exploded, you and Bruce were separated from each other.

“Y/n!!” He screamed. He was looking for you everywhere, frantically searching and cursing under his breath.

It was inevitable, you were going to get hurt Bruce didn’t want to face that fact. Once he told you about his secret identity, he knew in the back of his mind it would be too dangerous for you.

But he loved you. Bruce loved you so much that he couldn’t imagine his life without you. And within the next moments, he would have to find a way to live without you.

Crane was on your side of the building. “You are a stupid man, Batman!” He laughed evilly.

“Don’t you dare touch her Crane!” Bruce yelled with all of his anger and fury.

The next thing Bruce heard was a scream and he knew it was you. With adrenaline pumping through his system, he made it his mission to get to you.

“I’ll find you,” Bruce kept whispering to himself. He moved rocks and debris will all his might. Just so he could find you.

Eventually Bruce found an opening into the other side and found you. You were on your back, eyes closed. He rushed to you.

“Darling…Y/n…open your eyes,” Bruce said, holding back small sobs. You looked unconscious and he couldn’t have that. Wouldn’t have that.

“Y/n, open your eyes please. Look at me,” he said, holding your head. But then he saw the blood. And his heart dropped to his stomach. It was over.

Bruce began to cry and he pulled you close to him. His arms wrapped around your waist protectively, your limp body unable to feel a thing. He kissed the top of your head.

He screamed into the darkness. Who would comfort him when he had a nightmare? Who would patch up his cuts and bruises when he came home from a long night patrolling Gotham? You would never do those things again.

You were the one to find him. Bring him back from the dark pit of revenge. Bruce wanted to make you his wife. Share a life with you. One you would know never live.

After your funeral, Bruce let the darkness control him. He went after Crane, knowing he was the one who killed you. Bruce knew that if Crane was dead then he would finally do your death justice.

One night in the Batcave, Bruce was researching the whereabouts of Dr.Crane a.k.a the Scarecrow. He had completely went off the radar after the explosion in his workshop. After he’d — Bruce didn’t want to think about it. Holding your body was something he missed deeply.

He couldn’t sleep and he rarely ate. Alfred was worried.

“I miss her too Master Wayne,” Alfred said, walking into the workshop with a plate of food and some coffee.

“You need to eat something,” Alfred added.

“I’m not hungry, Alfred,” Bruce said, looking at a board of Crane’s whereabouts.

“Finding him and killing him will not bring her back, Master Wayne,” Alfred said in his usual calm and wise manor.

Bruce sighed, running a hand down his face. “I miss her so much Alfred,” he said, defeated. “He needs to be punished for what he did to her,” Bruce added.

“Then when you do find him, place him in Arkham and make sure he never gets out,” Alfred said. “She wouldn’t want you to get revenge like this.”

Bruce knew Alfred was right. You would never want Bruce to kill someone voluntarily. He needed to move on from you and protect the memory of yourself. Bruce shouldn’t tarnish it with killing Crane.

“I’m just not there yet Alfred. The darkness, it’s consumed me. She couldn’t save me just like I couldn’t save her,” Bruce said.

☽☽☽

taglist: @bumblebeesfromvenus

[jasntodds]

Penace [5]

Pairing: Jason Todd x Fem!Powered!Reader

Words: 13,401

Chapter Warnings: Swearing, a little bit of angst, some fluff, mentions of death, panic attack (jason), ptsd (jason), hurt/comfort, mention of scars

Summary: ❝Thesus: Stop. Give me your hand. I am your friend. Herakles: I fear to stain your clothes with blood. Thesus: Stain them. I don’t care.❞

It’s been a month and a half since Crane’s reign of terror was stopped, leaving Gotham to finally return to normal. But, what is normal? After everything Jason and you have been through, it seems normal might be some unobtainable dream state. But that’s not going to stop either of you from trying and maybe, you’ll get lucky in the end. At the end of it, the two of you have suffered enough, right?

Right?

A/N: I'm so sorry it's taken me so long to update!! I had a bunch of stuff going on last month and stuff happened and I just did not have the mental capacity to edit this chapter. I'm so sorry!! You can add yourself to the tag list below, ask me to be tagged, or you can follow my library blog @jasntoddslibrary  and turn on notifications if you prefer that!! I love feedback, I swear it keeps me posting on a weekly basis 😭

series masterlist | masterlist | tag list

The next morning rolls around leaving Jason to wake up first. You're still sound asleep facing him, some of your hair covering your face. Jason takes a tentative finger and moves some of the strands from your face. He takes this time to exist. Sleep always came easier when you were around. Less nightmares, not as much tossing and turning, no insomnia. It was always easier with you around and last night was no different.

You fell asleep first just as you usually did when he read to you. You were cuddled into his side and it felt like it always did for that half hour. Just the two of you in bed together with a book and enough trauma for the both of you. Jason thinks you're both really good at being able to exist in a moment as if nothing happened. There's something in you that allows you both to ignore it all even for a few minutes and just pretend to be who you were before instead of just skin and bones.

The world, people, expect you both to be something specific, to act a certain way. You told him once, in a sort of one-off conversation, you felt like people expected something different. At the tower, you always felt like the others expected you to remain quiet or be angry all the time, to snap at some point. Maybe you did. But, your blood was never filled with anger but grief for what you should have been able to have. When Jason died and you got angry, they expected the silence. They expected the grief to hit you like a train. They expected you to quit, get revenge on the Joker before Bruce did. They expected more than rage-filled blood and red-stained hands. And they expected you to move on because what else was there to do? He was dead. And you were alone. People put up expectations and in some ways you feel like you need to meet some of them. Be more careful, get angry, snap, pretend like it's all fine because it's always been fine. But, then you lay down with Jason and you can watch movies and talk about your mom and you can exist in a way that you want without the weight of expectations collapsing your lungs.

Everyone thinks Jason is angry, always has even before he died. He was never angry. He was upset and hurt and didn't know where to put it. He was never angry but everyone expected him to be so he played into it. They expected him to be some sort of fuck boy so he played into it. They expected him to be reckless and so he was. Maybe he was always a little reckless, no one forced him to rob the Batmobile or go with the red hoods when he was a teenager. But they expect it. And now...Jason can feel it. They expect him to lose his mind and until then, they expect him to be fine. He lived, right? Joker is dead, Bruce avenged his death, and he was brought back. He should be fine, right?

They expect him to be fine without ever considering the scars lingering on his chest or marking up his mind like scuffed up wood. But with you, there are no expectations. He is allowed to read and tell you about theater stuff. He is allowed to have nightmares and be scared. He is allowed to just be. When Jason is around you, he's allowed to exist in a way that he wants without the weight of expectations strangling the life out of him.

Maybe that's why you can exist in moments like these as if nothing ever happened. It is the only time neither of you are facing some false hope of expectations. It is the only time you both can be damaged in all your glory. It is the only time you're allowed to bear your scars with pride and show the beauty they've left behind. You can just...be.

He eyes you softly, brows pinched together and you look so peaceful. He wants nothing more than to pull you into him and sleep like this all day. But it is not his place. He's surprised you stayed in the first place let alone stayed in bed with him. He is so glad you did but there is so much you haven't talked about. So much happened and there's just so much between you. He wonders if you'll ever be able to recover or if this is all you'll be. Just a one-off sleepover sometimes.

He doesn't like that idea very much.

Jason forces himself to get out of bed and make his way to the training area where he keeps his fridge. He expects to be able to grab a few eggs and make an omelet, see what else he has and maybe he could make you (and Tim) pancakes. But, as he enters the room, Tim is seated at the table with a tablet open and his brows pinched together.

"Oh, hey." Tim chimes, offering Jason a wave and a glance before he looks back to the tablet. "I made toast and a pot of coffee." Tim explains.

Jason scratches his head before he shakes it and fully enters the room. "Right, yeah, okay." Jason clears his throat, trying to get rid of the sleep still etched in his tone. "Did you even fucking sleep?"

"Yeah, of course." Tim brushes the question, voice still chipper and a part of it reminds Jason of how Gar usually was at the tower. "Early riser."

"A roof fell on top of you last night." Jason states as he walks over to the coffee pot seeing about a quarter of a cup left. He lets out a sigh before he dumps the pot in the sink and starts a fresh pot.

"Oh, yeah but I'm fine." Tim shakes it off.

Jason can almost hear your voice in his head telling him to push for an answer. A roof fell on top of him and his boyfriend is in a coma. Jason does not buy for a single second that he's simply an early riser. No one is an early riser with this job, not if you want more than three hours of sleep a night. It would be responsible of him to ask Tim if he were okay.

"Seriously, you alright?" Jason asks as he leans against the table to face Tim.

Tim looks up at him and while he knew some of Jason before, this is different. The most of Jason he knows is actually Red Hood related. You didn't talk a lot about him when you hung out and he only spoke to Jason a handful of times, usually about his order at Excellent Gotham. There wasn't much said about Bruce Wayne's newest son. Instead, he knows Red Hood is ruthless, brutal, and scary. He is intimidating and will kill someone if need be. He knows Red Hood almost got his dad killed and almost got you killed and got Dick killed. His association with Crane got him killed. Tim knows Red Hood is someone he wants on his side because if he's not, that could be for the worst.

But, he's looking at Jason Todd who happens to be Red Hood and in this moment he doesn't feel like any of those things. He feels like he did when you introduced him. Normal. Calm. Nice. Tim knew there was more to Red Hood. Not only did he meet Jason and he trusts your general opinion of people, but Tim doesn't believe anyone is as two-dimensional as they may seem. Yet, some part of him almost feels surprised with Jason asking if he's okay but it doesn't feel like it's out of obligation. Instead, it feels like he might actually be genuinely concerned.

"Yeah, no, I'm fine." Tim answers. "Just..." Tim lets out a breath. "Gar said they haven't made any progress with Bernard. And I'm here..." Tim trails off. "Almost getting crushed by a roof and getting trained by you and y/n."

Jason pushes off the table as the coffee pot dings. "You've only been here like two days." Jason states as he makes his way back over to the coffee. "How'd it happen?" Jason asks as he starts to pour himself a cup, making sure to leave enough for you.

"Some video game thing that Brother Blood released." Tim groans. "No one knows how to get anyone out of their comas."

"Look," Jason starts as he walks back over to Tim. "That fucking sucks, alright? But, you and the Titans will figure it out. You're a genius, man." Jason lets out this scoff that comes out as a chuckle. "The way I see it, all those people and Bernard are lucky to have you looking out for 'em."

"Yeah, except I suck at this." Tim lets out a groan, tilting his head back. "I mean, Dick was...incredible. He was so good at this whole thing and he still is. And then you took over and you were just as great." Tim pauses for a few seconds as Jason watches the defeat start to wash over his features. "How am I supposed to live up to that when I can't even get any intel on this guy? When I can't even figure out a damn video game?!"

"Didn't you choose to be Robin?" Jason asks.

"Yeah but y/n said—"

"I died as Robin." Jason cuts him off because it doesn't matter what you said or didn't say. Jason knows Tim is going to be great at this. "Don't take what she says to heart too much. Her viewpoint of Robin will always be tainted because I died. Because it involved Bruce. You chose this, man." Jason points a finger at him. "No one else is crazy enough to do that, not after me. But you did. That means something. Don't get in your head about it, alright? You're smart as fuck and you're capable."

"But what if I was wrong?" Tim asks knowing it takes a special kind of confidence to not only volunteer to be Robin following Dick and Jason but to have the confidence he could do it.

"Dick wouldn't have asked you to be Robin if he thought you were." Jason says it so simply. "We were trained by Bruce for months before we put on the mask and cape, just remember that." Jason states as he takes a sip of his coffee.

"Thank you." Tim offers a soft smile. "Didn't think you'd be the pep talk kind of guy."

"I'm not." Jason lets out a booming cackle. "So don't go telling people I am."

Tim lets out a soft laugh before he locks the tablet. "She still sleeping?" He decides not to push his luck and changes subject, surprised not to see Sam yet.

Jason nods softly. "Yeah, letting her sleep."

"She doesn't sleep a lot, that's what Gar said...that Molly said."

"Yeah..." Jason pulls in a breath as his heart starts to break. "Comes with the job sometimes." Jason only half-lies.

"She's sleeping now." Tim gains a cheeky smile.

"Shut up." Jason groans and he not getting into any of that with Tim. Nope. "Did you want something more than toast?" Jason immediately changes subject before Tim can try to return the pep talk favor for relationship advice. "Toast is a shit breakfast." Jason puts his Wonder Woman mug down before he gets up.

Tim offers a chuckle. "Uh...yeah, I could eat something else."

Jason looks through some cabinets and the fridge. "Omelet or pancakes?"

"Omelet?" Tim questions softly. "Didn't think I'd have an option." Tim did not thnk Jason could really cook, given the whole eggs, beer, and cheese comment.

"Was making both anyway." Jason retorts. He's just trying to be nice.

Tim lets out a laugh. "Oh, I get it."

"If you don't shut up, we won't train today." Jason almost wants to shut his head in the fridge door with his comment. Who the fuck is he? Dick? Gar? Ugh.

Meanwhile, you're finally stirring awake to an empty and cold bed. Your hand reaches over and you feel the spot where Jason was is cold. Your eyes peek open to see he's no longer there or even in the room. It's not that you should have expected him to be you think but there's a part of you that's still disappointed. Somewhere in your head you almost hoped you'd wake up together and you'd have one of your awkward realizations together. You'd stumble over yourselves and your words but it'd feel like home. It'd be warm and comfortable anyway. And then you'd find your footing where it almost felt safest, in the mix of bantering and flirting. But, he's gone. You're not sure that feeling is something you'd ever be able to get used to.

But, you get up anyway, stretching before you get out of bed. You grab one of Jason's hoodies from the table, tugging it over your head as you walk out of the room. You head to the room with the fridge that you're not sure you should really call a kitchen since there's all the training equipment in there, too. Why is he like this?

As you get closer, you hear Jason's laughter bouncing off the walls. Your heart skips a beat and you don't even notice the way the corners of your mouth perk up into a tender smile. You pause just to listen for a few seconds while his laughter subsides and he goes on with his story. He tells Tim some story about a fight with the Riddler and how mad he was. You've heard the story before but hearing him talk so casually and lightly about his Robin days makes you want to burst.

In the few times you've talked of Robin, there's been a sense of bitterness and sadness surrounding the mantle but now he's laughing and joking. He has stories that aren't tied with grief and pain. Robin always meant the entire world to him and you're so happy he seems to still have some of that joy telling the stories. You think maybe he is getting better. Maybe Leslie really is helping him again.

"Welcome back to the land of the living." Jason quips as you walk into the room.

You clear your throat sarcastically. "Get fucked."

Jason flips you off with a tender smile while Tim lets out a laugh.

"Guess I won't make you pancakes then." Jason shrugs dramatically and you know it's a hollow threat but it is also not a chance you're willing to take.

Your eyes narrow slightly before a smile comes to your lips again. "Do not get fucked."

Jason tilts his head and lets out a laugh. "Dunno, think it'll help?"

You shake your head. "You are a bit uptight."

"Look who's fucking talking." Jason waves the spatula at her.

"I am so not uptight." You laugh as you take a seat beside Tim.

"Well." Tim adds in with a shake of his head and the scrunch of his nose.

"The fuck does that mean, Tim?" Your eyes widen at him.

Tim's eyes widen slightly back at her before he quickly looks to Jason. He might help him with Robin but if he wants to go back and forth with you on this front, that's all him. Jason will let him sink. He knows exactly which side he should always be on and it's wherever you are.

"You're on your own." Jason chimes, waving a spatula in the air as he turns back to the stove, the first batch of pancakes already on the burner.

"Nothing." Tim shakes his head with a smile.

"Right." You laugh softly as you roll your eyes.

Jason walks over with a mug in hand. He hands it off to you and your brows quickly raise seeing it's your Supergirl mug from the manor. You packed and moved but forgot the mug. While things aren't...bad per se, between you and Bruce, you did not go back for anything you forgot and you almost laugh. You may not have gone back but clearly Jason at the very least took your mug, likely with the intention to give it to Molly to give to you.

"Thank you." You hold your mug up to him as he goes to walk away.

"You're welcome." Jason gives you a bright and cheeky smile.

"So, what're we going today?" You ask the boys while Jason finishes breakfast.

"I really got to find this Venta guy and get back." Tim states.

"Figure we'll eat, train a bit, then help Tim here try to get some intel." Jason explains, finishing the pancakes before he moves onto the omelets.

"Sounds good." You suck in a breath, pulling out your phone to send a quick text to Molly to let her know you're awake and what the plan is.

Jason finishes up your breakfast before joining you and Tim at the table with three plates in hand, a delicate balancing act on his way. Tim offers a quick thank you before digging in, the toast clearly not holding him over too well. You offer Jason a tender smile before you dig in. Your chest warms and your skin bursts with goosebumps knowing Jason made pancakes for you.

Jason offers such a specific type of subtle kindness that seems to be overlooked by a lot of people. It's not so much in his words which after all this time, you figured out it's just because he's not too good at expressing himself most of the time. For him, actions say everything that gets caught in his throat. And it's not just with you he does it with. Bruce preferred his omelet differently and Jason never even asked, he always just made an extra one with the things Bruce liked. Gar mentioned he was looking for a few Saga comics and Jason found them and shipped them to Titans tower just because he could. He always offers to help Molly with anything she's working on. He extends his kindness with actions just to display how much he cares about the people who offer him the same kindness.

You think it's one of your favorite things about him.

The three of you finish up your food and get changed for training. The three of you take your time stretching and getting ready to allow your food to settle a little. Training starts just as it did yesterday, Jason taking the first round and then you. Tim still doesn't stand a chance but you and Jason can already see some improvement the longer you train which comes as a big relief. 

After training, the three of you get suited up and head out, deciding to go to the marina this time. Tim rides with you, hoping to find something out tonight. He feels like he's running out of time. Meanwhile, you and Jason are looking to see how he does not in a training room with a safety net. A roof fell on him last night and he seems incredibly unbothered. To you, it only feels right to have him out on the streets anyway, even if it's under false pretenses. So, while you're "looking" for Venta or trying to get intel on him, you're also patrolling, showing Tim the ropes, teaching him the art of grappling between buildings. This is all just more training, making sure he'll be safe out there in the open without the security blanket of you and Jason or the Titans or being in one location. Jason and you think Tim will be just fine. He's smart and capable, he pays attention. This is not a game to him.

It matters.

It always mattered to Dick and Jason, too but it's different with Tim. Bruce offered Robin to Dick and Jason. They were his sons. Batman and Robin. They had months and months of training and while it was hard and brutal at times, there was something that felt magical about the whole thing. It felt surreal. With Tim, it's as if he feels he is obligated to fill the role. Unlike Dick and Jason, Tim chose it and there's somehow more pressure in that for him to prove himself. Tim is generally someone who can focus on things that are important and serious, but this is different. It is his life. It's the life of innocent people. He's having fun, sure, but he's taking it even more seriously than Jason and Dick ever did. It doesn't help he's trying to fill their shoes, something Jason does understand.

After hours of looking and patrolling, you don't turn anything up and head back to Jason's. Tim is incredibly disappointed by his inability to find anything out but you and you assure him that if Venta were in town or if anyone knew anything, they would have spilled with the two of you being around anyway. Between the three of you, someone would have told you some sort of information. You both remind him how easy it was to get information from the people you did question about other cases. Some people are harder but getting intel on one person rarely ever results in no answers. The reassurance does make Tim feel a little bit better about it.

While Tim is feeling a bit better and you're confident in his abilities, feeling pretty good actually, the case is not the same for Jason. Some days are just better than others and today is not one of those days. Waking up with you was refreshing but he's finding that to be the best part of his day because Tim put on the Robin suit. Jason isn't mad or bitter about it. It has nothing to do with it but something about it is causing him anxiety. Something about seeing Tim in the suit, or maybe just another rendition of the suit, makes him want to explode and run and cry and scream. He's been biting it down all day because it's his problem not Tim's. He hates it but something about it is pulling him back to Amusement Mile. Something about it is pulling him back to the anti-fear drug and Cran'e reign. Something about it is making him feel so small and useless. He thought he was making progress but you're back at his home and he's never felt so disconnected from everything. He thinks it's so dumb to feel upset and panicky over this.

He swears it's fine.

"I'm gonna shower." Jason clears his throat before excusing himself to head off to his bedroom as quickly as he can, trying not to raise any alarms.

Your eyes linger on the doorway. Jason might as well have run out of the door with how quickly he excused himself. You heard a slight tremble in his voice. It was sharper than usual and his steps weren't as light as they usually are.

"Is he okay?" Tim asks as he walks over to grab the suitcase for his suit.

You look back at Tim and nod once. During your patrol, you could tell something switched. Jason's been in a good mood and pretty casual about everything, generally speaking. Being in a good mood and things going well always seemed to poke a hole into his head a bit. And today, out there doing your thing, he was quieter, more focused. He's always focused but this was laserlike almost and you're supposed to be helping Tim. You'd make some sort of quip and all you'd get is a disguised chuckle from behind his helmet. If you know anything, it's knowing Jason Todd is in fact, not fine.

"Yeah, no I'm sure he's fine." You brush it off, figuring you'll check on him in a few minutes. "I kept him up pretty late so he's just tired, probably." You nod again, Tim not buying any of it.

"He was up before you were." Tim states as he walks back over to you with his case. "It's not my business, just..." Tim shrugs dramatically, showing genuine concern for Jason's well-being.

Your eyes go to your boots and then back to him. "Yeah, uh...yeah." You nod your head. "I'll check on him in a few minutes. I'm sure he's fine, Tim." You offer him a fake smile.

Jason's head is spinning while his arms are practically vibrating themselves from his body. His muscles are going so weak he can barely turn the water on for a shower. The air is thick and stale through his lungs, burning with every breath. His stomach twists and his eyes start to water despite his best efforts to stop it. The world around him starts to feel like it's closing in and suffocating the life from his lungs. The shower pelts the porcelain flooring, he swears he can hear you and Tim talking and walking from down the hall. His heartbeat is radiating through his ear canals and the passing cars sound like they might drive right through his new home. Everything is growing louder and louder and the thoughts start to kick in. They take a battering ram to the walls and that's when he can't even bear to stand anymore.

Jason carries the heartbreak of death on his shoulders and it is crushing every part of him.

Tim leaves you to go change and you follow his lead, heading for a bathroom. You take your time, giving Jason enough time to gather himself if he needs to before you go to check on him. And for a second, you almost even second-guess it. You haven't spoken in a month and a half, you're just now trying this whole friend thing, is it really your place? When Tim leaves, will you just go back to not talking with no obligation in the middle of you? What if you're wrong anyway? Maybe Jason has changed a little bit in this time and maybe he was just more focused because a roof fell on all of you yesterday. You run yourself in circles, not wanting to overstep and mind his space. Jason always liked his personal space, maybe a little too much but you don't want to intrude. You always felt like you were just intruding in people's lives, a mismatched puzzle piece trying to make yourself fit. It's not what you want to do to him.

Being around him was one of the only places you felt like you belonged. And Jason was the one that always made you feel that way.

You make your way to Jason's room once you're in your regular clothes because you can't bear not to check on him. He would do it for you and you know him. Despite it all, you're certain you always know when something isn't quite right with him. So, you make your way to his room and let yourself inside, shutting the door behind you.

You can hear the shower echoing from the en suite bathroom. The door is closed but you're relieved that he's in the shower and not losing his entire mind in his bed. You look around his room some more and you wonder what else he plans to do with it. You think it must feel more like a home than the manor did. Back at the Tower, he had some stuff on the walls that he picked up because the room was his. He graffitied the walls. It was his and it felt like his. But, the room in the manor still had a poster of the Flying Graysons. Jason didn't decorate the walls, something that always made you sad because it should have felt like a home to him. You never asked but you wondered why it didn't. It couldn't have just been Bruce because of how Jason views him. So, you wonder if it was because maybe he didn't think he deserved the manor or maybe it was that he felt like a replacement and someone else would come in to replace him anyway. Maybe it was a safety precaution for his own feelings of being left behind. You aren't sure but you hope this place feels like a home and he gets to decorate his walls.

The shower is still echoing through the door but you can hear the water clearly, no disturbance or movement. Your brows pull together as you make your way to the bathroom and knock softly. You don't get any answer and you don't hear any movement behind the door.

"Jay?" You ask as you knock louder this time. A lump forms in your throat while your heartbeat starts to spike. Your stomach burns and your teeth grit together. You remember the day on the roof. "Jason, are you okay?" You call again and don't get anything in response.

Your hand goes to the door handle and you pause for a second. And it's just a second before you open the door slowly. You carefully peek your head around the door, your eyes landing on the walk-in shower. The frosted glass door is open while water ricochets onto the white tile floor. And then there's Jason. He's seated, fully clothed in the shower, his knees are tugged to his chest while his arms are wrapped entirely around his shins. His head is buried in his knees and all you can do is shake your head in devastation.

You walk inside and close the distance between you. You keep your stance from outside of the shower, trying to mind his personal space.

"Jay?" You try again and you get nothing from him. It's as if he doesn't even register you in the room which might be one of the biggest red flags when it comes to Jason Todd. He is nothing but on guard.

You walk back to the door and shut it, just in case. Then you kick off your shoes and tug your hoodie off your head before you close the distance between you again. This time, you enter the shower, immediately getting pelted by warm water as you kneel down right in front of him.

"Jay, hey." You call his name again but this time, your hands are delicate and careful as you put them on his cheeks. He jumps immediately, head hooting up with eyes terrified and red. He looks panicked for just a few seconds until his brain catches up with what he's seeing. Your teeth grind together seeing the look of pain across his face. It's written in every line and feature you'd fallen so in love with over the last year. Your hands come to his cheeks again, just as tender as they were before and he doesn't even flinch this time. "What's going on?" You ask softly. Jason shakes his head against your hands and his eyes dodge yours and he feels embarrassed and exposed. Of course, you'd find him.

You always find him.

You always see him.

"It's you and me." Your voice is careful as your thumbs run over his skin. "I'm worried about you. What happened?" You brush the white streak of hair from his face.

"Loud." Jason's voice comes out hoarse and small and his bottom lip trembles. It takes every muscle in his body not to let out a sob.

"Okay." You nod your head once, the look of worry almost permanently etched into your features. If Jason had the strength, he'd push you away just to get you to stop worrying so much. He doesn't deserve it. You don't deserve it. "What happened?" You ask quietly, the water now completely soaking your hair.

Jason offers the weakest shrug you have ever seen. "Don't know." Why do you want to help him? Can't you see the monster he's become? His lip starts to tremble again as he tries to get a breath in but the tears are coming back and he can't breathe out of his nose. The water is dripping into his mouth and he almost thinks it'd be easier to just drown right here.

Not a day goes by that you aren't worried about him. It doesn't matter if you haven't spoken. It wouldn't matter if you hated him, as if that were even possible. You'd worry about him because Jason Todd has done everything to be enough. He has done everything to be happy and somehow, he's still the one sitting in a shower in tears because the world around him is suffocating. Yes, the whole Robin thing was worrisome. The whole Red Hood thing is worrisome. He gets shot out for fun. He taunts people because he thinks it's fun. Someone else is going to kill him one day, that much is certain. And while that is worrisome, you've also seen the damage people he loves have caused him. It doesn't have to be physical damage because Jason's own brain wants to torture him and it uses everyone else's words as some sort of infinite ammo. The vigilante thing is worrisome, but where Jason's head is, that's the real thing that's worrying.

It wouldn't matter if you hated each other, you would rip every false and cruel thought that ever crosses his mind.

You let go of his face and move your hands to his. You're careful, lightly pulling his hands apart and away from his legs. Once his legs are free, you move to the side and lightly press on his knees until his legs are stretched out in front of him. The whole thing is making Jason watch you with careful eyes and it's almost a distraction and then you climb on top of him. You straddle his lap, Jason's eyes never leaving you and it almost causes him more panicky. He might know you better than he knows himself, but he very rarely knows what you'll do in moments like these. But then, you don't say anything. All you do is wrap your arms around his neck and pull him for a hug.

Jason tenses up just as he's done before but after a few seconds, a part of him relaxes against you. He gathers a full breath into his lungs and it's as if he's giving his body permission to lose it all again, in the comfort of you. His arms wrap around your middle and his grip is so tight as he lets out a sob, you can't breathe. You think you'd suffocate if it allowed him any type of relief.

It is all just too much. The weight on his chest is too heavy and he doesn't think he can carry it. He goes out and he murders people. They may be very bad people but it's what he does and he thinks about how Bruce is so mad about it. He tries to be understanding but they will never come to an understanding over it. It will be a matter of time before Jason ends up an enemy to Batman and by default, an enemy to Bruce. What makes what Jason is doing different than what the Joker did to him? To Jason, Batman and Robin were the Joker's enemies, right? And he took care of a problem, the same way Jason is taking care of problems. Jason might not be the instigator in it, but he's doing the same crime. Was Bruce right about it? Is he any different than the Joker?

Most days, it is a thing that he lives with. It's for the greater good and his soul is already damaged, it's already the property of something that isn't quite him anymore. It's always just waiting in an in-between for his second round at death. He does it so other people won't have to. He does it so other people won't feel like him or you or Bruce or Dick or Molly or any of them. He does it to help because people get forgotten. That's what he tells himself but right now, he can't quite figure out if that's really the right thing. He doesn't know what else he's supposed to do. If this isn't supposed to be the answer, then what is? What if it isn't and he can't come back from it anyway? His hands are already stained with so much blood.

And because of that, he falls back into his routine way of thinking. He is damaged. He is broken and scarred, physically and mentally now. Everything around him crumbles at his feet. He tries so fucking hard to be something that's easy to swallow and digest but he fucks that up, too because no one really expects him to be like that. He breaks everyone around him and all he does is hurt people. They try to offer him love and kindness and he bites through it like a rabid coyote. He is undeserving. Someone who is deserving doesn't push and they don't hurt people for being kind. They don't destroy people. That's all he has ever done.

And then he fucking died. It might have been scary and traumatizing but there was a moment, right before everything went dark where he accepted his fate. That would be it. No one else would have to suffer for his mistakes. He was going to die and some people might be sad for a little bit, but they would move on. And he wouldn't fuck up their lives anymore. And he wouldn't suffer anymore.

The ache in his bones would be gone and the voice would be quiet. All of the pain he's dealt with would just be...gone. He would take his last breath, and that would be it. He has hurt for so long that there was a moment where he accepted his fate, that it might just be better and easier this way. He did not want to die and he wishes he were able to have put up a fight but in that single second, he accepted it.

That feeling lingers with him today. He accepted it and as brought back. The reaper won't leave him alone, tugging at his lungs and his bones. It's not forceful, just a casual reminder of what's waiting for him one day. It's a feeling in his stomach that feels like the start of an ulcer. Just there, waiting for the right moment. And he saw the look Dick gave him when he saw Red Hood was Jaosn. He did not seem happy. You were at first pissed about it. No one really seemed too happy at first when he came back. He interrupted your grieving process and then interrupted everything else. He dies with the ache in his bones and the guilt because he has no choice but he swears he won't do this again.

He put a bomb in his helmet as a failsafe.

You pull his thoughts back to you as you press a kiss to his temple. "You're gonna be okay, Jay."

"I'm not!" Jason yells through a whine as he pulls away, his eyes on you. His chest is heaving as he pants for some sort of air. "I'm never gonna be fucking fine."

Why does the world treat him so cruelly? Can't it see that he is good? Can't it see that he has always been enough? Can't it see that Jason Todd has been through enough? He has suffered enough. You would fight the universe with your bare fucking hands if that's what it took for it to understand that he is done suffering.

"You will be." You nod your head at him as your hands come to the side of his neck. Your thumbs trace his jawline. "And you don't have to do this shit alone." You urge. "I told you, if I'm alive then you are never alone and I mean it. I don't care." You shrug harshly. "It's gonna be okay." You want to kiss him until he believes you. You want to kiss all of his hurt away, scare it away so far away that it never comes back. You want to kiss him as hard as you can so maybe he'll believe, once more, that he is worthy and he's gonna be okay and he is never fucking alone if you're breathing.

"I-I just want to stop." His voice has never sounded so defeated as he rests his head against your chest.

"I know." You whisper, your hand moving to the back of his head as you run your hand through the wet strands of black hair. "It will, you just gotta give it some time, Jay." Your voice is steady and calm, disguising the pain in your chest. "You've been through a lot."

Jason picks his head up, his green eyes are dark and miserable. Completely broken. "I died." Jason chokes out.

"Yeah." You nod once as Jason watches something devastating rip through your eyes. "Someone should have been there to protect you." You wish it would have been you. It should have been you to protect him.

Jason shakes his head and he lets out this chuckle that almost falls into another sob. "Maybe I was better off dead." He says it in one breath, all flat and sincere. "Look what I've become."

"No." You say sternly because he doesn't get to do this to himself again. He has prevented you from this exact spiral more times than you can count and he doesn't even know it. It's your job to make sure you repay the favor that was never really a favor. "You deserve to be alive." Jason catches a subtle break in your tone. "You became something that everyone was too fucking cowardly to become. You save people." You nod firmly. "Do you know how many people you've saved as Red Hood?" You ask.

"Not fucking many." Jason lets out a huff.

"Three hundred and two." You answer right back.

Jason's eyes widen and he is so certain you're making that up. "What?"

"Three hundred and two." You repeat. "There was a domino effect, too. I didn't actually count that because it would be like... impossible but I did account for some of them. A guy was gonna blow blow up the museum but you stopped him the day before he had a chance. So, you saved every person that would have been there. You've stolen how many guns from Black Mask? I mean just think of how many people you saved because you took those guns? Domino effect. Of course, there was the apartment fire last week which I don't know, Jay. You're not a firefighter but you still went into it and saved a whole family then went back and saved their cat."

Jason's eyes burn and sting as he stares at you in disbelief and confusion. The water pelts him and it's the first time he realizes it's going a little cold. Why the fuck do you know that? Why are you keeping track? Jason doesn't even believe you. You have no reason to keep track of how many people he's saving. It's his doing and it has nothing to do with you. There is no reason for it. You're just telling him this shit to make him feel better even if that's never been something you've done.

You don't lie to him.

Jason didn't think you'd start so soon and he did do those things. The Gazette wrote a few articles about it though and Molly knew. Maybe that's how you knew but your eyes are soft and your fingers are idly playing with the wet strands at the base of his neck. Why are you keeping tabs on him when you never called?

"W-why the fuck do you know that?" Jason finally gets the words out and you can't tell if he's actually mad about it or concerned.

You hope he's just concerned.

You shrug and offer him a small but cheeky smile. "Cause I do." You suck in a breath. "Have my ways."

The very corner of Jason's mouth tugs upwards just barely at the thought that you're really keeping tabs on him, outside of hearing from your friends. If it were anyone else, he'd be pissed. He can take care of himself despite what this situation might look like to an outsider. He can take care of himself and he doesn't need people worrying about him and keeping tabs just to be disappointed or mad. Jason Todd has never needed anyone but you keeping tabs on him both as Jason Todd and Red Hood is different because you only do it for people you care about. You weren't talking and you still kept up with what he was doing. It makes him wonder why because you could have called. You could have asked yourself and maybe that makes the tiniest smile fall.

Jason didn't call either.

"Keeping tabs on me?" Jason asks with a rough but quiet voice, his brows pulling together.

Not keeping up with him feels impossible. As much as you're beating yourself up for everything and as much as a part of you doesn't think you deserve anything with him at all, there was always a part of you that knew you needed to keep up. Molly and Gar might know what he's doing as himself but Jason's going to keep them away from Red Hood as much as he can. Somewhere inside your stomach, you knew you'd find your way back into each other's lives one way or another. You just wanted to know what he was doing and if he were okay. The only thing you want is for him to be okay and killing people is not the easiest thing in the world, despite what it might look like sometimes. So, you've been keeping up with him just in case.

He's important to you, of course you keep tabs on him.

"I know you're keeping tabs on me, too." You whisper back to him, the cheeky smile completely gone from your lips.

Sometimes Molly will ask an odd question, something she either shouldn't know about or something off-handed. All of the Titans would just ask you which means the only person in Molly's ear is Jason. And you know damn well Molly is smart enough to know you'd figure it out. You just don't say anything. You give Molly the answer and Molly updates you on Jason's things. Okay, so she's a little in the middle of you and Jason but Molly knows you're both mostly asking about each other because you're worried. It is so stupid and you're so emotionally stunted, but it'd drive you both crazy not to know.

Jason just needs to know you're okay.

"Maybe." Jason finally gets a grin onto his lips because you knowing without saying anything until now makes his heart swell. Even apart, you just can't help yourselves.

"Exactly." You let out a soft laugh.

Jason nods a few times, his smile turning gentle. "Why, uh, why do you know that though? How many people?" Jason asks and he finds himself resting his hands on your hips as if on instinct.

"Helps." You answer casually. "Keeping track of everyone you kill and everyone you save by killing, it helps. Keep track of mine, too so...I kept track of yours...just in case." You clear your throat, dodging his eyes. "Know how you are and stuff so...uh, yeah, just...knowing it does help...helps on days where it feels like this might be worse." You explain softly. "It's not...by the way." You clarify. "Greater good but yeah...uh, yeah, you know sometimes it's a lot to carry."

The way you word it makes Jason's heart burn. His hands grip your hips a little tighter and he remembers the night outside of Jerry's. You nearly beat him to death and everything was still heavy. It was still a lot to carry and Jason told you to put it on him. When it gets too hard to carry, put it on him because he can carry the weight of it for you. You swore you'd do the same for him and Jason wonders when you seemed to lose that.

He knows. Deep down he knows because it haunts him in his sleep. That night outside of Excellent Gotham when you were finally done absolutely destroyed him. He knows that was the night you both lost everything. That he lost everything. He had almost gotten you, Tim, and Mr. Drake killed and you couldn't do it anymore. Jason still doesn't blame you even if it makes him want to lose his mind to guilt and regret all over again. It hurts because he always felt so secure with you but then that happened and it was like everything he ever had finally collapsed at his feet. An earthquake disguised in the words of "you win. I can't do it anymore. I'm done." crumbled his foundation. Your love had been wilting away ever since he came back and that was the day it all finally fell apart.

He wishes he could take it back. He wants what you had back.

"Still will carry some of the weight for you, Jay." You suck in a breath.

Can the wilting process be reversed? Can it be rebuilt? Or is it tarnished forever? Or can you rebuild something better? If Jason committed now again, would it be better? Could you get a fair fucking chance at this time?

Jason grinds his teeth thinking that he wants you. After all of this and you are still willing to be soaking wet in your clothes in a shower with him and carry the weight of devestation for him when it's too much for him. He is endlessly and hopelessly in love with you. He wants you. He wants what you had before and he wants to rebuild it. Somehow, some way, that is what he wants and fuck if he thinks he deserves it or not because you wouldn't be here if you didn't feel the same way.

Jason leans his forehead against yours. "You can still put it on me." Jason whispers softly and you gain a soft and subtle smile.

You don't know it, but Jason is entirely committed to you. Maybe you won't want to try again and Jason can't even blame you. It was a fucking shitshow and he died and you almost died. It was a fucking disaster. Maybe you weren't, but your worlds burned around the both of you and charred you both in the process. Maybe you won't want to and that's fine. But, Jason wants to try it all one more time, banter and games and then falling into something. It might not have worked the first time, but it'll be different this time. He's so sure of it and he is so sure of you. He just wants to find his footing and allow you to find yours first and then, even if it makes him want to throw himself through a window, he'll start the conversation.

You pull away, resting your hands on his cheeks. "Why don't we get up, get dry, and I can stay if you want me to?"

He always wants you to stay.

"Ya don't have to if you don't want to." Jason offers even though he knows you will anyway.

"I know." You smile softly at him before you scrunch your nose at him. "Guess you're just stuck with me."

Jason lets himself laugh. There's no such thing as being stuck with you. You don't get stuck to people and you make sure people don't get stuck to you. He is not stuck, it is always a pleasure to have you around. Even when it's hard.

Sorting yourselves out is for the best. It hurts the both of you more than words could possibly describe and a part of that does not feel it's for the best. It feels, somehow, more complicated now than it did before. It's as if you've both forgotten how to walk around each other and that part feels wrong. You both strolled right into each other's lives before and made yourselves right at home as if it were always meant to be that way. Being a part and sorting yourselves has left this gap between you that you're not sure how to build a bridge back. But it's for the best because you can't be together and offer each other the care you deserve if you're too busy dealing with your own traumas while trying to help the other one. It's a little too much to throw in a romance. It sucks and Jason knows it.

"Thanks."

"Of course." You get up, leaning over and turning the shower off finally.

You offer your hands to Jason and help him to his feet. The both of you are completely drenched and it makes Jason laugh. Your hair is soaked, the small bit of eyeliner is running down your cheeks and your t-shirt sags pathetically over you. You stick your tongue out at him and then laugh with him. He doesn't look much better than you do so you laugh, heartily and loud, the booms bouncing off of the tile surrounding you. It's all a little ridiculous.

"Why are you laughing?" You ask as you gasp for a breath.

"You look like a drowned rat." Jason bellows before he grabs the two towels from the towel bars.

"Fuck you!" You yell before sucking in a laugh and catching the towel from Jason. "So do you!"

"I know!" Jason agrees with you which only makes you laugh more and he thinks you're still the prettiest person he's ever met.

His laughing subsides first and turns into something soft and tender while you just smile at him before rolling your eyes. Jason wides his eyes to mock you and then he turns around. He rests his towel on the counter beside him before stripping down to his boxers and you can't help but watch. You're starting to feel goosebumps erupt over your skin as you grow colder but the sight of Jason Todd stripping down? That is not a sight to be missed.

He's somehow more toned now than he was before. The muscles of his back flex with every movement as he dries himself off. The Lazarus pit healed his face and the other injuries he sustained from the Joker but it didn't get rid of his previous scars. The one from his dad is still there and the other one from a fight on the streets. You still like how they look on him. Proof that he is alive. And the only thing you want to do is wrap your arms around him and kiss up his shoulder blades.

You almost do it.

Your feet almost move and you can almost feel how his skin will be warm against yours. He'll straighten his stance at first and then he'll relax. His hands will come up to your arms and a chuckle will fall from his lips the second you place the first kiss between his shoulder blades. You both would be happy.

You almost move.

But it's not your place anymore.

So, you will yourself to turn around and strip down just as he did, leaving you in just your bra and underwear to get as dry as you can. Jason peaks over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of your back to him. He could feel you practically boring into his back and he's relieved you turned around. It wouldn't normally bother him but he'd have to turn around eventually and he wasn't in for that conversation at the moment. But, he offers a glance, catching the raised lines of scars through your back, something that still boils Jason's blood.

Your scars never bothered him. Proof that you fight like hell to make it out alive. But, it pisses him off because what the fuck did you ever do to deserve the mistreatment? Nothing in this world justifies the horrors you went through and the fact you have to bear the scars for the rest of your life as if the haunting memories weren't enough. Jason gets it more than anyone, especially now. And all he wants to do is pull you into him, litter kisses across your face until you burst at the seams with laughter because you're happy. At least if you're laughing you're happy and that's what you deserve. To be happy.

Jason shakes his head and says he'll be back with some dry clothes before he darts out of the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He takes a few minutes to get some dry clothes on himself, making sure he's covered with a black t-shirt and grey sweatpants. His body starts to warm up almost immediately from the clothes and then he rummages through his things looking for something for you to wear. He grabs a pair of boxers for you, sweatpants that he only kept because they fit you better, and a red t-shirt.

When Jason gets back to the bathroom, you're seated on the toilet seat with the towel wrapped around you, cutting off just above your breasts. Jason offers you a smirk because who are the both of you if you aren't going to do this whole banter thing?

"Wanna give me a show?" Jason quips.

You snap your attention to him, seeing a pile of clothes in his hands and him now fully clothed. "No, fuck you." You chortle back as you get to your feet.

"But I'm sad." Jason gives you the fakest pout you've ever seen.

"You're still obnoxious." You quip, gesturing with one hand to get the clothes from Jason.

Jason keeps his smirk. "Better than shithead."

"Shithead." You beam up at him, still waiting for him to hand over the clothes.

"Babe." Jason laughs before handing over the clothes.

You smile back at him with the roll of your eyes. "Maybe I'd have given you one if you gave me one." You blink up at him and Jason knows damn well this is a trap.

"In your dreams." Jason holds his confidence.

You shrug, deciding to play the game. It is always the most fun that way. "Those are my best dreams."

Jason feels his cheeks turn a pretty shade of pink. "Don't have just be dreams, babe."

"You fucking wish."

"If I did?" Jason quips without missing a fucking beat.

"I know you do." You roll your eyes and he knows he's won. "Turn the fuck around or get out."

Jason lets out a laugh before he leaves you to get changed, closing the door behind him. "I'm right out here if you change your mind about the show."

"Fuck you!" You yell before Jason hears you laugh behind the door.

Jason leans against his dresser, tugging out his phone to see what he's missed. He has a few texts from Gar, mostly just TikToks and one asking how things are going. Jason decides he'll respond later, not in the mood much for explaining that one. There's a text from Dick asking how Tim is doing and Jason replies that it's going fine, not offering any further explanation. He knows damn well Dick sent the same text to you and you'll elaborate more. There isn't much else on his phone so he goes to his gallery, a habit he can't quite break.

He hasn't deleted a single photo of him and you from his phone. It's an endless and helpless bit of hope that it'll be you and him at the end of this. And these are pictures from a better time because even when he was dealing with the shit from Deathstroke, at least you were both happy. Everything still seemed so simple compared to how it feels today. It feels like years have passed since you were in your bed changing your lock screens to matching pictures. It's as if you've lost your last bit of innocence in those few weeks of terror and agony. Jason figures that's just a consequence of endless trauma. He grieves for the kids you should have been allowed to be. Innocent and dumb and stubborn and carefree. He grieves for the people you both were in the pictures on his phone.

The door opens, tugging Jason's attention up and away from his phone before he pockets it. A tender smile pulls at his lips as you walk out in his clothes, he swore they always look better on you anyway. You have a pile of clothes in your hand, topped with the black towel. You walk right up to him, standing just a few inches from him and beam up at him before you offer the stack to him.

Jason tilts his head back with a laugh before he pushes off the dresser. "Am I your fucking maid now?" He quirks his brows at you.

"I don't think you want me to answer that." You laugh right back and it's something airy and warm.

Jason shakes his head. "Fuck you."

"If you ask nicely." You fire right back and you watch the subtle tint of surprise fade over his face. You let out a snicker before Jason deadpans. "It is still so much fun to fuck with you, Jay."

Jason isn't the only one chasing the innocence of a few months ago. You can feel it, too. It's dark now. Something heavy is lingering in the air everywhere you go. You hate how it feels and ignoring it doesn't do you any good but what else is there to do? At the very least, the way Jason laughs still makes you smile. At the very least, the way he laughs makes the air not feel so heavy anymore. The banter makes things feel a little bit better because at least you're talking, at least you're still on the same page. At least it's still him and you.

"Give me your damn shit." Jason grumbles through a smile while you do as told through a laugh. "Just...wait here." Jason stutters for a second before he darts out of the room.

You make your way to his bed and sit down, your hand landing on his pillow. There's something hard under it and while it isn't your business, you pick up the pillow anyway. Jason keeps a gun under his pillow and the smile evaporates in a second. You know why he does it but...it's the reality of it. The heaviness of always having a weapon at the ready even when it dangers your own life. To live in fear. To live always on guard. It's not fair.

Your heart aches for him. Even after everything, he deserves better. He has always deserved better but now he's stuck here dealing with the monstrosities he was manipulated into doing and dealing with dying. It's all not fair and you wish you knew what you could do to make it better.

You carefully grab the gun, checking the safety and you're relieved he's at least keeping the safety on. You rest it beside you before you look on the other side of the bed, not seeing any other weapons. You'd hope you would have noticed last night or this morning if he had anything out in the open. But, Jason wouldn't which makes you wonder where else he's hiding his weapons.

"What're you doing?" Jason's voice brings your attention back to him.

"Why, uh, w-why do you keep a gun under your pillow?" You ask.

Jason's teeth grind against each other, knowing he can't lie about it. He moved it last night when you weren't paying attention. He'd never have you sleep in a bed when it could go off. But, by the way you asked, that's not why you're asking. You don't even sound mad but Jason is embarrassed anyway. Exposed again, twice in one night because of course he keeps weapons at the ready. He needs to be prepared for anything. Joker took care of the job once already and Jason has been doing a great job in making more enemies than friends these days. He keeps his guard up at all times so he doesn't get beaten to death again.

"I put it there." Jason states, stuffing his hands into his pockets, practically gluing his feet to the floor. Maybe if he doesn't move, you won't ask any more questions.

You blink at him a few times. "Yeah...I-I knew that?" You question him. "That's fucking stupid, you know that?" You ask with the nod of your head. "You might have the safety on but what if it goes off?"

"Look, it's not a fucking thing. You don't have to make it one." Jason shakes his head, gesturing a leisured hand towards you, trying to brush it off as much as he can.

You roll your eyes before you get up, gun in hand with the barrel facing the floor. "I'm not judging you for it. I get it." You shrug your shoulder as you hand the weapon to him.

Jason holds it in his hand, grip tight while he watches you go to your bag. His brows furrow as you start digging into your backpack. You pull out a switchblade, metallic blue shining against the low light of his room. You walk back over to his bed and put the knife under his pillow.

"It's locked so it shouldn't open on you while you're asleep. Just don't lose that one, I like that one." You roll your shoulders, eyes locked on his. "I got those from Bruce so they're good for throwing." You explain as you swallow thickly and you can see Jason wanting to fight you on it, defend himself but he doesn't need to. Jason Todd never needs to defend himself against you. "I have one under my pillow, too." You say quietly while you watch Jason's face soften and his shoulders relax.

Being with you was always the place he never felt judged for anything, even the blood staining his hands.

"Thank you." Jason takes a few steps forward, finally unsticking his feet from the wooden floorboards. "Don't have to look after me, though." Jason says it simply, a hint of hurt in his voice. He takes a seat beside you. "Not your job anymore." Jason's eyes are dark and sad, something tugging his thoughts back to a place they shouldn't be.

"I know." You say quietly. "It was never a job in the first place." Your eyes go to your hands and Jason can feel the lump in his throat growing again but this time, for the love he thinks he lost from you. Or the love he thought he lost. "You're still my favorite person." You whisper back to him and you don't know why you say it. You only know that it's true and it's always been true. Maybe he just needs to know it's still you and him.

"Still?" Jason asks, his eyes searching over your face for any indication that you're going to throw out some quip.

"Mhm." You hum with a subtle nod.

Jason looks to his hands in his lap and he misses you more than words could possibly describe. He misses your honesty and your care and your quips and the snark. He misses every aspect of you and he is so in love with you. He thought, for just a second, maybe that feeling would fade. Time would pass and it would fade, especially lately. You'd meet again and maybe it would be so different that he wouldn't feel like his heart would burst from his ribcage at the sight of you. You always deserved better than him anyway. After everything he put you through, you deserve better than that but he can tell by how you stutter and tug at your sleeves, the way your smile doesn't quite reach your eyes after the last bit of banter, you aren't entirely happy. Being with him, for some reason he'll never understand, made you happy. And being with you always made him happy. You're sitting here and it's as if his very heart is trying to climb through his chest to get to yours. He is still so endlessly in love with you.

"I miss you." He says it quietly, looking back to you and he wishes he could tell you the other eight letters but..that all seems a little too honest and a little unfair. He doesn't expect you to say it back.

Every day you wake up and you love him. Every day you wake up and you miss him. Today was the first day in two months, you didn't miss him. You didn't miss him because he was down the hall. You didn't miss him because he was here and so were you. Today was the first day in two months, your chest didn't ache with the thought of him. You miss him, too and you miss his smile and his laugh and the new addition of the white streak of hair. You miss his sarcasm and his ability to turn anything into some sort of joke. You always miss him. And you are endlessly in love with him.

"I miss you, too." You whisper back, eyes locking on his.

The haunted words of 'I love you' scrape down your throat, knowing it's not your place to say them. It's too honest, too vulnerable, too exposed. It's too much for both of you and it's not fair to put that on him. It's not fair to put it on him because you aren't sure what you'd do if he knew. It's agonizing swallowing the words. You have felt more at home today than you have in two months. Jason deserves to know you still love him despite it all but you can't say it.

The room falls silent, the air between you growing humid and thick. Tonight was a bad night. They happen sometimes. Sometimes the weight of it all drags Jason down and he can't pick himself up. But you walk right in and don't even hesitate. You always know what to do and you never even question it. Tonight was a bad night but you were here and he is thankful for you. He's coming into himself as Red Hood, knowing, most nights, that what he's doing is for the greater good. He's getting along with Bruce and they're actually trying for once. He sees Leslie once a week. He is trying, making a solid effort to move past everything that's ever made him feel like a burden. It's the forgiving himself for what happened that drags him down.

Everyone was right. It was his choice to go to Crane. He didn't have to. Sure, maybe it wasn't really him while he was high, but it was. It was him making that choice to keep taking it, it was his choice to ignore every single offer you ever made to bring him back just because he was pissed and stubborn and he felt abandoned. So many people have suffered because of what he did under Crane's control. It may not have been the real him but he still did it. And that's a very difficult thing to forgive himself for. And it only ever gets worse when you're involved because you were the one person who never even thought about giving up on him until you were given no other choice. It's a very hard thing to forgive himself for but he is trying.

Leslie says he needs to learn to forgive himself, everyone else has forgiven him and that should mean something.

He's trying.

He's trying to forgive himself and be better. He is trying to accept the care and kindness of others without second guessing their motives or when they'll up and leave.

He's trying not to push.

"I..." Jason stutters. "I really miss you." Jason says again, hoping you get it because he can't stand to not have you in his life anymore.

Your face softens as your heart shatters through your chest. You forgave him for everything the second it all happened. Sometimes, you can feel yourself upset about some of it but it's just the grief kicking in again. The grief of everything you both lost the second he made the decision to go to Crane. It is the one decision he has made that you don't understand but you aren't Jason. You weren't Robin. You weren't stripped of the most important thing to you, of your identity. Not like Jason was. And you forgive him anyway because Jason doesn't like to hurt people. Especially people he cares about. Pushing has always been a way to hurt himself, not other people. You forgive him for everything even if he doesn't know it.

You wish it were different so you wouldn't be suffering through the pain of missing each other. It doesn't seem very fair, especially tonight.

You know what he means.

"I really miss you, too." Your voice is honest and Jason thinks you even sound scared, a reminder of how he sounded the first time things got a little too real with your feelings. Those words hold the same meaning that they do for Jason. Everything you're both too scared to say tonight.

You lean forward, resting your forehead on his shoulder and you know your heart will only ever belong to him. It'll always be safe with him. Jason's eyes soften as he looks down at you and instead of making some quip or joke, he lets you sit in the moment. He rests his cheek against your head and all he wants to do is kiss you. This isn't easy for you either.

You lift your head and Jason's eyes are big and green, the prettiest shade of green you've ever seen. He is still the only thing you have ever wanted. He will always be the only thing you'll ever want. And Jason can feel it, too, like an invisible string tugging you together in every universe, in every timeline. You are the only thing he has ever wanted. You are the only thing he will ever want.

Jason hopes you know he feels it, too so he rests his forehead against yours first this time. Your eyes close as your shoulders relax and Jason finally lets out a breath before his eyes close. He'll never ask because that's too soon into whatever this friendship is going to be but he's hoping you stay awhile. Stays past morning tomorrow and into the night. You don't have to talk about any of it, he just wants you to stay and he wants to stay just like this because it's the safest he's felt in two months. And it's like a reflex, embedded deep into his DNA, he brushes his nose against yours as he feels your breath fan over his lips.

You match him but instead, you brush your lips against his. You haven't kissed him in a month and a half yet it feels like it's been an entire century. Kissing him has always washed away every doubt and ounce of sadness you've ever had. Him kissing you has always made you feel wanted, the two of you against the world. That's how it should have been and that's how it should be now. You want to kiss him so badly you think you might burst into tears. Life was always better with him in it. You want to kiss him to show him that even if you can't be together, you still love him with every ounce of your existence.

Jason's head starts to spin and he holds his breath. He's thrown right back to that time in the manor when you told him to prove it. You said it and he never put in a single thought after that. He took the leap and he thinks it was one of the best decisions he's ever made. That kiss sealed your fate together, even for just that short time. It brought you to him in a way he didn't think he'd ever be lucky enough to have. Being with you made him feel lucky for the first time in a very long time.

Maybe you can do this again. Maybe the way for you to do anything is to tiptoe into it. It didn't work last time but it wasn't for lack of trying. It was Jason who fucked it up but it had nothing to do with you and him. Maybe falling back into each other is how it's supposed to be. Maybe you could fix it all. It's just lonely without you. He's terrified but your lips brush over his again and you're making the first move this time. You can still quiet every horrible thought he's ever had. He loves you with every ounce of his very existence.

Jason brings his hand to your cheek, running his thumb over your cheek. Your skin is always soft under his callused fingers. He thought maybe you'd back out because you do that. You run from everything, you back out, it's all a joke and that's that. It would be incredibly painful but...you don't. You lean into him instead. So, Jason finally closes the bit of distance between you and brings his lips to yours.

You smile against him and Jason can breathe again. He can breathe again as you kiss him back and your mouth moves with his. This might be a one-time thing but that's okay because even if it's just for this moment, you choose him. And he chooses you. You will always choose each other. In the chaos of your lives, somehow, you find your way back right here with your hands pulling the collar of his shirt closer to you and his hands on your cheeks. You choose each other anyway. Despite the pain and heartbreak and chaos and all of the terrible, horrible, thoughts, you choose each other. Even if it is just for a moment, Jason decides to take the second leap and he wants this moment to last as long as you will let it. If you'll have him.

Jason moves his hands to your hips, giving them a squeeze before he tugs you closer to him. You get the hint and without breaking the kiss, you move to straddle his lap, Jason guiding you down. His hands squeeze your hips and he tugs you as close to him as possible while your hands find their way to his shoulders and then the back of his neck. Your fingers tangle in the damp hair at the base of his neck. The kiss grows sloppy and desperate, teeth clanking against each other and it is the most cathartic feeling the both of you have had in a long time.

It is healing parts of you both you didn't think possible. Normally, it's Jason questioning your feelings because why would you ever love him after all the damage he's done? But, it's you questioning that as you kiss him with everything in you. You're just like everyone else, why would he forgive you for that? Why would he kiss you like he's still hopelessly in love with you? You broke a promise to him and he's still here and you have no idea why. But, tonight, you're going to allow yourself to be thankful. All that matters right now is that you're here, together, just him and you.

Jason swears you have left a permanent make spelling out your name across his heart and Jason wouldn't have any other name in your place. And a part of him thinks you know, too. It's as if it glows and heats up the center of his chest whenever you're around. It's like his heart becomes a beacon of light on the top of a lighthouse the second you kiss him. You make him feel alive again and he doesn't have to feel so alone when you're here.

You feel so at home with him. Every piece of paranoia that's been coursing through you fades away and you know, without a shadow of a doubt, with Jason you're safe. After everything, he will always protect you. You will always protect him. You're tied together even if you don't want to admit it to each other. You've ruined each other for anyone that would ever come after and the both of you have never been so thankful.

Jason pulls away, his chest heaving as his eyes open slowly. Your eyes meet his slowly, pupils lust-blown and you have a loving and lazy smile spread across your lips. He thinks he could do this all night long.

He gains his signature smirk. "Did I win that time?" Jason's eyes glance to your lips.

You deadpan and shake your head. You expect absolutely nothing less from him. "Shut the fuck up."

Jason lets out the warmest chortle you've ever heard. "That's a yes."

"Just shut up and kiss me." You groan before colliding your lips with his.

You can feel him grin wildly against your lips before he falls right back into rhythm with you.

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[hllywdwhre]

Hoax

Pairing: Jonathan Crane x fem!reader

Summary: You debate leaving your identity as Batgirl behind for a certain villain that has caught your eye.

Warnings: None; let me know if I missed any

Word Count: 641

Notes: Credit to @slut4thebroken for the ‘baby bat’ nickname 🫶🏻 it’s now a favorite trope of mine with Crane

Based on the song ‘hoax’ by Taylor Swift.

My only one

My kingdom come undone

My broken drum

You have beaten my heart

Morals. You couldn’t let yours lapse. Your morals are what caused you to start working with Bruce in the first place, yet every time he called you “Baby Bat”, you felt your heart flutter in a way you knew you shouldn’t.

He was terrorizing the city with a plan to unleash a deadly amount of fear into the streets. It would cause Gotham to fall into something beyond anarchy and the cure would never be ready in enough time for you to stop it. It was terrorism, there was nothing else to describe it.

Yet, here you sat, with him standing in front of you, a look that was equal parts teasing and knowing on his face.

“You can’t ask me to stop being Batgirl, I can’t do it.” Your voice shook as you sat on his bed next to him.

“So your morals stop you from giving up Batgirl, but not from fucking and falling for the Scarecrow?” He asked, the familiar taunting emphasis on his alter ego’s name. The look on his face matched the taunting tone.

“There has to be a middle ground somewhere…” you began, voice desperate, “I won’t help Br- Batman when it comes to Scarecrow’s plots, but I won’t help you with them, either. I stay on the sidelines and only aid him in taking down others,” you offered, trying to come up with something that allowed you to keep Batgirl and Jonathan.

“You know that can’t be done. I work with others and they’re going to work with me,” he pointed out.

You let silence fill the air for your response, and for once, he didn’t fill the air with a know-it-all or sarcastic reply. He allowed your silence to sit.

Weeks later and you were sitting by someone’s side, watching as the city went into chaos.

“And your kingdom crumbles…” Jonathan said in a low voice that was distorted by the mask he wore.

The words sent a pang through your heart, but you ignored it.

“It was going to crumble anyways,” you replied with an equally distorted voice.

“Let’s move,” he told you, grabbing your hand and standing.

You stood up and followed him through one of the many tall buildings that filled Gotham, finding your horses in the lobby of the building, and moving to guide them outside before a third party made their presence known to the two of you.

“I thought it was you… I didn’t want to believe it,” Bruce said, causing you and Jonathan to whip around and look at where he was perched on one of the desks.

“Don’t,” Jonathan warned, his voice even more menacing while it was distorted.

As much as he had mocked you for the way your morals had caused such a…tumultuous beginning to your relationship, he didn’t allow for others to do the same.

“You traded one set of wings for another, and in doing so helped bring the downfall of Gotham,” Bruce said, his eyes behind the Batman mask being trained on you. “From Batgirl to the Sparrow…” he trailed off.

“You always underestimated her,” Jonathan said, stepping slightly in front of you, as if trying to protect you. “Do you understand why it’s now Sparrow?”

Bruce shook his head.

“Because Sparrows are often seen as harmless birds,” Jonathan answered, allowing your hand to rest on his arm as he continued on, “but in many cultures they represent death. That’s what you saw her as when she joined your side. A helper. Not a fighter that could bring more to you. You were afraid to weaponize her, but I saw the other side of her. The one that could be dangerous.”

He saw the side of you Bruce was afraid to weaponize, but he didn’t view it as a weapon. He saw all of you and viewed it as you.

[ellesthots]

Fateful Beginnings

XXIX. “uncanny valley”

parts: previous / next

plot: you and Bruce dance around the horrors of the weekend, desperate to make things right—or, at least, better.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, angst, mental health issues, descriptions of violence, descriptions of injury, grief, anxiety

words: 6.1k

prev. chapter summary (XXVIII): You go to Wayne Tower on Saturday night to talk to Alfred about ways to get Bruce help. Alfred is hopeless. Bruce intercepts, bitter at your intrusiveness, and storms off. You call Dr. Crane, who tells you to refrain from following him for fear of escalating the argument. On your walk home, you run into a panicked, horrified Bruce in an abandoned alley near his house. He does not recognize you, and after calling Alfred for him to be picked up, Bruce begs Alfred not to tell his parents about him being out so late. After a brief heartfelt (and teary) conversation with Alfred, where he expressed thanks and reassured you were not making things worse (as you thought, and still think), you went home. The next day, Bruce has no recollection of the night before, brought up to speed by Alfred. At Alfred’s urging, Bruce visits your apartment on Sunday, begging you to see his side. The argument becomes heated, and, convinced by Dr. Crane’s horrifying prognosis for Bruce and his own erratic, dangerous behavior, you do a last hail-mary to get him help: you lie about being the person who saw Bruce jump, expressing how terrified you were at thinking you’d watched him die. This immediately triggers Bruce to his childhood, and he does a hard reset on his denial, horrified he’s repeating the cycle, reassuring you he will accept help.

Outside of receiving some calls, you hadn't checked your phone since Thursday night. Texts, socials, it had all been abandoned trying to remove the noose snaking Bruce's neck. After the phone call with Alfred you were able to relax into bed and pull out your phone—immediately smacked by a bazillion texts from Mar, a few from your parents, and some mentions on Scypher. You clicked on Mar's texts first.

Thursday, 11:50pm: OMGGG just now seeing thissss i got so lit tonight. sorry!! idk if i can make it to help you move. def can't drive in the morning tho!!! ttys!!!

Friday, 1:20am: ok lolz i went to a second club 2nite and yahhh i don't think i can make it 2morrowww

Friday, 12:30pm: if ur still in town i could help, i just got a massive headache hahaha have you left yet

Friday, 1:22pm: ur prob on the road byeee

Friday, 1:30pm: wait ur still in Gotham??

Today, 12:58pm: BITCH!!!!!!!!!!!! you didn't tell me you did the interview with him!! like actually!!!!!!! okayyyy too famous to respond to me I see? i'll make sure to visit to get your autograph lol.

Today, 2:15pm: bro i got so many more friend requests already today???? some are Bruce Wayne fan accounts. wtf!!!??? this is like blowing up

Today, 6:15pm: MISSED CALL FROM MAR.

Today, 6:16pm: MISSED CALL FROM MAR.

Today, 6:18pm: LOOK !!!!

She'd attached a Buzzfeed article titled: Bruce Wayne's First Interview Came Out Today, and Our Jaws (and Clothes) are on the Floor

You couldn't read any further though, seeing as you had a handful of texts from your parents to sort through.

Friday, 1:45pm: Hey hunny! Your mother and I are home from the second shot. She told me to text you 'I am fine'. We will call you this evening after I finish up the deck.

Friday, 6:37pm: MISSED CALL FROM DAD.

Friday, 6:40pm: Deck done. When you visit next I'll show you. Walter likes it. Love you

Today, 3:13pm: MISSED CALL FROM MOM.

Today, 3:20pm: Hi kiddo. Wow! Congratulations on the article! Debbie showed it to us when she visited earlier. I thought you said you were done with that guy. Love you sweety!

You responded to your dad about your mom, and your mom about the article. You refused to comment on her mention of Bruce, wanting to purge your mind as much as you were able to after the weekend you'd had. You resigned to calling her first thing in the morning, miserable over forgetting about her second shot. After responding to Mar to update her on staying (and to express faux excitement about the article's release), you stayed up a few more minutes to see if your parents might still be awake and responsive. Sleep.

You woke up late that day, around two in the afternoon; the only reason you hadn't slept even longer was a phone call from Dr. Vry startling you awake. "Y/N! Have you seen your article? I can't believe it. Over a hundred applications just TODAY to the journalism program!"

You fought your way through the conversation, the gears in your head finally harnessing enough energy to start worrying again. The call ended quickly, as she 'had a lot of applications to get through', and you called your mom without a second glance at your phone notifications.

"Hey sweetie. I saw your text last night, but I couldn't respond. Walter was finally curled up in my lap, you know how sensitive he is." She sounded fine, neither ecstatic nor miserable. Her energy picked up when she started talking about your article. "Your dad was looking into that Wayne guy, and ran across that article of yours. He didn't know it was you that wrote it until Debbie brought it over!"

You'd padded out to your kitchen to make some toast with the butt of the bread. "Since when is dad researching things about Gotham?"

"He's been very intrigued ever since graduation. He—"

Your dad sounded off in the background. "Hun? Hey! I saw that article of yours! His first interview ever. That's a big family, you know. The Waynes. It's a big deal sweetie!"

He continued without leaving space for you to change the topic. "You know about his parents, right? God, poor kid. Seems to have recovered from it well enough."

You stifled a laugh at him delivering the most famous lore of Gotham city like it was breaking news. "Yeah, I know about his parents."

"You know, I knew I sensed something between you two. When's he coming to visit?" You heard a meow in the background, and you could only imagine your dad was munching on some sandwich he desperately wanted.

"Dad,"

"People don't give their first interviews to just anyone. Must've really impressed him."

"He's never coming over, dad."

"You don't have to be embarrassed honey. He seems like a stand-up guy! Next visit, bring him."

"It sounds like you want to meet him." You rubbed your temples, having temporarily abandoned your peanut butter spreading. You didn't know if you were right, but you could've sworn you heard him shaking his head. Walter meowed again. He definitely had some sort of food in his hand.

"What kind of dad would I be if I weren't excited to meet my daughter's boyfriend?"

The juxtaposition of the past few days to his chipper, nonchalant demeanor was stark, reducing you to a teary mess. No, you wanted to snap at him. I actually visited him in a psych ward. Had to stop his future from becoming a funeral.

"Hey, whoa now..." Your mom spoke in a hushed, frustrated tone in the background. "I'm sorry sweetie. I get it. I won't talk about him anymore."

You continued to cry, unable to get any words out. It was like you were finally able to feel the weight of what had been placed on you, feel the piercing stab of the fear it instilled. Your sobs were so pathetic and deep that your mom kept asking if you could breathe. It took much longer than you were comfortable with to even begin steadying, and when you did you knew it wouldn't last. You told them you had to get back to work, and that you'd see them in two weeks.

Vanity Fair. Vogue. People. Cosmopolitan. Us Weekly. Elle. Glamour. Seventeen. Marie Claire. Your eyes had fuzzed over as anxiety nestled into your gut. So this had been... this had been huge. 600 followers had turned into 13,000, and that was just on Scypher. Instagram had 300, now 6,500. So many mentions, so many comments, you started to panic even more. You tossed the phone across the bed and wrapped your arms around your body, rocking slowly back and forth, squeezing your arms so hard they began to ache. Flashbacks to Saturday night pulsed between your eardrums, projected on the back wall of your mind. You'd never seen someone so out of their element before. The image of him in the fetal position on the ground. The screaming. The nearly incomprehensible rattle in his voice. The stitches that bulged, the skin sloughed off his fingers. The blood. The sweat. The panic. Dread. Fear. Hysteria.

Your hands shook just the same as they fought to text Alfred. Your fingers garbled the message, but you couldn't handle another second without knowing if he was alive or dead. What if he'd taken the whole fucking bottle? What if he was on the floor of his bedroom, the last dregs of his functioning body procuring foamy spit out of his mouth for him to choke on? What if he flung himself off another building? His house was so fucking tall. So empty. So huge. So many places he wouldn't be seen, he wouldn't be found, so many places someone could hide if they needed, or wanted. What if he was strung up by his neck on a ceiling bar?

You shrieked in pain as waves of fear ravaged you. If it were real water you'd be swept under, and you wouldn't even fight it. The water would take away all your troubles, your worries, your fears. But he couldn't know that. They couldn't know what this was doing to you.

You set the phone down.

If he knew, he'd feel guilty. He couldn't feel guilty. Guilt would hurt him more. Guilt could push him over the edge.

Instead, you dialed Dr. Crane. He answered on the second ring, always so quick. "Y/N. I was about to call you. Before we get into it, why did you call?"

Anxiety lurched up into your chest, eager to overwhelm and incapacitate. "Get into what?"

Dr. Crane laughed, a discordant sound that chilled you. "To thank you. Whatever you did, it was successful. This is strictly confidential, but he is accepting treatment."

So he's alive? "I wanted to talk to you about that." You swallowed hard, yanking at a loose thread in your comforter. "I uh, he wasn't going to get help until I, until I lied."

"About what?" Dr. Crane's composure was always strictly maintained, and this time was no different. He never gave away his feelings. "I had to tell him I was the witness. I said I saw him jump."

"Oh."

That was quite possibly the worst thing he could've said.

"Well, that changes things."

"What things?"

"For one, that's a secret you must keep. Glad you clued me in." You heard a rustling of papers, a hushing of his tone. "Usually that would be unacceptable, but if we're both being honest," His candor was unsettling. "I have yet to see someone as deeply in denial as him accept treatment. I went to sleep fully anticipating waking to news of his passing." His tone was suddenly lighter, almost singsongy. "I can't say I'm disappointed in you."

You had no concept of how to respond to that. Guilt ulcerated your stomach and strangled your chest, but at least Bruce was breathing. After a silence that was too long, long enough you were surprised he hadn't yet hung up, you spoke. "Are we, are you, sure?" Words were having trouble finding you. "About the lying? I didn't see it, and what if the real witness,”

"There is nothing to be concerned about regarding the witness. Mr. Wayne has begun treatment, and will soon be stable. Incredible work."

"I—"

"You saved Bruce Wayne’s life, Y/N. It's only a shame it's a badge you can’t share." You could hear the smile in his tone, but you weren't happy. The reassurance you’d been seeking was far from assuring, leaving you situated in an uncanny valley of suspicion. How could he be so joyful? Why wasn't he drilling you about going to such lengths? Had it… had it really been that fucking hopeless? Anger boiled in you at the prospect of Dr. Crane knowingly sending you on a suicide mission. Before you burnt the bridge, you thanked him for the update and hung up. It took everything in you not to throw the phone against the wall.

The shower was scalding. You barely felt it. He must have thought he wouldn't make it. He seemed so fucking resolved to Bruce's death. Fully anticipating waking up to news of his passing? But there was 'nothing he could do'? Not a word of tangible advice besides 'don't go after him'. If I listened to him, who knows who would have found him out there! Would he have attempted again? You also wrestled with the uncomfortable reality that Dr. Crane had been correct; you had played a vital role in him accepting treatment. Had Dr. Crane psychoanalyzed you, deemed you the sort of person to lie if needed? Someone he could push to do things outside of personal liability? A sort of reverse hitman?

As you toweled off, your anxious mind continued its rumination. So he took meds. But did he take just one? Alfred will watch him, right? Hold onto his meds, only give him them as needed? Is he employing a system, making sure he checks under Bruce's tongue, locks the bathrooms, listens for retching, making sure the medication is accurately and genuinely consumed, as prescribed? You needed a break, but you couldn't find one. Sitting on the edge of your bed you knew you wouldn't be able to rest until you knew he was alive right now. And the next day. And the next day. And the next. A boulder jammed down your shoulders knowing you wouldn't be satisfied unless he personally slept on your couch so you could monitor him like a newborn. His attempt and general discontent were affecting you far more than you'd initially internalized.

Bruce sat in Alfred's study by the fireplace, staring out the window towards the grounds. Over breakfast with Alfred he took the first dose of the medication, and only a few hours later he swore he could feel the effects. He'd done some quick googling on olanzapine, and it appeared he was having a placebo effect. At minimum he'd feel effects in a few days, more likely after a week or two. He had to stop researching after that, too freaked out about having to be on antipsychotics, too much still in disbelief about how he'd done something so drastic yet had no memory of it. Alfred convinced him to stay 'home' from Batman for the rest of the week, which was an unusually easy feat considering how he hadn't taken a voluntary night off since beginning the project years ago. It broke him how upset you'd been, and he knew he wouldn't be able to see Alfred cry again. That was unbearable.

He didn't have much to do; he quickly realized he had been living only for the night. There really wasn't anything to do in the tower; no games (outside of a dusty chess board in Alfred's study), one old television (also in Alfred's study, off to an adjacent corner), no gym (he overextended himself enough as Batman), and the house was generally kempt from Dory's attentive cleaning in a house that didn't need more than dusting anyway.

Alfred told him to skip the meeting this week; Bruce initially hadn’t cared much either way, but realized that wasn't an option after misery frayed his nerves with just half a day of sitting around. In order to go in public, he needed to not be scarred and scabbed to hell; he wanted to walk the grounds, but worried about doing it in the daytime in the state he was in. Your article’s release had also prompted a patch of reporters to hang around his house, increasing his surveillance. Give an inch, they’ll take a mile. He and Alfred briefly discussed the contingency plan they kept at the ready: staged police photos of a nasty car crash on the edge of the grounds, but he couldn't share them yet—he wanted to leave you as much time as possible to soak up the success of the interview. You deserved that much, you deserved more after what he'd put you through. At least once an hour he thought about calling you, and he very nearly did a few times. He worried about you. Were you safe? Did you need anything?

On some level, he theorized focusing so much on you was a coping mechanism to escape his failing mental capacity. The more he focused on you, the less real estate his panic had. Last night had been miserable. He'd stayed awake staring at the ceiling, his mind swirling with shock and fear. He’d wondered if this is what his mom had endured, but he didn’t have the mental fortitude yet to go digging through Arkham Asylum records. He didn’t know if he ever would again, so he simply sat. Watched the clouds move along the skyline. Watched the shrubs sway in the backyard. Followed the occasional crow floating past the windows.

As soon as darkness fell he couldn't contain himself any longer. The nagging feeling of someone he traumatized being alone in it was too much. He grabbed a hoodie and walked to the elevator, sure he could make a free escape through the old subway route. His hand hesitated before pressing the button. What if you didn't want him to visit? What if it was too stressful? He couldn't keep coming over unannounced, it was weird. Not normal. Alfred had heard the metal rustling and walked into the kitchen. His brow furrowed. "I thought you were taking a break from him?"

"I am." He stared at the ground, lost in thought. "Would you call her?"

"Miss Y/N?" Alfred's voice was soft, concerned. "Sure, why?"

Bruce had conveniently kept to himself that you'd been the one to watch him jump. That you were the witness, that you'd called 911. "I want to give her an update."

Alfred pulled out his phone and Bruce walked closer, bridging the gap between them. "Ask if I could talk to her." He didn't blink until you picked up, hiding a wince at how you'd done so before the end of the first ring. You were scared. Desperate.

"Miss Y/N, I hope this isn't a bad time." Alfred paused with the phone to his ear, his expression faltering before he let out a small chuckle. It was hollow. "No, he's alright. He wanted to see if he could speak to you now."

He handed the phone to Bruce, who quickly scurried up the stairs and into his room. He only put the phone to his ear once the door was closed behind him. "Y/N?"

"Bruce." It was so nice to hear your voice when it wasn't panicked. You sounded a bit tired, breathy, but miles better than yesterday. A sigh of relief heaved out of him, to which you had a reflexive response. "Are you okay?" Your voice rose, both in volume and octave.

"Yes. Are you okay?"

"I really don't think it matters,"

He bit back a part of him that wanted to say you were the only thing that mattered. He'd broken you. "Are you?"

You sighed. "Yes. Did you uh,"

"I got the meds."

"Good. Did you take them? Or, one, or, whatever the dose,"

"Yeah." He could hear how clouded your mind was, and it was excruciating being so limited to the phone. He remembered the first week after the murder. His mind had been a hazy minefield, everything running on autopilot. The tears, his limbs, his voice, nothing had been a conscious decision for weeks. Sure, he hadn't died, but you'd thought he had. If… his parents had survived, he figured he would've been in a similar state regardless. He wanted to help you, but he didn't know how.

"How long does it take the medication to work?"

"A few days. Maybe a few weeks." After his parents died, everyone brought him food. Random strangers had brought flowers, and food, and even stuffed toys for him to cuddle with. He'd only kept one, a stuffed dinosaur, now tucked into the back of his linen closet. Alfred checked on him constantly. No longer did he have to do his chores; Dory and Alfred picked up the slack. No longer did he have to deal with hearing his mom demand he eat his veggies and sides before getting another helping of soup, he only had soup. And juice, and soda, and warm blankets fresh out of the dryer. He remembered the warmth. Of the blanket, the soup. Those, paired with the scraggly dino in his arms, were the only things that made a decimal of impact on his devastation. "Do you need anything?"

"No. Do you?"

"Do you want anything?"

"I'm good. What about you?"

He didn't believe it. You were trying to spare him, just like you had by making yourself anonymous. Would it be wrong of him to come over? This late in the evening... probably. But he remembered the nights were the worst part. Alone in the empty darkness. Less cars, less lights, even the reruns on tv were stale at that time. It left no room for distraction. And honestly, he worried if he didn't distract you from your pain, he'd be gridlocked by his.

"Can I stop by?"

Onion, celery, carrots, butter, flour, curry powder, chicken broth, an apple, rice, chicken breast, thyme, and heavy cream. He didn't know how to make much, and Alfred didn't keep much variety around, but you hadn't balked at mulligatawny the first night you'd stayed here, and it was one of the few things he knew how to make without a recipe. It was also one of the few things the old man always kept fresh and stocked, especially now that Bruce was in recovery mode. Most importantly, it was warm. It was only nine, he could get this done before ten, and be gone before midnight. Just in time for you to get tired and go to sleep, without hours spent tossing and turning alone in bed. It was the least he could do for you.

He'd never felt more ridiculous than he did when he opened your door. The backpack was heavy and a reminder that he hadn't asked if he could cook, but assumed he would waltz into your kitchen and work some magic. You invited him in and he went straight to the island, setting down his pack and taking out the supplies. Your face scrunched with confusion. "What are you doing?"

He kept taking out food while he thought of how to phrase it. It was like his mind was slowed down, your apartment a pool of tv static. "I wanted to cook." Pause. "For you." Another pause, and he took out the apple. "It's warm." Fuck, could he have explained it any worse?

He paused and you watched him slowly move to meet your eyes. "Can I?" His hand was hovering above one of the drawers, ready to get to work. "Sure." You didn't understand why he couldn't cook at his house, but you couldn’t complain; still coming down from the nauseating blend of relief and guilt that gnawed at you when you finally saw him in the flesh. Like being attacked by a wave on a hot day; soothing, but bitterly cold at the same time.

You had reassembled the chairs today, and the table. You'd anticipated calling Mar later tonight if she weren’t already at a club, offering to order some takeout and have a movie night. When thinking up a distraction, you certainly hadn't anticipated Chef Bruce appearing with fixings for a mystery meal. Did billionaires even know how to cook? Did billionaire Bruce Wayne ever have to fend for himself in the kitchen? A brief image of him staring confusedly at a box of cereal made your mouth twitch into a grin.

Good. Your humor was still there, thank god. With his back turned to you, facing the burner, you could finally, finally, finally, finally unclench your jaw and drop your shoulders. He was here. It was weird, and uncomfortable, but undeniable. He was here, not hanging from a rafter or god knows where doing god knows what in the city. He was putting butter in a pan, and grabbing a wooden spoon. He was alive.

But... this was still out of character, which raised an orange flag. You waited for him to reach an impasse before speaking, tapping his fingers on the countertop while he watched the rice cook. An apple sat cubed to the left, the chicken sizzling on the back burner. "How are you? Really?"

Bruce needed to toe the line. Too honest and it would shift the focus to him, further distressing you; too dishonest and you'd dismiss it before he finished speaking. His body didn't just ache, it screamed at him. Every step, even every time he spoke, felt like torture. He'd teared up at multiple points between the lobby and your unit. His spirit was entirely crushed, shattered into irredeemable smithereens. He hung his head and let all the air out of his lungs, letting his weight fall into his wrists as he leaned over the stove. "Not great."

It should've pained you to hear that, instead it felt like wind in your sails. He was being honest. You could work with that. Honesty didn't need to be interrogated or sleuthed upon. "How can I help?"

He wanted to say you've done enough and don't want your pity, but it felt too real. You didn't need that tonight, not so close to the event. "Taste the soup and tell me if it needs anything." He prayed you wouldn’t keep asking.

"How would I know?"

"I want it to suit your taste."

"I don't know what it's supposed to taste like." You were hyperaware he hadn't answered you, not in the way you wanted. Maybe it was too close for comfort right now. Maybe all you needed to do was focus on him being here, and ask questions later.

"Pepper, curry flavor. Creamy." He stirred something fragrant on the stovetop.

"What's the apple doing?"

"It's necessary." It felt good talking about something else with you. Something normal. Not Batman, not his legacy, not the attempt. Still, all of it clouded and constricted the conversation, a constant tension you both wittingly ignored. "Smooths the spice."

I barely tasted it that night. Too scary being trapped in the house of one of the most powerful men in the world. You watched as he stirred, chopped, and fluffed. You were brought back home with your parents, watching them make dinner while you sat at the dining table and talked at them. He glanced around and looked at the can of heavy cream. In an instant you were up and grabbing a can opener, desperate to do your part. He instructed you to pour it into the pan, and for a half second he was just another guy; an acquaintance, someone passing through; someone regular, unassuming.

After a few more minutes of sitting around, you grabbed some bowls and spoons. After a quick taste he required you take ("Need to know if I missed something"), he ladled the bowls full, and you both walked slowly, carefully over to the table to set down the steaming soup. Bruce dug in without waiting, while you blowed on a single spoonful until every bit of steam hesitated to rise from it.

He watched you apprehensively. Your eyes widened a bit, and he could see your jaw moving like you were savoring it. "How is it?" It tasted fairly similar to how Alfred made it, which was fairly similar to how his mom had made it. At the very least he hadn't royally fucked up. Who knows, maybe olanzapine changes tastebuds.

You nodded, blowing on another bite. "Mulling it over."

God, that was so droll... it tugged a whispering grin to his lips, his bite slipping back into the bowl at the gentle movement of his dry chuckle.

He was laughing. Not really. Kind of. Weird, but yay! "I've never tasted anything like it. It's good."

"Don't have to placate me."

"It's peppery. Curry. Creamy."

He rolled his eyes and tossed another spoonful into his mouth. "Creative. What's the apple for?"

The tension never left, though you both did your best to selfishly soothe it through dry humor. The most either of you did was grin, breathe a little extra air through your nose. When he wasn't looking your eyes wandered to his purple and green bruises, and the complementary crusting scabs along his neck and hands. You wondered if he was suicidal right now, but wasn't saying anything. When you weren't looking, he studied your body language, hoping it would betray you. Were you scared right now? Did you think this was the weirdest thing ever, like he did? Did you think this was creepy? Was it creepy? Was it helping? Was he helping you?

You both finished and walked your bowls to the sink. He started rinsing them and reached for the dish soap, and you let him for a little. After he pat dry the first bowl, you couldn't sit with this worry on your chest any longer. The food had been warm and energizing, the mood made less intimidating with the joking, and all of it together held your hand as you broached the topic. It made you sick how concerned he was about your wellbeing; yes, he scared you, images of his frenzied, panicked face waking you up in the dead of night, but you hadn't watched him nearly die like he thought. His worry felt like rain on a hundred degree day: unsettling and unwelcome. You inhaled fully, hoping enough oxygen would get to some brave neurons and force the words past your teeth. They caught in your chest and by then he'd finished the second bowl; anxiety palpated your heart, bullying it into silence. You overrode it. "Bruce."

At once he abandoned the silverware and turned toward you. His analytical gaze peppered your face and the fingers that annihilated your cuticles. The stench of something burning singed your nostrils, your eyes tracking the source to the hem of his sweatshirt draped over the hot stove, smoking as small flames burnt through the cotton. Perhaps waiting to be seen, it erupted into a blazing ball of flame. You yelped and jumped toward the sink, grabbing the adjustable faucet and spraying him down. The flames went out, he turned off the burner, and you looked around for some magazines or papers to fan away the tendrils of smoke wafting toward the fire alarm.

"Sorry. I wasn't thinking."

You glanced back and saw Bruce sopping wet, his hair having gotten in the mix too, draped over his eyes; the singed, ripped edges of his shirt that he clutched between his hands. You bit your lip to reign in your laugh. He started hurrying the shirt off his back, and gently shook it out to see if it had juice left in it. That was the kicker, sending you bolting toward your bedroom. You couldn't be laughing at him all the time. Get it together! He's hurting! But the laughs escaped your tight-lipped prison, and soon his shadow was in the doorway. As quickly as you'd laughed, you began to cry. You dropped to your knees at the whiplash; what once was dead, was now making soup in your apartment. Dancing around it wasn't helping, it was exacerbating the pain. He didn't hesitate to walk over, his long legs getting him across the room in only a few strides.

He didn't think you were crying about the fire. He stood helplessly beside you, unable to make a decision on what to do next. Guilt bloomed angry, self-flagellating thoughts, wishing he hadn't ran with his ego and coddled his denial. He placed a light touch to your shoulder and you jumped up. "I'm fine." He didn't say anything, only sat and watched as you struggled to reign in your barrage of tears. Your fingers threatened to go numb, and you attempted to shake the tingles away. "My body just needs to cry and then, then I'm done." You turned away from him and pressed your clammy palms to your cheeks, trying to physically shove the tears back into hiding.

After what seemed like an extended period of sniffling tears, you looked back at him. He was sat on the edge of your bed, his sweatshirt draped over his forearm. You could see more of the deeper wounds on his arms now, which was a viscerally surreal feeling. It was impossible not to be aware of his reputation; it preceded him at every turn, he was correct about that. Something entirely new though was seeing the fallibility so transparently.

Before graduation—and honestly, before seeing him breaking down in the alley—you had practically thought he was immortal. You wouldn't have done such ridiculous, dangerous bullshit as walking through an active crime scene at night if you hadn't internalized his heroism. Until this moment you hadn't realized how much you'd relied on that story; the subconscious reassurance that the Batman provided to Gotham's citizens. The mythical creature unfazed by bullets, incapacitating anyone in its wake. Batman's neutralizing force was so accepted it went unquestioned; now you knew it was because no one truly knew him. You and Alfred were the only people who had. Suddenly, the world felt a lot more intimidating. If you were any less shaken up, you might've laughed at the unmasking of Santa; but even children mourned the loss of magic, and here you were muzzling yourself.

"Can I help?"

You needed to nip this in the bud. It was going to come out however it was going to come out, and you needed to be okay with that. "I, appreciate the effort." It wasn't coming out so easily. Be nice. Be nice. Be nice. "But I want this to stop." I didn't watch you. "You don't want my pity, and I don't want yours." Too harsh, scale back. "The only thing I need is for you to be safe. Alive."

You sounded so much like Alfred that Bruce bit back a snarky retort. Not the time nor the place. Your bed creaked as he stood up. He hated how your words sat in his chest, but there wasn't exactly anything he could do about it. "Okay."

No argument, no fighting. Like you requested something he already vowed to do. He walked past you into the kitchen, and you followed on his heel. You had never been so close to him alone, and never from behind. His back was broad, making his already impressive height even more menacing. Veins bulged under his skin. Swore a tendon twitched in his forearm every time he stepped on his left foot. If he had turned for the door you might have yelped, but he just finished the dishes in silence while you lingered, then sat on the couch. If someone walked in right now, and was one of the few humans who didn't know about Bruce Wayne, they might think this looked normal. It couldn't feel more foreign.

You didn't wait half a second after the sink turned off to fill the space. From your perch on the end of the couch, across the room. "Will you be safe once you leave?"

Like a knife scraping under his fingernails. So scared he wouldn't be alive the next morning. Skittish. "Yes." He wasn't looking back at you, wishing he hadn't already put down the dish towel so he'd have something to wring. "I promise."

What good's a promise if he's six feet under? Your life had become so singular so quickly, and you were anxious for it to get back to its usual painful mediocrity. "Really?"

Ugh. He turned to face you and followed your eyes searching the carpet. He sighed away his animosity, knowing the rage seeping into his chest was directed at himself; it was nothing greater than embellished fear. He knew this, was well acquainted with it. Maybe he did need to go back to therapy. He leaned his hip against the counter and winced, jamming straight into a blackened, split bruise. He grabbed his hoodie from where it was slung across the edge of the counter, grimacing at the effort only when his face was obscured. “Really.” Within seconds he was at the door, his hand on the handle. He noticed your eyes flash in his periphery, and his entire body constricted at the sight. He forced himself to meet your eyes. It was strenuous. He figured he needed to warn you. "Alfred and I have emergency plans for times like these. Whatever you read in the news, it's a cover-up." He popped open the door, hesitating on the departure. The air was thick with emotional exhaust. "I'll see you on Thursday?"

You nodded, relieved he was being more covert with his concern. Sugaring the medicine. "See you on Thursday."

[lily-radiance]

Picture Perfect Psychopath

Doctor Jonathan Crane/ fem reader.

3.9k words

(So far, this is just a drabble, but I do have an idea of where this story could go. I've been watching The Dark Knight trilogy and got inspired. Reader works at Arkham Asylum as a psychiatrist, sharing the field of study with Scarecrow and old flame Harley Quinn. Likely not canon-compliant. Kinda merged various movies since I'm no comic book expert.)

Arkham Asylum is a cesspool of depraved criminals, as it has been for the past few years. Typical people who are suffering from mental illnesses and were sent away without care were obvious. This institution was the cheapest and easiest way to lock up the sick, even before the creation of the vigilantes. Everyone in Gotham City knew to keep their eyes on the ground and act as if crimes were invisible. If you cause a fuss in any shape or form, don't be surprised if you get dragged away in a body bag. You hated the mere thought of disregarding the pain of the city, but what could you do if no one would listen? Criminals, no matter the type, always have a story to tell.

“Bruce, the next time you interrupt my work for a house call, I'm stealing your Batmobile!”

You've been sitting in Wayne Manor for the past two hours, all because your friend wanted to “check-in” on the status of the newest patients. On any other day, you might have given him leniency, but he's been siphoning you for information without a decent break. Now, you not only have to write and submit a few dozen reports before sunset, all while juggling Bruce Wayne. The billionaire rolls his eyes but smiles, enjoying a day where he can loosen up and act as a person instead of a shadow.

“Nice try, but the garage is foolproof. I learned my lesson when you took my ride for a spin last year.”

You sip the cola in your hand, amused at the memory of speeding around the house and getting the vehicle caked in dirt. You apologized to Alfred when realizing the butler had to clean it afterward.

“Too bad, I was hoping to test the maximum speed,” you said with a chuckle, “I'm kidding, of course.”

“Sometimes, I worry about your coworkers. Do they know how much damage you can cause when bored?”

You glare at him from the couch. Work was something you liked to keep separate from life; he knew that very well. After all, if someone identified Batman successfully, then Wayne Enterprises would crumble in on itself.

“Do you know how much damage you cause when I'm not around to cover your tracks? Honestly, you may give Alfred a heart attack.”

The butler frowns at your humor before taking your empty glass. You notice the lipstick mark left over, reminding yourself to reapply the makeup. Psychiatric professionals do their best to look formal, and this habit has followed them since college. When you consider the many polished individuals at the facility, one is always at the forefront of your mind: Doctor Jonathan Crane. No matter the time of day, his appearance is that of near perfection, or you like to think so. Today, you have a briefing with him, and the idea has prompted you to dress to impress; the shade of cherry red on your lips is a testament to that.

“I'm always careful, (Y/N). I have Gordon, Alfred, and Lucius for that very purpose. You know Arkham is filled with lunatics and, more specifically, the worst villains.”

“We've had this conversation before, Bruce. I'm good at my job, and the people you lock up are kept in the deepest parts. Plus, I always hear exciting stories, which makes time fly by!”

He gives you a stern glance, not happy with your unbothered attitude. You drop the smile and sigh.

“I know you think I can't handle myself in that place. You get up close and personal with villains more often than I do. Every floor has a ton of security guards, not to mention cameras and passcodes in each room!”

Eventually, he gives up the protective demeanor. If you needed his help, he was the first in line. If not, he would be prepared for the future.

“Right, I know you're responsible and cautious, (Y/N). It's still the institution with the most significant number of patients in Gotham, so I want you to stay alert. Tim and the others are patrolling tonight if you run into trouble. Remember, the GCPD is conducting investigations on a possible new perpetrator.”

You nod to his speech, tapping your heels underneath the coffee table. He is about to give you another piece of information, but the sound of the front door opening and hurried footsteps is your cue to leave. Barbara Gordon, Tim Drake, and Jason Todd enter the room, waving a synchronous greeting in your direction. Your phone beeps in your jacket pocket, and you fumble the device when the caller is listed. Barbara notices your excitement and chuckles, watching as you answer the phone.

“Hello, this is (Y/N) (L/N); how may I help?”

“It's Dr. Crane, as you probably knew judging by how quickly you answered. The administration got caught up in other matters, so it's just you and me. Don't be late.”

The voice catches you off guard, your heart beating too quickly regarding the abrupt message. You lose your ability to speak, and like everything else, he's already caught a glimpse of it.

“Doctor—what about the meeting on security clearances? We still have much to discuss with the board; isn't this important?”

“I've already taken care of most of the concerns. Currently, my priority is talking to you about your individual endeavors regarding Arkham. Do you have an issue with this?”

As he asks, you know he's not looking for an honest answer. You swallow your pride, although tempting to draw on this further.

“No, Doctor. I'm on my way right now.”

“Good, I have high hopes you'll be fascinated by my newest work.”

You have nothing else to add as he hangs up, an annoying habit you wish didn't leave you bitter. Barbara steps over, raising a brow in examination. Your behavior, coupled with the alluring cosmetics on your face, indicates an attention to detail made to attract. The young woman tilts her head, examining your efforts, and pauses. She prevents your curiosity by grabbing a maroon scarf hung on the hat rack and placing it on your neck. As she wraps the fabric loosely around your collar, she discreetly whispers, “In case whoever you see leaves a mark or can't keep you warm. It also matches your lipstick.”

The redhead winks at you, knowing that finding worthwhile men in Gotham is a rare treat. If only you knew who you were falling for, maybe someone else could have turned your head. The likelihood of your coworker getting obsessed with another pretty face was nonexistent, especially when he knew every method of pushing your buttons.

Gotham weather stands to be frigid regardless of the season, and the cold water on your cheeks proves it. Hurriedly, you head to your car, jumping in the driver's seat and turning the hot air on. You flip the sun visor down, using the compartment mirror to double-check your appearance. You smile, wink, and perform other expressions to understand if this is too much. It's not like you dressed yourself in fancy attire, but the makeup sensation tells you this is different—the scarf clings to your shoulders, adding an extra layer of comfort.

The City appears as dreary as ever, with gray clouds looming over the skyscrapers. You knew this landscape was not as picturesque as the Bahamas, but it was familiar. In this place, you felt like a necessary presence, that your actions were genuinely helping people live. Others complain that they think soulless thoughts and have no purpose in a city of thugs, but they don't see the possibilities. No, you appreciated the constant ebb and flow pattern because it meant everything was up to chance. Unlike Harvey Dent, you had no interest in flipping a coin to decide your fate; if you wanted something and could achieve it, why worry about the downfall? Bruce told you to avoid trouble, and maybe if you tried harder, you could, but curiosity always took control. The night turned Gotham into a place of both dreams and nightmares. When the streets glow amber and the windows shine with the moon, the law is subject to change.

Rain slams against the windshield, the downpour forcing you to drive at a snail’s pace. Common sense doesn't stop other drivers from taking risky turns; some cars cut in front despite your right of way. You honk your horn at the reckless speeding, internally regretting this venture. At least twenty minutes have passed since you left, and yet you're still running late. Luckily, most security guards let you pass immediately, while one or two demand identification. If you weren't so anxious, you would see the multiple faults that made Arkham’s reputation. People were lazy, some slacking without a care. Others were too busy dealing with life changes to support this institution.

The repetitive sound of your heels clicking on the tile floor draws someone's attention. Unfortunately, you can barely avoid this girl regularly, so it makes sense that she would be another obstacle.

“Woah, pudding, you getting ready for the runway or something? I haven't seen you wear red in a long time. It makes a girl wonder, what's the occasion?”

Harleen Quinzel stands in her cell, dressed in a jumpsuit that does her no justice. Her usually dyed hair is unkempt and faded, now a dirty blonde with pigment spots. Despite her living situation, her personality is still bubbly. She holds a bent cigarette and takes a drag, then tosses the leftovers underneath her boots. The woman approaches the metal bars, wrapping her hands around two and leaning through the gap. A stream of smoke is exhaled into your face, the delinquent playfully puckering her lips.

“I have a critical meeting with Dr. Crane, and it was supposed to be with the rest of the board until something got in the way. I'm running late, and if I don't get to that office in time—”

Harley raises her index finger, pressing against your lips to stop your words.

“That does sound like a pretty jumbo deal, dollface! From one doctor to another, rescheduling an administrative meeting is unnecessarily convoluted!”

She moves her hand to cup your jaw, tilting your face in multiple angles to glimpse your handiwork. A smile spreads across her lips, her tongue licking the front of her teeth. It makes you nervous, and she knows it.

“I mean, he said he ‘took care of it,’ but I don't know if that necessarily means it was rescheduled. The board could have discussed several possibilities, so I can't guarantee anything.”

You don't know what she's trying to prove.

“Something tells me your lover boy isn't inviting you for a simple coffee. No, with a mind as unpredictable as his, I bet you'll leave here with more than a headache. That is, if you leave at all, dollface.”

Her voice digs further into your mind, higher-pitched as she giggles to herself. You adjust the scarf to distract yourself, but she won't let this topic rest.

“Harley, as much as I appreciate what I assume is a concern, I know what I'm doing.”

“Sure you do, pudding. You think he's all sweet and charming, right? Doctor Jonathan Crane, who wears a nice suit and never gets his hands dirty? He probably compliments your work and swears to get back to your questions. I'll even bet he holds your hand a little too long when he shakes it, and you don't say anything because you want his hand on yours.”

She sees the blush rising to your cheeks and continues to torment you. You can't breathe clearly, not when your lungs burn like this.

“Oh, I bet you want him to do all sorts of things to you. When he holds your hand, do you imagine it somewhere else on your body? Do you think he'll have you by the waist while his other hand traces your neck? Will he squeeze your throat and bruise the pretty skin, rubbing his tongue up and down? Will you let him devour you as I did? I bet you'll have his handprints on your thighs for weeks, the dirty little secret that you keep to yourself?”

She plays with the ends of your hair, curling the strands around her fingers. You haven't been this close to her in years, and your proximity reminds you why. Getting close to villains is a quick path to insanity. You step away from the cell, regaining your focus. A pair of footsteps echo down the stairwell, slow and precise. When you turn, your coworker is impatiently waiting, a scowl etched onto his features as he stares between you and Harley Quinn. The blonde enthusiastically waves at him, earning a glare.

“Come along; we have lots to discuss and little time to waste. I thought I clarified that I wanted you in my office five minutes ago.”

You follow his figure, a knot in your stomach at his unusual mood. The doctor could be a pain when it came to protocols, but you two got along reasonably well. He gave you criteria to follow, and more often than not, he liked to debate your findings. You hoped this was a quick conversation, but then it didn't make sense that he instructed you to take a ferry for something he could have said on the phone.

“Yes, I had to drive through the rain and rush in traffic. I wasn't counting on the weather to be so awful or for Harley Quinn to pull me aside.”

He waits by the top of the stairwell for you, watching as your heels tap the concrete. It amazed him: the concept of walking on elevated stilts that could snap like a twig. You don't miss how he scans your legs or how the muscles in your calves tighten. He extends a hand, presenting the cordiality that made you admire him in the first place. You hesitate with trembling fingers, muttering a quiet “thanks” as he holds your palm. He's warm, and it gives you too much satisfaction. Instead of letting go, he merely continues walking, carefully trailing his fingers over your radial pulse. Each thrum of your heartbeat is now in his possession of knowledge, tipping him off on your anxiety. The door to his office is down a corridor, only accessible to visitors and himself.

“Had you considered wearing gloves, Doctor? You might want to invest in case the temperature drops. If you can't use your hands, I suppose the mind is sufficient, but exhausting yourself unnecessarily is no good to anyone.”

You sit in one of the two chairs, removing your scarf and placing it in your lap. Crane takes his place behind the desk and falls into the chair, folding his hands on the flat surface.

“Believe me, if I could grab a few extra layers, I would have. I was visiting a friend when you called, and since you requested I hurry, there was no point in going home to change. I've lived in Gotham for a long time, and a storm isn't enough to stop me from doing my job. Anyway, you said there was something you needed me to examine?”

He slides a manilla folder towards you, numerous papers spilling from the seam. You take the hint to inspect the documents, flipping through the pages and absorbing the content. MRI scans, coupled with test results and psychological jargon, cover the sheets. You wrinkle your nose in focus, recognizing the highlighted areas of the brain as the amygdala and the frontal lobe. The human brain structure separates information based on its importance, using the amygdala for the fear response and the frontal lobe for rational thought. If one of these locations is compromised, whether by neural chemicals or injuries, the body cannot regulate its reactions to stressful environments. You continue reading, wholly fascinated by the hypotheses listed. The last few pages are still being worked on, primarily blank except for messily written notes. While your train of thought is still understandable, you remove a pen from your coat pocket and begin scribbling. He stares in amusement, pride blooming at your coinciding wonder.

“Doctor Crane, this is beyond incredible! If you were to develop this drug, who knows what group might want it? Not to mention the possibility of designing a formula with the opposite goal of annihilating fear entirely!”

He doesn't bother to hide the smirk on his face as you supply him an ego boost. Initially, he worried you would have an adverse reaction given your good-natured spirit, but those doubts were put to rest by the sight of your smile. The longer he allows himself to relax, the more his eyes are drawn to your lips. Red was a beautiful color on you, contrasting the dim aura of this hospital. As you revel in this energized state, you do not anticipate the foreign sensation of his mouth against yours. Recognition dawns on you as the scent of his cologne lingers, and the papers fall to the ground. You cautiously lean into his touch, grasping his shoulders to bring him closer. The fabric of his shirt bunches as you dig your fingers into the material. He has no qualms with your proximity, but he recognizes the trepidation in your movements for what it is: the worry that you'll scare him away. It's ironic, and it tells him that the only way to disprove your doubt is to make sure you know that this encounter isn't based on the heat of the moment.

He kisses you harder, pushing his tongue inside your mouth. You gasp in surprise, allowing him additional access, as well as the ability to overpower you. Never had you thought that the absurd fantasy of him kissing you would come to fruition, and certainly not in his office over research data. This was supposed to be a dull day of filing paperwork and overhearing business, not the instance where your co-worker, technically your boss, would be sharing saliva. His lips travel to your cheek, then your jaw, trailing down your neck. He has to remove the scarf and unbutton your collar to reach the desired location. You tilt your head back, moaning as he grows closer to your carotid vein. Similar to your earlier encounter, he locates your pulse, biting and sucking the skin as your heart rate increases. You admittedly have no idea what you're doing, but you do know that the image of him making out with you is extremely hot.

Yet, rational is a demon that you cannot leave behind. You're a scientist through and through, which means taking time to analyze the effects of this situation is necessary. Gently, you press against his chest, halting his actions and putting space between you. He looks down at you quizzically, adjusting his glasses that had fallen from the bridge of his nose.

“We could keep going with this course of action, not that I would complain, but maybe we should consider what we're getting ourselves into. I mean, we work together, and if we pursue a relationship, that could cause an entire slew of issues. Let’s cool our jets and think about this objectively before getting too deep.”

You feel a new weight on your chest as you try to analyze his expression. Most days, you could guess his emotions based on small talk, if he even spoke to you. Unfortunately, he's again acting like a blank slate, unreadable as the silence grows longer. Somehow, this enigma of a human specimen has become a magnetic field, drawing you in despite your better judgment. It's not that you don't want to see where this night goes, but the idea of committing to him, especially in the workplace, sends a chill down your spine.

“I see what you are getting at, (Y/N). It's not a problem if you want to think this over. Honestly, I prefer my opinion, but I see no fault in mulling it over. We wouldn't be scientists if we didn't leave decisions up to logic, would we?”

He seems calm enough, and that takes some of the pressure off. You breathe out a sigh before stretching your neck, still a bit unsure of what to do. Another beat of awkward silence follows before you work up enough courage to face him. Blue eyes catch your thousand-yard stare and dart back to the ground.

“It's getting late. D-do you need anything else from me, Jonathan?”

He is not expecting you to refer to him by his first name despite the circumstances. The sound of your hesitancy is still cute, and he wasn't expecting his name to sound so good on your tongue.

“No, I have everything I need. Do you want me to drive you home? The weather is still raining cats and dogs. Not only that, but Gotham is dangerous already, and I wouldn't want you to get hurt.”

The offer seems adequate, and you know precisely the dangers lurking outside. If not for crime and insanity, you wouldn't have a job, but that doesn't mean you want to get caught up in legal shenanigans.

“I drove to the docking bay with my car, so assuming you drive, that would leave one of us without our respective vehicles…”

“You're partially correct. I take a taxi to get around town most of the time so that I won't abandon my car here. Then again, if I drove your car, I would still have to call a cab at one point or another.”

His analysis has you pondering the options until you decide to wing it. You've already made out with your boss, how much worse could it get?

“Screw it, I'll call you a taxi myself. If the weather gets too bad, you can stay at my place for the night.”

You pick up your scarf from the chair, throwing it around your neck in preparation for the cold air outside. The hallways are still empty, and for once, you're glad since the quiet gives you space to think. All that's left is to descend the stairs, pass security, and get the hell out of there. You place your hand in your pocket to grab your identification card but pause as your co-worker is two steps ahead of you, already swiping his badge across the checkpoint. That's right, he has a higher security clearance than you; no wonder he's always early to the office.

“There ya’ are pudding! How'd that meeting go—”

Harley Quinn wastes no time in asking questions as soon as she sees you approach. The doctor next to you gives her a scowl like last time, but the reason behind it is different. Before, he was irritated by her peppy attitude, and now it's jealousy. The blonde’s expression turns into a frown, but covers it with her usual distaste for nitpicky professionals. You would find their disagreement amusing if not for your fresh taste of humanity from the critical doctor, his shell still rough around the edges. You let your mind wander, barely recognizing the arm around your shoulder until you feel the support of his body against you.

These moments are the ones that make your heart race and your mind split. You know this guy, right? He has to be one of the good men in this rotten city. If not, what would you do anyway?

If you like this check the updating version on ao3: Click

[yandere--stuck]

if you have any more thoughts on the Joker Junior extending the family take I'd love to hear them!! Would J be interested in having Nightwing with them? Or Alfred? I'm not sure how well either of them would take to the venom, but if they have Batman anything's possible

Less ideas and more of an actual fic, oopsie!

---

Three weeks. Three long, agonizing weeks without Tim. Three weeks of hoping beyond all hope that he was somehow fine. That they'd all look back on this and laugh.

But, no. Eventually, Bruce was able to get word that The Joker and Harley had holed themselves up in the abandoned Arkham Asylum, and something in his gut that made him sick knew there was some correlation.

Part of him hadn't wanted Barbara to come along, but he also knew he wouldn't be able to stop her even if he tried. So, the two of them traversed through the crumbling asylum together and followed the echoing sound of Harley's voice singing a lullaby.

“Hush, little baby, don't say a word,

Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird,

And if that mockingbird don't sing,

Mama's gonna buy you a diamond ring….”

Closer, closer. It took both of them every bit of will they had not to sprint through the halls as fast as their legs could carry them. As Harley’s voice grew even louder, Barbara split up to find another way in while Bruce took the lead. His heart nearly leapt from his chest with anticipation as he closed in on her location.

“And if that diamond ring is brass,

Mama's gonna buy you a looking glass,

And if that looking glass gets broke-”

The moment Harley saw him burst through the double doors, she perked up, greeting Bruce with a smile. She was cradling a flower vase in her arms, which she set down onto a covered table. Craning her neck, she shouted over her shoulder. “Puddin’, Hubby's home!”

Bruce’s eyes followed Harley’s gaze, spotting Joker on the second floor where he rested on a recliner. With a flourish, The Clown rose to his feet, turning away from his rabbit-eared television set and popping a pipe from his mouth, tossing it aside. 

“Well, hello, dear!” Joker strolled down the stairs, stopping just shy of Batman. He wrapped an arm around Harley, the two of them smiling sweetly at their bat. “Welcome home.”

Bruce all but snarled in their faces, leaning close and baring his teeth. “Where's Robin?”

Both clowns shared a quizzical look.

“Robin?” Joker repeated with a quirk of his head. “There's no Robin here!”

“Maybe he means our little J,” Harley offered.

The Clown Prince of Crime snapped his fingers. “Of course! That's it.”

Meeting the Bat's eyes, smiling back at his scowl, Joker gestured to the other side of the room. To whatever was being concealed behind the large blue curtain. And Bruce couldn't help his rage, shoving the couple aside roughly as he moved to cross the room. 

The Joker stumbled back, recovering with the shake of his head and click of his tongue.  “He must be so stressed out from work.”

“I hate it when he gets like this. He never knows when ta relax,” Harley shook her head and reached underneath the table, pulling out a bazooka from beneath the tablecloth. She fired, and a band of ribbons erupted from the muzzle, knocking Batman to the floor with a hard thud and wrapping him up like a gift - bow and all.

“Good thing he has us. Hmm, now what say we bring this little gift of ours back to the bedroom to unwrap?”

Joker's grin stretched just a little wider as he noticed the movement of Batman's hand - holding it up just so as if to signal someone, just out of eyesight, to stand down. Joker's eyes crinkled. Perfect. He wondered, was it the eldest birdboy? Or maybe they'd be getting two bats with one stone?

“Y'know, Bat's, we've been doing this little run around for years,” Joker spoke again, approaching his prone enemy. “It's been loads of laughs! But the sad fact is - none of us are getting any younger.”

Harley joined his side, patting her stomach. “That ol’ clock's a tickin’!”

“Quite right, Pooh! So, Harley and I were thinking it's about time the three of us finally settled down together.”

“But rather than experiencing the joys of pregnancy, we decided the best way would be to just marry into the family.”

Hand-in-hand, the clowns walked over their Bat's prone form to each rest a hand on the curtain in front of them. 

“But no matter how happy we are to join you, we were a bit disappointed that we didn't really have the chance to nurture them, too,” Joker lamented. “And after all, what better way to officially join the family than to impart a little bit of our personalities to the kiddos? He needed a bit of molding, of course, but-”

The couple yanked on each side of the curtain, the blue cloth sliding and billowing out as it parted - revealing a child strapped to a medical examination table.

“... What kid doesn't?” Joker finished with a grin, drinking in the Dark Knight's reaction. 

Bruce couldn't help the exhale of ‘no’ that left him. Couldn't even blink, too horrified to look away from what had been done to Tim. The horror set in all at once, like freezing water flooding through every nerve in his system.

Joker brought Tim forward with the click of a button, the table rolling forward and bringing the boy into the light. 

Tim...

His face an acid-washed white. His hair an unearthly green. His Robin costume now replaced with an exact recreation of Joker's own suit. And his face… Contorted in a pained smile and his eyes wide and afraid, unblinking.

“Say hello to Dada, JJ,” Joker cooed.

Tim's eyes, seeming to glow red in the light, shifted from Joker to Batman. He leaned further into the light, locking eyes with Bruce, and laughed. He laughed in a way Bruce had never, ever heard before. He unbound himself from the table, leaping to the floor on scrawny legs - God, how much weight had he lost in such a short amount of time. What had they done to his boy?

All at once, the cold shock and dawning horror inside Bruce shifted - and his whole body was alight with rage, like a fire inside threatening to escape through every orifice as he ripped through his bonds. The shout he made was near inhuman, launching a batarang he had cut the ribbons with directly at Joker's head, only for the Clown to dodge it with ease.

Harsh giggles flooded from Joker's throat, wiggling a finger in a ‘come hither’ motion before jumping onto the now vacant medical table, rocketing off with the click of a button, causing Bruce to almost stumble and reorient himself to take off after him - and leaving Barbara to deal with Harley.

—

Giggles bubbled from Tim JJ's throat as he stared unblinkingly down at his father, body crumpled on the floor, cape draped almost protectively over his prone body. And with giddy glee, The Joker Papa J hopped down from the giant building blocks he was perched upon, where he had sliced at Batman and sent him tumbling down only seconds ago.

It was all a blur for Bruce. The chase. The horrific videos of Tim… Tim's torture. Three weeks. Three weeks of that Hell. Electrocution. Beatings. Torment. Starvation. And it was all his fault. He'd failed him. The rage that had filled him nearly completely, made him seen red, had all been snuffed out. 

First Jason. Now Tim. And Bruce still couldn't bring him to end this. His vision swam, and he could barely even focus. Not on Tim. Not on the man who tortured him. But… Wait. Where was-?

With a final hop, Joker landed in front of Batman in a crouch, hovering over him with a sly grin.

“You've lost, Bruce,” He rasped, and just hearing the name on the clown's lips made JJ seize up, his forever-smile momentarily twitching and a flood of nervous giggles escaping him. The clown continued, voice low. “Robin is mine… And now, so are you.” 

And with a hearty heft, Joker lifted Bruce up by the scruff of his cowl and cape, as if presenting him. The grin of his face, the look in his eyes, as he looked down on his enemy. So proud of himself, so smug.

And Bruce. He looked in a daze, lost and beaten. Blood dripped from his lips.

This isn't what Papa promised. He said everything would be okay now. That he'd see Dad and Dick and Babs and Alfred again and he wouldn't be mean or hurt him again, because Papa knew he would be good now…

But when Joker met his eyes, something in them changed - his smile warping to somehow become comforting, happier. The darkness in his eyes dissipated, replaced with an excited shine. And with a free hand, The Clown grabbed for a large gun that looked more like a toy than anything.

“Here ya go, sonny-boy!” He said, tossing the weapon.

JJ scrambled forward to catch it. He couldn't help but notice how light the gun felt as he cradled it in his shaking, gloved hands. For a moment, he couldn't look away.

“Make him one of us,” The Joker urged, voice like a hiss. 

It wasn't a conscious decision to aim the gun. It just happened. Like one minute, JJ was there and gone and back again. His hands shook so hard that he could hardly keep the weapon straight. Could barely even look at him. At the mask. At the man behind it.

“Tim…” Batman breathed. JJ had never heard his voice sound so small.

JJ would swear he couldn't breathe if it weren't for the rapid rise and fall of his chest and the wheezing, giggling exhales that escaped him as he struggled to calm down. Tears threatened to pool from his eyes.

This wasn't right. But, Papa knows best. He said everything would be okay afterward. He said he wouldn't be punished again. But, he couldn't. But, he couldn't run, either - too scared. Too weak. He wanted to be home. He wanted his family. He wanted to stop crying, to be able to breathe, to run into his fathers’ arms-

“It's alright now, JJ,” The Joker soothed, recapturing the boy's attention. “Just pull the trigger, and everything will be okay.”

JJ wanted his Papa to be telling the truth. He just wanted everything to be okay. He just wanted it all to stop. Bruce, please forgive him.

His finger squeezed around the trigger-

Joker's laugh filled the room, just as a green mist began flooding from the gun’s opening. It spread through the air and quickly covered both men. Joker laughed long and loud as he clung to Batman. He pulled his Bat into an embrace, a smile so bright and wide it made the corners of his mouth rip, as Bruce began to choke and hack.

The man seized up and shook in Joker's arms. Slow at first, but soon trembling and writhing in agony, barely restrained and pained chuckles escaping him. So much hurt flooding through every nerve and system that almost faculties left him. His lungs burned, his face ached, he couldn't feel his extremities and wouldn't have been able to hold himself up without Joker's hold on him. Bruce wasn't sure if he could speak or even breathe anymore, but somehow his body found it in itself to betray him, forcing laughter from gritted teeth.

Joker took a knee, gently laying Batman to the ground. The bat spasmed and jerked. Tears began to fall from behind his mask, shining on his cheeks in the light. Gloved hands caressed the sides of Bruce's face. Green eyes glinted in the light as they watched each movement of the other man - every sputter, every gasp, every choked out laugh, every pained, slowly blooming smile that wobbled onto his face.

“You must be so scared, aren't you, sweetheart?” Joker cooed. “You've been scared this whole time, haven't you? Ever since that night in the alleyway...”

Batman didn't reply - couldn't. His eyes crinkled as his smile grew involuntarily. All he could do was return the man's gaze with a manic smile that wasn't his own.

Joker stroked the top of his cowl lovingly. “But it's okay now, Bruce. You don't have to be scared anymore. You don't have to be strong. Don't have to hold yourself back. Me and Harl will build you back up to what you were meant to be. We'll be brave for you now. And do you know why?” 

Bruce couldn't respond. For one, the agony of whatever this was, whatever Joker had planned for him, blotted out almost all thoughts in his mind completely. Could only tremble and writhe and cry and laugh. Laugh. Laugh. The laughing made it hurt just a little less. But he could still barely even register what the other man was saying. What he could register, though, was the image of Joker slowly leaning down to press his lips to Bruce's cloaked forehead.

“Because we love you.” Joker finished.

—

“Ohhhh, Harley!” Joker's voice rang through the cavernous halls of the abandoned asylum. “Barbie's turn!”

Barbara's stomach sunk to her feet and her heart skipped a beat. Barbie? No. No, there was no way, he could have known her name. Oh God, what happened to Bruce-?

In the middle of her ruminations, Harley caught her by surprise. A jab to the face, the pull of her leg to trip her up leaving her scrambling to correct her fall- only for her to feel hand grasp tightly at the nape of her neck, coiling painfully at the root of her hair. She was shoved onto her stomach, face-to-face with the dirty, cracked tiles of the former asylum’s floor.

“You know what that means! C'mon, Barbie,” Harley grunted, fingers twisting in the roots of her hair. She lunged forward, slamming her face to the floor with a sick crunch. “Let's go party!”

And everything went dark.

… Barbara awoke with a groan. The smell of pennies flooded her nostrils. Her vision was bleary and swam as she struggled to open her eyes.

A dark figure entered her vision from her periphery, and it loomed over a figure clad in purple. And for a moment, just one moment, she allowed herself to hope.

But, that hope crumbled just as quickly as Joker's voice entered her ears. 

“You're okay, Bruce, you're okay, sweetie. You're gonna play nice now, right?”

Barbara couldn't help but shudder at the sound of Bruce's laugh in reply.

Hands found their way to Barbara's hair again, this time much softer. Not grabbing, just brushing and stroking almost soothingly.

“Wakey, wakey, eggs ‘n bakey,” Harley sang as she carded her hands through the younger woman's hair. “Y'know, I've always wanted a daughter. A little girl of my own. You think you'd ever want Mama to braid your hair for you? It's so pretty!”

“Ah, welcome back to the land of the living, Barbie,” Joker greeted. “Your Dad and I were just talking about you. A real chip off the ol’ block. Now all we need is to make it official.”

Barbara watched as Tim approached Bruce, pushing a gun of some kind into his hands. The Batman held it in his hands, smiling down at the weapon - but seemed almost hesitant. Unsure. Like he knew this was wrong. Like the weapon would somehow come alive and bite him.

“Batman, listen to me,” Batgirl pleaded. “Don't do this. Whatever they've done to you, this isn't you.”

“Oh, but it is! And soon it'll be you, too,” Harley corrected, walking back to give herself some distance.

“I know you're torn, Batsy, but I promise this is for the best,” Joker rubbed circles into the other man's back. “We'll all finally be together. Once we get Barbie here, then we'll get Dick and Al. And we'll be a family! They'll never be hurt again. You'll never be hurt again, sweetheart. I won't let anything bad happen anymore. You'll get your happily ever after. You won't be afraid ever again, I promise.”

Tears stung at Barbara's cheeks as she begged. “Batman, please!”

And for a moment, she thought she somehow got through to him. They locked eyes and Bruce smiled at her with a smile that isn't his own. But, she thought she could see understanding or recognition or something in his eyes, and was sure he'd toss the gun away and start kicking Joker's ass.

But, she was wrong.

With a hiss, green toxin flooded all around her. Even over her screams, the sounds of Joker, Tim, Harley, and Bruce's laughter smothered her completely. And soon after, so did her own.

[fractualized]

I finally got around to reading through another classic batjokes story: Lovers & Madmen, which takes place in Batman Confidential #7-12. I highly recommend it, particularly if you are interested in stories about Jack-era Joker. Batman first meets Jack at the tail-end of his first year as Batman, and we get all the batjokes goods, including plenty that aren't evident from the isolated panels that go around. (Plus cameos from aspiring med student Harleen Quinzel and aspiring asylum administrator Jonathan Crane.)

This isn't a full recap, so I hope my rambling will spur you to check it out.

(Beware of gore and suicidal ideations.)

The key thing to know from issue #7 is that Bruce's mission has been going incredibly well. He has been operating for only 42 weeks, and he can feel the city quieting down. He's so proud! So content!

And we can't have that. Enter Jack, goon for hire. Bruce comes across one of his murders and becomes obsessed with how clean the scene is, how little a trail there is to follow. He investigates and investigates and investigates and comes up with nothing to his dismay.

Meanwhile Jack is also having a sad at a bar because there's no challenge or entertainment to his job anymore. :( Luckily a nice server gives him a little pep talk.

Jack does give things another go at a bank robbery, but it's still no fun. He trips the alarm on purpose, but a shootout with the guards is no fun for him either. He's literally in the middle of asking a guard to kill him, when Batman finally shows up.

"He's an idiot. I love him." Nothing like infatuation to restore your will to live. #8 opens with Jack being sure to leave Batman a thank you note before he escapes.

And Jack must see the Bat again, and of course the only way to ensnare him is to commit a series of awful but perfect crimes. And Bruce is infuriated! Here he is taking out his frustrations on a mugger— with Jack watching from afar.

Bruce is just so mad he's been unable to stop Jack, like, "All those books! All that preparation! But crime man keep criming?!"

Batman and Jack next meet at a charity gala planned by Bruce's love interest in this story, Lorna, and boy do things escalate. Jack picks Lorna as his hostage, threatening to shoot her so he can get away, and Bruce ends up grabbing another gun and shooting Jack's gun out of his hand. But then Jack just stabs her good, and while Bruce can't leave her to die, he doesn't just let Jack escape.

Jack isn't even the goddamn Joker yet and Bruce has intentionally given him a Glasgow smile as punishment. And even more insane, is that Jack appears to verbally respond to Bruce's inner monologue.

With Lorna slowly dying in the hospital, Bruce goes to a professional to try to figure out what it is about Jack that makes him seemingly unstoppable— and of course that professional is Jonathan Crane, and his professional opinion is basically, "dude that guy is clearly just insane and you're doomed to fail lol."

Oh yeah? Would an insane man be this untroubled about his face being cut open?

"He'll have to pay for that. Then again… it's nice to feel something." Just summing up Joker's cycling feelings about Batsy in the years to come. lol

And here's the plot point that sticks out to me most, after years of reading Bruce stalwartly refuse to kill Joker, including in other versions of their first meeting:

Bruce has been Batman for less than a year and he's already like, "Fuck it! I give up! This guy stabbed my new girlfriend and made me lose faith in books! He has to die!" In a short time, Jack has burrowed so deep under Bruce's skin that Bruce tosses away the one solid crime-fighting principle he has. It's oddly refreshing??

So Maletesta, who is a crime boss Jack stole from, takes some goons and captures Jack at the doctor's while he's unconscious from surgery. They then take Jack to a pharmaceutical plant, and Maletesta starts beating him while he's still out. Except Jack is actually awake and just kind of bored by the torture attempts and slipping back into ennui. This issue, #10, really goes into Jack's struggle between wanting to live but not feeling there's anything worth living for.

As you can see, Jack does eventually escape his bonds to fight back. As he and Maletesta fight, they end up in the bottom of the vat.

Meanwhile, Bruce is being quietly insane.

Bruce. Bruce, what the fuck are you talking about. I have to unspool this because like, Bruce knows Jack has killed lots of people. But what he's fretting about is the ways Jack's madness has metaphysically harmed the world, maybe, and thinking, "I know he's caused so much damage, but what about the damage to my moral integrity?!" and putting that above all the material harm. I know Bruce already does this all the time, but it feels so much more explicit here, and it gets worse, and just... Sir. Sir. You are not well.

So Bruce arrives at the plant too late to save Jack but just in time to see him get doused in chemicals.

Jack spends more time thinking on whether or not he wants to survive, but we know how this goes.

Jack ends up on the riverbank, and there's a wholesome edge to his psychotic break.

And so begins the criminal career of… the March Hare!

Kidding. The issue ends there, with Bruce lamenting that his change of heart came too late, that even if Jack is still alive, something awful has happened.

But then when issue #11 starts, Bruce finds he's not sure what he saw on the bank, if anyone. He gives chase but…

But if Jack is still alive, then Bruce's soul may be intact. He keeps searching well into the day, but finds nothing.

When he returns home, though, he learns that Lorna will survive after all. He immediately heads to the hospital, to "the only good news in the world."

Ah, Bruce is finally anchoring himself to the bedside of his ladylove. After he colluded to get someone murdered and seemingly succeeded. And it's the fear of what that says about him that sent him to Lorna. Almost like he's turning to her less because of his affection and more to hide from his moral failure. Romance!

Jack does soon appear in his new clown persona, and Bruce keeps his word and refuses to leave the hospital despite the multiple horrors Joker commits. Joker is not happy that Batman is MIA.

Some idiot Joker's captured feels it's necessary to inform him that Batman tried to have him killed, and of course Batman doesn't care. Joker scoffs, because Batman doesn't kill.

Faith restored!

Back at the hospital, Alfred verbally kicks Bruce in the ass, pointing out that committing himself to an unconscious Lorna isn't helping anyone.

Bruce finally suits up to respond to the bat signal, but it turns out Gordon isn't the one who lit it.

My Telltale-loving ass like:

In issue #12, their fight commences, and after some mutual stabbing, we get Joker's real plan.

It's like a dozen Lornas! Only this time Joker is telling Batman to come at him instead of trying to escape, and instead of taking action, Bruce suddenly feels overwhelmed.

Joker says something similar earlier about Gothamites. They're "poor sickies" who can't even see the bunny on the moon. They need the same "medicine" that Joker got to see the big picture, to find true joy. Of course he wants to do that for Batman too!

But once Batman shakes the poison off and starts rescuing the civilians, Joker is also pretty cool with killing him.

Bruce survives, as expected, and Joker isn't really upset about it.

And destined to do this forever, you might say!

Joker goes on to say that Batman gave him a purpose, a world of color to live for. Bruce reiterates that Joker is murdering people and asks why. Joker asks why Batman saves them.

(This panel goes right to left, btw.)

Joker's got a ways to fall, so Bruce has time to contemplate letting him die. "Let it happen… Let chaos prevail for the six more seconds it will take for madman to meet pavement… or the rest of my life will be spent picking up the pieces."

Bruce has already had a moral crisis about what it would mean for his soul if he let Joker die. In the end, he simply doesn't accept there's a meaningful difference between someone who takes a life for personal gain and himself taking a life to prevent the suffering of others. The vat is the same as his parents' graves. Letting Joker hit the ground is the same as pulling a trigger. Bruce chooses Joker over countless future victims. He choose Joker over Lorna, who he'll soon break up with at the hospital, weaponizing the carelessness of his socialite persona. Bruce decides that, amongst all options, taking responsibility for the monster he created means spending his life picking up the pieces.

And he immediately accepts that fact, what's to come. Gordon talks to Batman about the total dead, saying, "Would've been worse without you," and Bruce responds, "Don't be so sure." Don't be so sure today and for the decades to come, because Bruce believes that if that clown dies, then so does his own soul.

Joker sees that future too, and he is delighted!

Interesting detail, the Jack and King visible in the hat, side by side. Brings to mind how not too many years later, Snyder will have Joker crown his Bat King.

So there's Lovers & Madmen. Again, much more goes on in this story, particularly Jack's suicidal ideations and how he links the "enlightenment" Batman bestowed upon him to his contempt for regular people and his need to separate himself from them (and reconciling that with a good deed he does for a future henchgirl). The issues are collected into one book, and if you enjoyed this post, I encourage you to pick it up.

[violentvaleska]

𝑨𝒅𝒅𝒊𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒆

 ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛᴡᴏ ᵈᵉᵖᵉⁿᵈᵉⁿᶜᵉ

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ!ᴛɪᴍ ᴅʀᴀᴋᴇ x ғᴇᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

sᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: ʜᴇ ᴘʟᴀɴɴᴇᴅ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴅᴇᴛᴀɪʟ, ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴇ ɪs sᴜʀᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ʙʀᴜᴄᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ɴᴏᴛ ʙᴇ ᴀʙʟᴇ ᴛᴏ ғɪɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ. ᴛɪᴍ ᴋᴇᴇᴘs ʏᴏᴜ sᴀғᴇ ᴀɴᴅ sᴏᴜɴᴅ.

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ: ᴀɴɢsᴛ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ʙʀᴜᴛᴀʟɪᴛʏ, sᴛᴀʟᴋɪɴɢ, ᴋɪᴅɴᴀᴘᴘɪɴɢ, sᴍᴜᴛ,  ᴅʀᴜɢɢɪɴɢ, ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ᴛᴏᴘɪᴄs

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs:  ᴘʀᴏʟᴏɢᴜᴇ   ᴏɴᴇ  ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ

@keira324

He did it. Tim really did. His adrenaline is slowly dying down and his heavy breathes get more calm with every minute he watches you. For his liking it was way too easy to catch you, he would certainly have to teach you in self-defense someday. It was 11 p.m. when you walked out of the bar you got a little drunk with your friends, a rather windy evening. You tightly clenched at your jacket, your bare legs freezing. He knew that you were on your way home, he knew where you would end up walking, which is why he parked his car not too far from the club. Tim felt a bit angry about your naivety, really, why would you be walking all by yourself in Gotham? With time the streets got less and less crowded, making his plan safe to execute. He pulled out a white cloth from his pocket, tore it in a clear liquid and then jumped you from behind, pressing the cloth onto your face. You had no other choice than to breathe in the sickening smell, your struggling weakened just after a few seconds.

He held your body tightly against his, pulling you to his car in a hurry. Nobody saw him, nobody noticed how he stole her away.

 He planned every detail, and he is sure that even Bruce will not be able to find you. He told him weeks beforehand that he would move to his apartment in Gotham for a while, needing a little space and time to think for himself. Bruce thought it was a great idea and a few days later he was already moved in. Tim secured his apartment these past few days, extra locks on his bedroom door, extra locks on his windows. He would not want her to run away, she would only get herself hurt in the process. He bought plenty of food and told Bruce that he would do home-office for a while. He is currently on a break from university after he graduated with a bachelor title and works for Wayne Enterprises. Being the heir of this empire has its perks and he takes use of them as long as he has to keep her away from potential danger. Right now, he is focused, struggling to place you into his suitcase he brought from the manor. He told Bruce he had backed up some extra stuff in it, in reality though it was empty. He would use it to smuggle you into his apartment, so nobody would be able to notice you. He does feel a bit bad that he has to squeeze you into his case, but you will never know, you're asleep after all. Plus the suitcase is extra-large, he made sure of that. He closes it shut and heavily breaths out brushing a bit of sweat from his forehead. He is nervous and needs to hurry before someone caught him or worse; you waking up.

  You try to pry open your heavy lids, sleepiness overcoming you, followed by a sickening feeling and bed headache. You groan in discomfort and notice how you cannot move your body. Heavy restraints keep your body down and slowly you start to realize your situation. A blood curdling scream leaves you, panic rising in you. Your struggling against the restraints gets more aggressive, while your eyes are wide open, analyzing your surroundings. To your surprise it is a nice-looking bedroom, cleaned and organized. 'This-' you think 'is not Cranes work.' You keep struggling, noticing how your muscles hurt, it is like you have been squeezed into a box. After what felt like hours you notice how the door into your prison cracks open, leaving you in silence. Your salty tears have already tried on your skin and your weakened body tiredly rests against the mattress you are being held captive on. Slowly a figure enters the rather nice bedroom, and a surprised gasp escapes your throat, as you notice who it is.

 "Red!" You cry out to the masked vigilante a big and relieved smile on your lips. Standing there in the door frame is none other than Red Robin himself, in all his glory and perfection. 'He kept his promise after all' you note and look him up and down, happiness makes its way up your gut for a second, but then you realize that he just stands there, still and moving.

"Are you here to help me?" You ask the vigilante with naivety, a hopeful spark in your watery eyes.

"Oh! But I just did." His voice is strange, somehow more sinister than a few months ago. You frown in confusion, looking him up and down, taking notice of his slightly shaking hands. "What?" He steps closer at your question, kneeling down beside you.

"Yes. This is for you, my love. For your safety!" His calm voice is slowly starting to scare you, the sift smile on his peachy lips seems off too.

"You kidnapped me?" Your voice breaks midway, pitching higher. It is hard to not cry out in frustration at this point.

"I wouldn't say kidnapped." He shrugs it off, brushing a streak of your hair back. You pull your head to the side, looking at him in disbelief.

 "Release me." Red Robin seems surprised at your demand, shaking his head.

"No. Not yet." He easily dismisses you, his hand lingering over your cheek. It is almost like he has to decide if he should touch you and when he finally does, it's not a big surprise but you still flinch at his touch.

"I won't hurt you, remember? I promised to keep you safe!" He argues your reaction to his touch and he seems to be a bit hurt by it.

"But you do! You kidnapped me and those restraints do hurt me." Slowly tears seek their way out of your eyes again and you give him a mad glare.

"I'll loosen them, okay? But I can't free you of them." He answers and quickly starts to fiddle with the robes.

"Why?" You question, your voice shaky.

"Crane is still on the loose, he might be after you." You shake your head, not daring to ask him how this involves you being chained to a bed, his bed for all you know.

"Look. With time you will understand. You're confused right now and that's okay." He speaks brushing the side of your face with a strangely soft touch.

"Have you been following me?" You surprise yourself with this question, until now you did not even think about this option, but it all makes sense now. Red Robin is, much like the other vigilantes in Gotham, an expert in staying hidden. Something not everyone can archive. The masked man stops caressing your face, giving you a funny look.

"No?" It does not sound too convincing to you; he sounds like he has been called out and you note that he is not a good liar.

  After that he left you all alone again, giving you time for yourself to adjust to the situation. It pains you to know what he is really like, a psychotic and delusional monster, not better than the Scarecrow. You thought you could trust him; you even had a crush on him. These feelings towards him give you anxiety, make you feel betrayal and pain. On the other hand, you feel adrenaline building up in your gut when you think about the shared kiss. It was short, the contact probably lasted only a few seconds, but it did make you feel something. Something that was not entirely negative in any way.

"My God you are so beautiful." Red Robin suddenly breathes out, resting his head on your chest. A blush spreads over your cheek, while you awkwardly look to the big windows. It sickens you, how you craved his touch for months on end and now that you got it, it feels so wrong and forbidden. He should not have stolen you away, he should not have followed you around. It is wrong.

When Red rises his head to look at you again, you notice how his posture changed, how his breath slowly hitches in his throat. You do not notice how he slowly leans in, getting closer with every moment passing. It is only when his hot breath hits your skin that you realize how close he has gotten. You swallow, trying to relax, after all the two of you have been that close once; the day he saved you. He is your savior, obsessed and dependent on you as much as you are on him.

You close your eyes in anticipation, waiting for the feeling of being yet again touched by him, when you suddenly feel something light press against your lips. You hold your breath in surprise, slightly tearing your eyes open, only to see his closed underneath his black mask. His lips are meeting yours, catching them between his. Mixed feelings make you feel sick and you turn your head to the side, breaking the crave of want you hold for each other. He confuses you with your actions deeply and he seems to notice your thoughtful gaze directed at the wall.

"Sorry." Red Robin whispers and stands up to leave your side, nothing but pain in his raspy and broken voice.

"I'll leave you time to think."

With the hours passing your muscles hurt and plain boredom has taken over you. There is a clock in this room, which you honestly feel grateful for, making you count down the minutes and later hours. Six hours. You have been by yourself for six hours, still in the same position you woke up in. You called out for him a few times, but he never showed up. You feel dizzy and are thirsty. The sky outside slowly turns lighter when you finally decide to let out another scream, full of despair and sadness. This seems to have caught his attention and you are able to make out quick footsteps. Multiple clock clicking’s later, he finally enters the room. His costume is gone, though that black domino mask still reminds on his face. He is dressed in a black, long-sleeved shirt and dark colored sweatpants hang down his waist.

 The both of you enjoy the quietness for a little longer, while you let him touch your face and hair, trying to oppress the shivers that run down your back.

"What's wrong my dear?" He murmurs, his voice tired. He was probably asleep, explaining why he did hear you calling out for him. Instead of speaking you just look at him and after a moment of silence you start crying.

 It pains and irritates Tim to see you like that. He did all of this for you, all those extra hours working for your safety and yet you cry. He is a bit frustrated too, but eventually he understands that it must be a scary situation for you, after all the Scarecrow is after you. So Tim decides to comfort you, getting rid of the strings around your knuckles. It is an elevated risk, but he sees how they make you feel uncomfortable and you of all people should not feel that way. He leans over you, trying to loosen the last rope around your left hand, when suddenly your hand shoots out, seemingly attacking his face. He catches your hand with ease, squeezing it in his hard grip. The whimpers escaping her definitely shouldn't make him feel butterflies, but they do, and he immediately let’s go of you, stepping back to give her a sour look.

"Why would you be so silly?" He spits, angered at your move.

"I want to see the face of my savior." That does indeed surprise him. Confusion is blattered on his face, while you shrink under his gaze, fearing that you overstepped his boundaries. Tim sights, his shaking hand moving to his pale face, while he looks down in slight embarrassment.

"I won't tell a soul. I promise." Your words mean worlds to him and with a swift motion of his hand, the mask is brushed from his face.

Never had he revealed his identity to anyone, but he does not think twice to do it for you. He believes you, trusts your words and judgment. Eventually, he would have done so anyway.

You close your eyes in anger, resting your upper body and head on the bed frame. This is going to be a hopeless situation for you, no matter what you do or say, you will have to run around on glass around him, trying not to break it. He appears to have emotional ups and downs, which certainly won't help you either. Taking heavy breaths, you try to relax your body, hoping to find sleep and sweet dreams, it is the only way to escape; escape the unknown faith that strangles you.

"You're Tim Drake." You state in shock and shake your head, frightened and in denial. If you got free no one would believe you, you would not have believed yourself either. Tim Drake, unproblematic and kind, loyal to his family and merciful. Why it does make sense that he is a vigilante, caring for the citizens of Gotham City, the fact that he kidnapped you affects you more.

"Yeah." He giggles a little, scratching the back of his head.

"The café. You followed me to the café."

"It was for your safety, I told you!" Sudden anger takes over him, the tone you speak in definitely not to his liking.

"I know and I'm grateful." Tim cannot tell that you are lying straight to his face, instead you try to sit up a little, the one hand of yours still keeps you unable to move a little.

"Good. As you should be." He spits in a sulking manor and turns to walk straight back to his work again.

"Tim-" He stops, his back turned to you.

"Forgive me. I'm only-" you struggle to find the right words, but after a few seconds of stuttering, Tim leaves with a sight, locking the door for good.

 A sharp gasp escapes you as you look at his face. Everything feels like as if it comes crashing down at you. The cold but clear pair of blue orbs, the circles under his eyes and the black hair.

[scaryscarecrows]

“--laughing?”

“--ne’s toxin neutralized it, but I want to be sure. I’m not risking a second Joker running around Gotham.”

“Sure we don’t need to check the brain? Like rabies?”

“We’ll see.” There’s the sound of someone tapping on glass. “I know you’re awake in there.”

That’s Jason’s voice, and Bruce feels cold. Crane’s toxin wasn’t enough. It was enough to hold this at bay, then, nothing more.

“You’re sure he’s awake, boss?” A new voice. Tired, smoker’s rasp. Not-Jason barks a laugh.

“Oh, yes.” More tapping. “The least you could do is look at me.”

The cowl is still on. He’s on the floor, but the cowl is still on. Where is he?

He can hear water outside, smell that odd clean scent of overly-filtered air, and taste the staleness of having been drugged. None of these things are useful to know.

“Did you two fail vocabulary tests as kids?” a new voice demands. “Stay down, I said. Those injuries are pretty nasty, I said. What about either of those things did you not understand?”

“I–”

“Have roughly the intelligence of a microwave, I know, now sit. Down.”

There’s two sets of heavy, shuffling steps followed by squeak-squeak and flop-thud. Bruce risks cracking his eyes open, just a tad, to try and see the goings-on.

Jason–Not-Jason?--is in a wheelchair. He knee’s in a brace and he’s wearing soft, loose clothing that doesn’t hide the shape of bandages around his torso. His companion, a blond man Bruce has seen a few times throughout Halloween, is in a desk chair, arm in a sling. Both of them are looking away from a third man that Bruce doesn’t recognize, a tall, dark-haired one looming over them.

“You fuck up that knee or rip any of those stitches and I’ll gut you,” he’s snarling. “And you! You’ve gotten maybe half the sleep you should and if I catch you trying to ‘start PT early’, I’ll cut the damn thing off, because clearly you’ve lost that privilege. Clear?”

“Aww, c’mon–”

“I’m fine, I’ve had worse–”

“Clear?”

They fall silent and finally mutter, “Clear.”

“Thank you,” the doctor says serenely. “Tests are still going, is why I came looking for you. Computer says another six hours, easy.”

“Mm.” Not-Jason drops his head back to look at the ceiling. “No early signs of anything?”

“Not yet. So go back to bed, someone will tell you if things get interesting.”

Not-Jason clearly pretends he didn’t hear that in favor of looking back at Bruce.

“How long were you hiding it?”

Bruce is silent. It’s the only way to come out of the hallucinations eventually, is to not play into them. But this isn’t the usual. In the past, when it’s been Jason, he’s been either hurt and begging for help, or furious. This one is…clinical.

No, no, he’s angry: when Bruce doesn’t answer, he shoves himself out of the wheelchair, dodges what Bruce guesses is the doctor, and stalks over to lean against the glass.

“I know you’re awake, asshole. Answer me: how long were you hiding it?”

Joker’s not here yet. All this is oddly linear, actually. Very immersive. It would be fascinating if it weren’t so dangerous. He takes a quick peek at his hands. Still Batman’s gauntlets, not Joker’s gloves. Good.

He looks back up at Not-Jason and just…looks. Not-Jason looks tired, so very tired, and what would have been injuries from Deathstroke are prominent, but apart from that, he looks…better than he did in Joker’s tape. His breathing’s steadier and he doesn’t have his eyes glazed over from pain and drugs and fear.

He’s still angry, though: when Bruce doesn’t answer, he slams his hand against the glass with a resounding wham!

“Want me to call Trent?” the blond asks. Not-Jason turns away with a sneer and doesn’t shake the doctor off when the man steps over to grab his arm.

“No. I don’t want anyone going in there until those tests come back.”

“That include you?”

Not-Jason sinks back into the wheelchair.

“Yes.”

“Good. Let’s go, assholes, visiting hours are over–stay down, you’re getting a ride.”

“I want a ride,” the blond gripes.

“Too bad. Get moving.”

Bruce watches them leave and hopes the hallucination will be over now.

[death-or-exile]

Doe Reads: Batman '89 Echoes #2

After being delayed for like...a million years....this issue finally, FINALLY arrived, and it did NOT disappoint! I recall it was originally solicited to come out on 1/31, because I was going to be out of the country, and was sad I was going to miss it...but uh, guess I needn't have worried! But enough about me, let's dig in!

spoilers under the cut!

(Doe Reads Batman '89: Echoes #1)

We begin following our dearest friend, Alfred, as he is out and about doing his shopping. However, he is being followed by a shadowy someone or someones...It appears that they intend to approach him, but are stopped when Alfred is approached by a street window-washer. After the window washer, leaves, Alfred finds a note card with a very familiar logo tucked under his wiper...

....a discreet message from Robin, aka Drake Winston, who was introduced in the previous Batman '89 series. We learn that he's still very much in touch with Bruce, and presumably has been for some time; assisting him with whatever he's doing, wherever he is, and seemingly acting as an occasional go-between for Bruce and Alfred. Although personally I do believe Alfred when he asserted last issue that he doesn't know where Bruce is and hasn't heard from him -- I imagine Bruce is pretty off the grid to serve his mission and protect Alfred (and I promise that's not a Unabomber style off-the-grid joke).

Drake also answers the question for us of who is tailing Alfred...

Drake assures us that Bruce wouldn't leave Alfred in the dark like this if the stakes weren't insanely high, and that if it all goes wrong, they'll definitely need him so it's better to have him out of the loop for now. Alfred agrees to bring Drake the fingerprint kit the next day, and Drake gives Alfred one last piece of info - if something goes wrong, there are three names he needs to get to Captain Gordon: Maynard, Desmond, and Kashif.

From here, we move to Arkham, where Crane and "Robert Lowery"(aka the Firefly, aka Bruce Wayne of course!) have their first formal session. Not only is this our first real look at Crane and his I guess...bedside manner? Theraputic vibe? but we learn a lot of interesting tidbits from this discussion that flesh out the story a good bit.

Firstly, to go back to issue #1, Dr. Hugo Strange is name-dropped as the doctor "Lowery" requested to see after he was apprehended, and who was "unavailable". However, Crane introduces himself to Lowery as someone who worked closely with Strange, so he's more than qualified and able to take on the task of treating "Lowery".

Here, we get confirmed what was alluded to in issue #1 - that the lawyer and judge involved with "Lowery" were paid off in some way, to ensure "Lowery" would be brought to Arkham rather than a penitentiary. "Lowery" asks if it was paid for by the estate of Dr. Strange, remarking that Dr. Strange had "acknowledged what he'd done to (us)" and tried to make amends. This seems to give more weight to "Lowery"'s words at the end of issue #1: "Because that's what I am -- a weapon. It's what they do. Start with a man...and make a monster. It's what they did to me."

Crane begins a fear test on "Lowery", showing him a series of images on screen that increase in intensity and graphic content, in order to measure his responses to them. It starts as simply as a boy and a puppy, and ramps up to show scenes of violence and rotting corpses. finishing up on a photo of Batman, followed by a photo of a scarecrow in a field.

After the fear test, Crane says that "Lowery" is sane and functioning enough to stand trial, but that he's too much of a celebrity to afford to go to a standard prison; his life would likely be at risk. Just to be safe, he's even been checked into Arkham under a false name - Lewis Wilson (names upon names!) Crane says that ultimately the choice us up to Lowery, but he suggests that the smart thing to do would be stay at Arkham (with the other violent cases there). Before he has much of a chance to say anything either way, Crane has "Lowery" escorted to Shady Lane, the area of the hospital where the other extreme cases are, but not before we see that he clearly has his doubts as to whether or not this is the real "Robert Lowery".

It's time for us to catch up with ACN's favorite Dr. Q, who's storming through the station. Apparently since her special interviewing Alicia which was preempted in issue #1 was apparently shunted to a 7am slot, the ratings were low. As she passes, network producer (? still not 100% sure what his title is here) Chuck follows her out into the hall and praises her work on the interview.

At first she believes him to be gloating, but he insists he is sincere and convinces her to follow him up to his office for a chat. While there, he lays out what he sees to be an incredible opportunity. He wants Harleen to use her authority as a therapist at Arkham to obtain a current photo of the Firefly, something that no other station or newspaper would have -- in other words, a scoop. In exchange, he promises her a primetime slot, five nights a week. This does not take much convincing on her part, haha.

Back at the madhouse, "Lowery" is finally at Shady lane. There appear to be some colorful cameos here, and lots of interesting new characters. After being given a warning by a very skrungly man folding origami that his cover as Lewis Wilson is basically blown already and that many staff on the ward would be happy to take the bounty placed on his head, we meet Philco, the ward's living television, as well as Maynard, one of the three names Drake gave to Alfred to turn in to the commissioner in case of emergency.

Maynard and "Lewis Wilson"/"Robert Lowery" meet, and after a bit of a rough introduction, Maynard recognizes "Lowery" as a kindred spirit. "You're one of us. The Monster Men. The Sammy-Poppers...the Strange Rangers."

Maynard says he was able to identify Lowery as such from having read his manifesto; that he recognized Dr. Strange's influence in much of it. After this back and forth, Maynard is distracted after his clipboard is vandalized by another patient; the sheets on the clipboard are covered in green question mark scribbles and "kryptik puzzles" by one E. Nigma...

Upon seeing this, "Lowery" has a violent outburst, attacking the guards, and is stopped by force in short order. As Maynard is escorted away, guards separate "Lowery" into an area out of the view of cameras. "Lowery" asks if he's going to collect his bounty, but to our surprise, the man is an associate of Drake Winston's -- letting "Lowery" know where he can get the package from Drake. The guard doesn't seem to know who "Lowery" really is, he's just operating as a favor for the Winston family.

The other guard, one of the ones escorting Maynard, is next seen reporting directly to Crane, who believes it's no coincidence that "Lowery" and Maynard found each other right away, believing they're trying to revive the "Strange Rangers", whatever that is. He also asks after the other two names that we were alerted to at the beginning of the issue, Desmond and Kashif, who are apparently well in hand. He stresses to the guard that "Lowery" must be kept alive at all costs. Once he believes himself to be alone, we see Crane looking inside a well lit cupboard filled with some choice items....our first look at The Scarecrow!

...before being interrupted by the unwelcome appearance of Harleen Quinzel!

Harleen is there to convince Crane to let her try her brand of persona therapy on "Lowery". After some absolutely top-tier wheedling and whining, and absolutely fabulous desktop posing, Harleen is stonewalled by Crane and leaves. She calls Chuck on the way out to let them know that they've hit a snag in their plan, before she's struck by a moment of inspiration:

After hanging up on Lowery, we finally join Harleen in one of her much discussed persona therapy sessions. She's meeting with her group, bringing in makeup kits. The gist of persona therapy seems to be creating a differentiation between a person's "true self" and the face they put on to the outside world. The "true self" is their actual thoughts, feelings and impulses, and when they put on their makeup, draw on their face, they're allowing those thoughts and feelings to come out. When they're in their "naked face", they view that as a kind of mask that they wear to appear normal and functioning to others, to keep those impulses and feelings in check.

A patient asks how come they never get to see Dr. Quinzel's true face, and she agrees, it's only fair that she shows them her "true face" as well. She applies the makeup on herself and we're...halfway to Harley Quinn!

....and END SCENE!

It was so so interesting to learn more about the Hugo Strange angle to what's going on in this issue. I think Bruce/Lowery's statement about being made a monster by Hugo Strange, coupled with a hypothesis by Commissioner Gordon in issue #1 (that the captured robber who killed the false Batman at the beginning of the story showed rage similar to PTSD, and she clocked him as a veteran) is going to connect to maybe some kind of experimentation on members of the military? With Crane involved, can we expect some kind of....compound that causes a soldier to lose his ability to fear, making him unstoppable on the battlefield? Or is that kinda just more Crane's MO, being who he is and all, and perhaps Strange was up to something similar but different (or something else entirely?) I'm gonna go with my original assumption for now, especially since it seems to be confirmed that Lowery was doing specifically fear tests with Strange in the past...but time will tell. What does Bruce know?? What is he investigating!?!?

I also like how Harleen's persona therapy is effectively kind of....tying her to clown imagery / possible future clown henchman in a way that's organic and independent of Joker stuff, which I was very curious about, him being dead and all. I do remember back in the day, in the old internet rumor mill, the theory was that Harley in any 90s era movies would be like...the Joker's daughter taking revenge on Batman for what happened to her father? But that never sat right to me as a possible origin for her, just too weird. Even more complicated when you consider Duela Dent Joker's Daughter, who even knows.

As an admitted shipper, I find the scene between Harleen and Jonathan absolutely delicious -- the way she interrupts his reverie, the way she tries to convince him to give her her way, and their exchange of jabs; seeing how smug it makes him denying her something she wants so badly...oof, I love it. The difference between Harleen's big expressions and Jonathan's more subtle ones is so fun to watch.

I must admit, it took me all the way to literally today to remember that The Firefly's civilian name is not Robert Lowery, it's Garfield Lynns. Ooops, sorry all you Firefly heads out there. In doing the googling though, I noticed that Robert Lowery was the name of the second man to ever play Batman on screen, in the 1940s serial. Which I did not know! Coincidence? I'm gonna say no but like...who knows, really, haha.

I'm also curious about the naming of Maynard as our Riddler (how do we get from Maynard to E. Nygma? Just a pseudonym?) Truthfully upon reading this the first time, I could tell Maynard was supposed to look like someone but I couldn't place him for sure -- it wasn't after I saw a twitter exchange that it hit me that Riddler's casting here is Martin Short, which I actually love and think is great (I feel like the old rumor I remember the most for a Riddler, pre-Jim Carrey casting was Robin Williams).

This is the panel that looked most like Martin Short to me. It's just kinda funny, Joe Quinones has an absolute skill for bringing out the celeb likenesses in these characters so I'm just really surprised I didn't get it right away. Guess I'm not enough of a Short fan haha. I imagine we'll see more of him soon, although I guess he does kind of put a wrench in my theory of Strange creating fearless super-soldiers. Maybe he was doing something else with Maynard? So much to learn!

And finally, speaking of cameos, there are a couple others I want to acknowledge here. I am convinced that this man, in the hallway of the Shady Grove intro panel is Danny DeVito, change my mind, haha. The man in the center absolutely must be Tim Burton. And....I can't place Philco. He's drawn in such a specific, particular way, I'm convinced he's SOMEONE but I just don't know who. If you know, tell me!!! (also not really sure if it counts as a cameo or a design choice, but I'm calling the zigzag flooring a nod to Twin Peak's black lodge, haha)

I admit to following Joe Quinones' social media even more closely than usual in the time between this issue's delay and its release to find any meager scraps of art / info to keep me alive during that time. I posted everything I could find here as it popped up, but I actually uh....ended up doing a closet cosplay of Harleen based on the panels previewed (the red turtleneck, the checkerboard skirt, tights, red heels) because....I literally already had almost the entire getup already. Years of being a cosplayer (especially a Harley cosplayer!) and having eccentric fashion tastes pay off sometimes! haha.

Here's hoping #3 stays on schedule! Hope if you got this far you enjoyed the read!

[this-is-all-unreal]

My Dear Friend

Part 4

Part 3

Part 2

Part 1 and summary

This part definitely needs some extra warnings. Near the end of this part there is some psychological horror and a touch of gore and body horror. I was getting sketched out while writing it so I figured a warning would be a good idea. That being said I hope you enjoy I have been having a ball writing it! 🤗

       The silence didn't last long. The front door opened and footsteps found their way to the family room.

          "Hey Bruce, I passed that trigonometry test. Oh hey." The boy said as he walked in. He had glasses and had dark hair like Bruce and Dick they almost looked like they all could actually be related. 

          "Tim, this is Margaret, she's going to be staying here for a bit." Bruce says as he gestures to me.

          "For another night" I say softly as I stare at him. Could he have be the Robin with Bruce the other night? He looked the right size if not a little short. I hadn't seen Jason yet but Dick was way too tall and wide to have been him. 

           "Yeah right we kinda met already." He said as he walked further into the room. "Jason and Dick get in a fight over the remote again? It's wrecked." He said as he pushed the scraps of the remote around with his foot. 

           "Margaret, this is Tim and Robin. Do you remember him?" Tim smiled with pride.

           "You beat up Scarecrow?" I asked. He wasn't super short but he was way shorter and skinnier than a grown man. "All by yourself?" I added. He almost looks offended. 

           "Yeah Crane is a piece of cake to handle when he doesn't have his gas. Speaking of which, how are you doing?" Tim asked as he leaned against the arm of the sofa Bruce sat on. 

          "I'm fine." I say flatly. It was the truth. Tim pauses for a moment like he was expecting me to say more. 

          "Right well I'm gonna go to my room, I have some friends waiting for me to get online." He says as he pats Bruce on the shoulder as he walks out.

          "Homework first Tim." Bruce says after him. "One second." He says as he stands up to catch up with him. The conversation trailed out of earshot as they went upstairs. I sat for a while alone.

            "Felix?" I ask in a soft whisper. There was no answer. I couldn't feel him in the slightest. I stood up and walked out of the room myself. The whole manor seemed so quiet. I looked up the stairs I assumed they walked up. I start walking up one side of the double staircase. I stood on the landing and looked down both halls. I had no way of knowing which way they went. This would be one of the moments I need Felix. I took a guess and went right. I walk down a few more halls till I get to a hall that looks like it might have some bedrooms. This place had a more confusing layout than Arkham. I wasn't sure how to get back to the stairs. I heard some music coming from a door. I thought it might be Tim's room. Maybe he could help me find my way back. I knocked softly at first but the music must have been too loud. I knock a little harder. Without warning the door flew open and a very tall man I had never seen before stood in the doorway. He had a white tuft of hair but the rest was jet black like the others. 

         "Who the hell are you?" He asked as he looked down at me. I stuttered for a second. 

         "I'm well um I'm Margaret." He paused for a second. He looked very tired. There was something off about him. Something about his head, no inside his head. 

          "Alright well bye" He says as he shuts the door. 

           "No wait! Can you help me get back downstairs?" I yell through his door. He opens it again and steps out. Could this be Jason? I imagined a younger boy. He looked like he could be older than Dick. 

        "Come on." He sounded very annoyed. I followed him the best I could but his strides were much larger than mine. 

         "Are you Jason?"

         "Mm-hmm"

         "Bruce adopted you?"

         "Something like that." He said as he expertly navigated the same halls I stumbled through. 

         "Did I wake you up?"

         "No" He said shortly. Finally I recognized a hall as I saw the landing at the end of the hall. He stopped and pointed. "The stairs are there." He said as he turned and started walking back to his room. I stood there for a second. He seemed nice enough but I had a horrible sinking feeling around him. I couldn't explain it but it was similar to when you see a serial killer's face on TV and you don't want to look them in the eye. 

         "Margaret!?" I heard Bruce yelling as he exited the room he left me in. I was looking down at him when I saw how worried he looked. 

        "Up here." I say as I start walking down the stairs to him. He met me halfway up. 

         "Did something happen? Why did you leave the room?" He asked calmly but his eyes told a different story. They looked almost anxious. It made me scared. Like I did something wrong. I looked up at him with wide scared eyes and my bottom lip started to shake. 

          "I was looking for you." I say quickly and softly like I would be interrupted. His eyes change in an instant. 

         "Oh Margaret, I was just helping Tim get settled in." His eyes softened and looked like I have known them too.

         "I met Jason."

         "Oh?" He asks as he looks around like he was looking for him.

         "I got lost and he helped me find my way back to the stairs." 

         "Oh yeah?" He says with a small chuckle. "Maybe we'll put up signs or something. Jason had the hardest time finding his way around when he first came here." It was hard to imagine it after seeing him walk the halls moments ago. "Hey, why don't I show you your room? It's just a guest bedroom for now but you tell me or Alfred how you want to decorate it and we can work on it sometime." He said as he ushered me back to the landing. I followed him down the right side hall and down a similar path to where I just came from. 

          "I won't need a room remember? I'm only here for the night." I say correcting him but he didn't seem to hear me or maybe he was ignoring me. 

           "Dick's room is just down the hall here." Bruce said as we walked in the direction of Jason's room if I was remembering right. He stopped at an open door. It was huge and had a few windows but mainly my eyes were drawn to a large bay window in the center of the room. The bed and drapes were dark green and all the furniture was made of dark wood. The bed was the biggest one I had ever seen. "Here we are. Do you like the shape of it? We have more guest rooms you could have but this is the closest to the boys rooms and I rather you be close to someone in case you need something. 

          "No, it's really nice. I like it." I say as I step inside and turn to look at him. 

          "And how does Felix feel about it?" 

       "No idea he's not here." I say as I look around the room. I pull the drawers out from the dresser to look in them. 

         "Well I hope I didn't upset him too much earlier. I didn't realize he was so…. Particular." He said. I could tell he was choosing his words carefully but I wasn't sure if it was for me or Felix's sake. 

         "No, sometimes he just leaves. He didn't leave when I was at Arkham so he probably is stretching his legs or something." I say as I sit down on the bed. It's very soft and doesn't make a sound when you put weight on it. "Is Jason okay? He seemed kinda different." I say looking at Bruce who was still standing outside the room he sighed and took a step forward to lean against the doorframe as he crossed his arms. 

         "He's fine. He had an accident a few months back and the whole family is adjusting from it. He's a good kid, really tough. He'll be okay with some time." His voice was darker than normal, heavier maybe. 

         "What kind of accident?"

         "The kind most people don't come back from. We thought we lost him there for a while but he pulled through." What he was saying was good news. Most fathers adopted or not would say this with a big smile proudly but Bruce sounded like he lost a son still. I got the feeling there was something else going on, I didn't need Felix to tell me that.

           "Oh okay well I'm happy he's okay." I say, Bruce nodded and pushed off the doorframe and unfolded his arms.

            "There is a bathroom attached so feel free to shower. I'll have Alfred bring some of Tim's pajamas. We have some girl clothes in storage I think but we'll have to dig. Once the weather clears up we can go out and get you your own."

         "Why do you have girl clothes? I thought you only had sons." I say worried there might be more people for me to meet. 

        "Oh they are some we got for Barbara she was Batgirl. You will meet her soon I imagine." He says as he comes in to check the locks on the windows. 

         "Are all your kids vigilantes?" I ask as my eyes follow him. He laughs a little and nods as he fiddles with the locks. 

         "Just about, it's a family business." Is that why he wants to adopt me? He said Barbara was Batgirl. Is he looking for a new one? I wasn't cut out for that kind of stuff. Batgirl is a badass. I limp all day if I stub my toe. Maybe he thinks Felix can be useful. That's like trying to herd cats. The wind blew against the windows and it sounded like a soft howl. It really was getting bad out. The snow was piling up and it wasn't even dark yet. "We eat dinner late normally. If you are hungry don't be afraid to ask." I nod but I was still full from lunch. I hadn't had so much food in a while.

        "Pretty sweet room right?" My head snapped to look at who was talking. Dick was walking in. I didn't even heat him coming. I nod agreeing "so you think she is ready to see the bodies we keep in the basement?" He said with a smirk. I look at him momentary shock but onec I saw him smiling I knew he was joking.

         "Stop teasing her." Bruce said as he walked past him to stand in the hall. "I'm going to get everything around for patrol tonight. Are you coming out tonight? Tim and I are taking south Gotham if you want to cover the north." Bruce said looking at Dick. 

       "I don't know I might hang out with Margaret pull out some board games or something." He say looking me with a wide, opened smile. 

        "I think she wants to have a quiet night Dick. It's going to be a short night away, Tim has school and I'd feel bad leaving Margaret home." Bruce said looking back at me. 

         "I'll be fine if you have to do stuff. I was just going to shower and sleep probably." I had to assume patrol means patrolling the city. I didn't want to pull them away from that and being alone sounds nice. Dick shrugs.

      "My nights wide open." He said as him and Bruce walked off talking amongst themselves. I sat on the bed staring down the hall for a long while. I was worried if I left I wouldn't find my way back to this soft bed. 

       Alfred dropped by and gave me some clothes. He almost gave me a heart attack when he walked into view of the dimly lit hall. Now with the fancy pajama set I had I got in the shower. I was starting to worry Felix is never gone for so long. I started to hate the silence he left behind. I finished my shower and go dressed. I used the plastic covered tooth brush that was in its box under the sink. My reflection looked distorted. I couldn't tell if it was me or the mirror that was messed up. It had been a while since I saw myself. I guess mirrors are not a necessity in a psych ward. 

      The bags under my eyes only seemed to have grown. My hair was longer then I remembered it looking. It was down to the middle of my back now. Were my eyes always so big and dark? I checked my gums and tongue. I guess they looked normal. I as I stared into the mirror I started to see a gaunt horrible face in place of mine. It was unfamiliar to me and yet I wasn't afraid. My mind liked to play tricks on me even when Felix was gone. 

          I looked at the clock and saw it was only 8pm. I wasn't tired yet and I couldn't figure out how to use the remote to turn on the TV. I saw a figure past my doorway and I froze for a second. I figured even if it's a ghost or something at least I wouldn't be bored. I got up and ran out into the hall. I saw the back of Jason. I was so relieved it wasn't actually a ghost. 

         "Can you help me?" I ask after him. 

        "Lost again?"

         "No I don't know how to turn on the TV." I said with a sheepish smile. He sighed and turned around and walked towards my room. He picked it up and turned it on. I swore I tried that button. He went to walk out. "Wait are you going downstairs?" I asked him. He nodded as he continued to walk out. "Can I come along?" I ask as I follow him. 

       "If you really have to." He said looking at me with a skeptical eye. We walk downstairs and I do my best to memorize what I could of the halls. I noticed on the front door was a keypad lock next to it. I hoped it was to set an alarm and not meant to lock anyone in. I pushed it out of my mind when we reached the dinning room. It was just as grand as the rest of the house. Wine red chairs and a table that could sit an army. Jason sat at a random chair and pulled out a small book from his back pocket. I sat a ways away from him so he didn't feel suffocated. Alfred came out and sat a plate of some kind of pasta in front of him. 

        "Thank you Alfred." He said as he takes a bite not taking his eyes from his book. 

        "Miss Margaret did you want some Spaghetti alla Puttanesca?" Alfred asks seeing me seated down the table. I stand up to look at Jason's plate. I shake my head no trying to hide my disgust at what looked like bits eggplants in the dish. 

         "Do you have peanut butter and jelly?" I ask him in all earnest. 

 Jason let out a short breath of air almost like he was holding a laugh. 

         "Well it's been many years but I think I can manage." Alfred says with a smile as he walks back into the kitchen. He came back shortly after holding the most gorgeous looking peanut butter and jelly I had ever seen. 

       "Thanks!" I say excitedly. 

       "Shall I cut the crust off for you?" 

       "No no it's perfect!" I say as I bite into it. He gave a satisfied smile as he walked away. I hadn't had a good PB&J sandwich in so long. I finished it in a matter of minutes. I looked at the book Jason was reading. I could make out a title on the worn cover. The collective poems of Emily Dickinson pocket addition. I smiled he didn't look like the type to like poems. 

         "Is it good? The book?" I ask. He nods as he eats his food still not looking up from his book. 

        "It's Dickinson so pretty good." 

        "I don't know if I have ever read any of hers." I was lying I knew I hadn't read anything by her. I wasn't really a reader. 

        "You can borrow my copy when I'm done with it." 

        "Oh no I'm leaving tomorrow. I'm just staying the night to make Bruce happy." I say with a small smile. Jason pulled his eyes from his book and raised an eye brow. 

        "That's not what I heard." 

        "What do you mean?" I ask leaning in a little. He shrugged and looked back at his book. 

        "I heard Bruce talking to the boy wonder talking about how he adopted you through some slightly shady channels but all still legal." 

         "No no he told me about that. I told him I didn't want him to adopt me. He just didn't want me out on the streets tonight." Jason chuckled dryly.

          "You are more naive then I thought. Bruce always gets what he wants doesn't matter what anyone else wants. You are part of the family and you don't even know it. 

          "You are messing with me. Bruce is really nice he wouldn't-" 

          "Sure he's great when you are doing what he wants. If you try and run he'll find you assuming you even make it off of the house. He won't let you out till he's sure you'll come back. Like letting a dog off the leash." He says as he leans back and pokes his tongue against the side of the inside of his cheek. While looking me over. "Maybe I'm wrong, I was gone for a year. He could have changed. I hope for your sake he has at least. You won't survive training." He says without a hint of a joke. His face was so serious. 

          "What are you saying too her." Alfred said as he walked out from the kitchen. "Go on leave her alone. You can sulk by yourself you don't need to drag other people into it young man!" He said as he took his plate. Jason got up from his seat to leave. 

          "I mean it though I hope he's changed." He said it softer this time like he was really hopeful. He walked away as Alfred shooed him. 

          "Don't pay him no mind. He is still sore Master Bruce adopted Master Tim. He's just trying to scare you so you don't stay." Alfred says as he picks up my plate and motions for me to follow him into the kitchen. So I did. He started to load the dishwasher. 

         "What kind of accident did he have? Where did he go for a year?

          "Oh well um he was badly beaten by that horrible clown. He fell into a coma." Alfred says as he turns around to look at me. He blames Master Bruce for it and is resentful he adopted Master Tim." He paused for a moment. "But none of that you should worry yourself with. He will bounce back Master Jason always does. His resilience is remarkable." Alfred says with a smile. I can tell he really loves them all. Even when they were being difficult. "Oh my look at the time. You should be getting off to bed. Have you showered?" He asks, looking at me. 

         "Yeah I did. Hey Alfred can you walk me back to my room? I still don't really know where it is." I say feeling embarrassed. 

         "Certainly." He said as he dried his hands off. He walked me back and the halls were becoming less of a mystery to me. We said our goodbyes and I shut my door. The TV was still on so I kept the light off and crawled into bed. 

         "Was he just bitter? Or was he trying to warn you?" I sat straight up as I heard an unfamiliar voice speak. It wasn't Felix, it wasn't his voice at least. "Over here, that's right on TV." I looked at the TV and a smiling woman on the news was starting right at me. 

          "Ar-are you talking t-to me?" I ask, looking at her. She nodded

         "Well I'm not talking for my health am I? Hey wanna hear a secret?" She asked as she leaned in over her desk. I shake my head no. I knew this couldn't be real. "YOU'RE FUCKED!" She yelled so loud I thought my ear drums would burst. I put my hands over my ears as I looked at the TV. Her smile only got wider. It looked like hooks were pulling at the corners of her lips. 

           "Where's Felix!" I shout back at her. She slams her hands down on her desk and grabs your camera. 

            "YOU'RE FUCKED! YOU'RE FUCKEDYOU'RE FUCKED!YOU'RE FUCKED YOU'RE FUCKED!YOU'RE FUCYOU'ERFUCKED!" She continued to yell getting more mumbled and frantic as she screamed black slip started to fly from her mouth. Dark veins formed around her eyes. She began to slam her head on her desk till blood ran down her face mixing with the black liquid. Bone started to show as she smacked herself against her desk. She began to laugh like she was mad. I screamed and pushed myself against the backboard of the bed. 

         "WHO ARE YOU!" I scream back. I looked at the TV again and she was gone. A male news anchor was talking in a monotone voice about a robbery at Gotham mint. I pant and look around the room to make sure it was over. 

          "Margaret open up!" Jason shouted from outside the door. I looked at the door relieved it was just him. I didn't think I locked the door. I jumped up from the bed to let him in. As soon as my feet hit the floor I feel something grab my ankle and try to tug me under the bed. I screamed and clung to the edge of the bed. I looked and saw the news lady clawing at my leg with a smile straight from hell. Her body was bent in an unnatural way and her nails were long and jagged. I closed my eyes too afraid to look at her any longer. Jason broke down the door but as I opened my eyes I was laying on the floor next to the bed. 

          "What's wrong with you!" He said as he shook me by the shoulders. I pushed him away and crawled against the wall away from the bed. 

          "Under the bed! She's under there! She cut me!" I screamed as I pulled up my pant leg to show him. There was nothing. Not a single scratch. He looked at me like I was crazy. I couldn't really blame him. I knew I was crazy but I didn't think this crazy. He looked at me then back to the bed. He flipped the skirt up and inspected the underneath. 

          "There isn't anything. You had a nightmare." He said standing up 

           "No she was on the TV then she was un-under the bed Jason please you have to believe me!" 

           "I do believe you. I believe you saw a creepy girl on TV and had a nightmare about her." He said as he pointed to the TV. I craned my neck to see the ring playing. I shook my head. 

          "I didn't change it to that. I hate scary movies! And she didn't look like that!" 

         "Go back to bed. And I'm not taking the blame for the broken door. You tell Bruce you locked it." He said as he walked past me and out the door. 

        "I didn't lock the door!" I said after him but he just waved me off. Wasn't staying in that room. I ran as fast as I could down the hall. I finally made my way downstairs and into a random living room I had never seen before. I layed down on the sofa and curled up. It was mostly lit down here. I felt safer in the light. I had no idea what that was in there. I stayed awake for what felt like hours. Just staring at the entrance to the room. I was practically begging for Felix to come and make fun of me. I haven't been so scared in a while. Eventually the adrenaline wore off. I closed my eyes and fell asleep there.

Hey there just wanted to add a note here. If you liked the horror or absolutely hated it and wanted less of it please tell me. I want to make it an enjoyable of a reading experience as possible. 😅

[jasntodds]

Penance [1]

Pairing: Jason Todd x Fem!Powered!Reader

Words: 7,340

Chapter Warnings: Swearing, angst, mentions of death, mentions of injuries, a little blood, a little bit of violence

Summary: ❝Thesus: Stop. Give me your hand. I am your friend. Herakles: I fear to stain your clothes with blood. Thesus: Stain them. I don’t care.❞

It’s been a month and a half since Crane’s reign of terror was stopped, leaving Gotham to finally return to normal. But, what is normal? After everything Jason and you have been through, it seems normal might be some unobtainable dream state. But that’s not going to stop either of you from trying and maybe, you’ll get lucky in the end. At the end of it, the two of you have suffered enough, right?

Right?

A/N: It's finally the last book!! I'm honestly so excited lol You don't have to read the previous books to read this one but if you want context, feel free to ask!! You can add yourself to the tag list below, ask me to be tagged, or you can follow my library blog @jasntoddslibrary  and turn on notifications if you prefer that!! I love feedback, I swear it keeps me posting on a weekly basis 😭

series masterlist | masterlist | tag list

Everything is different. Somehow, everything has changed so much over the last month and a half everything that happened before almost feels like some sort of sick fever dream. It's all very real and all of it happened but everything is different today. At least, to Jason it feels different.

Gotham itself is pretty much the same. Bruce has been back and doing his whole Batman thing. The only difference is he doesn't have a Robin now but his methods remain the same, it's the same routine for him, same big bads. It's the same for him. The businesses that were boarded up during Crane's reign are up and running, everything looking to be the same just as it was before. The air around the city is still smoggy and the rain is still cold and wet. The streets sound the same just as they always did and the gargoyle keeps Jason company just as it did before. So much is the same but he feels like everything is different.

Instead of him and Bruce butting heads over him being Robin, they're butting heads over his methods. Bruce has no issue with Red Hood but he does have a problem with the killing part of it. And Jason won't budge. He swears he's not bitter about what happened but he is firm in his belief that change needs to happen. It stops with him and Bruce can either fight him or get on board. They are trying to come to some sort of agreement which is significantly better than how it would have went before. Bruce keeps the Robin suit in the case. He won't tell Jason why.

Their relationship is different now. Jason thinks it might be for the better.

He hopes it's for the better.

His living situation is different than it was before. He has his own place, the main safe house he used while Crane ran the city. It's not anything too special yet and Jason doesn't have too many things that are his but it's coming along. And that is his. It almost feels like it did when he was on the streets but this time, it is his choice. It is his choice to be alone here. And he owns it. No one can come and kick him out, no one can come and arrest him for trespassing and breaking and entering, it is his. It might feel lonely sometimes after living with Bruce and the Titans for so long but it is his and it brings him some sort of pride in a way.

He works with Barbara mostly now. Whenever something a bit more dicey pops up or Bruce is busy, she calls Jason. It's his literal job now and he would be lying if he said he didn't like it. Him and Babs get along better now. Actually, him and the Titans get along better now. There's still plenty of work to be done but his relationship with them has been on the mend, something he is eternally grateful for. He still owes them.

Then there's you.

Things are different with you.

"I will be back as soon as the threat is taken care of." Bruce states as he grabs a few things from the Batcave. "Are you sure you can handle this?" Bruce asks, not because of his lack of confidence in Jason's abilities but rather his general mental health.

"I got it, man." Jason brushes him off. "Nothing I haven't done before. You've gone with the Justice League plenty of times." Jason holds back his snippy attitude, trying his best to level with Bruce and not let his anger get the best of him.

"Before you were..." Bruce trails off in a way that makes Jason shift his weight off his bad leg. "Robin." He nods once, sternly and hard. "That was before."

"I'm fine." Jason nearly whines, desperate to not get into that. They don't talk about it. "I got it." He gestures his arms out casually.

"Okay." Bruce states with a sigh. "Do not blow anything or anyone up again." Bruce warns.

The touch of a smirk pulls at his lips. "I don't know what the fuck you're talking about."

There may have been an explosion near Harbor last week with some gun runners inside. Jason may or may not have been in the area patrolling. And that group may or may not have been the group Jason had been tracking over the last few days. Jason does think the explosion really helped though. They got all the guns and all the people involved in one sweep. Seemed efficient.

"I know it was you." Bruce states easily.

"Nope." Jason shakes his head but the grin is tugging at his lips, knowing damn well he's guilty.

Bruce lets out a sigh, not bothering to argue with him over it. "Just...keep it down, Jason." Bruce states and he's gone out of town a hundred times but something about this being the first time since Jason died and has been brought back almost makes him nervous.

Jason can handle himself. He's been doing it. This is only his second time in the Batcave over the last month and a half and only his third time back at the manor. He's doing well on his own, all things considered, but he is Bruce's son and Bruce does worry even if he doesn't show it.

"It'll be fine, just go. I got it all handled. Pick up your job you're working, almost got the one from Babs and..." Jason pauses feeling his mouth run dry. "Molly said y/n's got a few she's working."

Bruce eyes him, knowing very little but knowing enough about the situation between the two of you. "You should call her." Bruce tries to say it casually.

"No." Jason states simply. "And you're not allowed to give me advice here. The one that got away? Seriously, man?" Jason lets out a scoff.

Of all people, Jason does not want relationship advice from Bruce. Bruce had a solid chance with Selina and apparently, he's still hung up on her and is doing nothing about it. He could have had something great with Talia, too but that didn't end well. Jason is not looking to take advice from Bruce and he's thinking he shouldn't be taking much relationship advice from anyone he knows. No one seems to be getting that department together anytime soon. The way he sees it, this is fine.

It's fine.

"How did Tim know that?" Bruce questions Jason plainly.

"He stalks us." Jason nearly chortles.

"Well, that is all my advice. Call her, Jason." Bruce nods once at him.

"I'm good." Jason shakes his head. "Now go before Clark shows up and drags you back with him."

Bruce lets out a sigh, making his way through the living room. Bruce offered to let him stay at the manor which Jason declined. He's on his own. He can't come back here. If he's even being honest, he's only thinking Bruce called him to "look out over his jurisdictions" just to check up on him, make sure he feels useful as if Jason doesn't have his own work he's doing. Somewhere in his chest he wants to be mad and fight back over it, swear it's because Bruce doesn't think he can handle it so he's setting him up to prove a point to get him back. But Jason bites it all back, deciding to tell his mind to shut up for fucking once and let this just play out.

He sees Leslie once a week and that helps. He thinks he'll just tell her about it.

Jason finds himself back at the place he's calling home, enabling the alarms once he's safe inside. It's messy and somewhere in the back of his head, he can hear the echo of your voice telling him he should clean because he's not busy now. And he looks at the stuff on the floor, almost willing himself to listen, and then he heads upstairs anyway.

If Jason Todd is good at anything, it's being alone. He's been alone almost his whole life. Even when his dad was around, he was drunk or mean...so he was alone. Even when his mom was alive, she was usually high. She wasn't really with him very much. He adapted to what it's like to be alone. To fend for himself always and somewhere deep in his broken heart, he wishes it weren't this way but he's good at it. He has always pushed until he was alone. He is a natural disaster ripping through the hearts of people who love him so maybe being alone has always been better for him. At least the only thing left to destroy is himself.

Even if being lonely is some of the worst kind of hurt. But this is his penance.

One day, he swears, it won't be like this. That's the point of talking to Leslie and getting along with Bruce and being himself today. One day it won't be like this. A day will come when he won't have to punish himself for all the hurt he's caused. He won't have to punish himself for all the scars he bears at the hands of others and himself. One day he won't have to punish himself for the person he could have been. It just has to be like this today. So, Jason goes up to his room where he keeps his training equipment and monitors and he starts to work on the cipher until it's time for patrol.

The city is warm tonight. Cars are crowding the streets while people walk home from their Saturday night out and a smile pulls at your lips from under your mask as you watch the people below you. Patrol has just started and you're mostly waiting and listening, knowing something is going to happen because it always does on Saturday nights. But, you'd be lying if you said you don't like the view from where you are. Something about Gotham always being pretty at night.

The smog isn't visible, it doesn't look dreary as it usually does during the day. It's just street lights and busy people walking about. A part of you can't believe just a few months ago you were terrified of heights and now you actually enjoy the view.

Things have changed a lot since then.

You live with Molly now, probably how it always should have been. You share a small apartment, this one has better locks on the doors and windows. And every night you teach Molly some self-defense, just in case. If you've learned one thing, it's that you cannot save everyone but you can help them. At least if Molly is somewhat prepared, she has a chance though you could tell by how she moved and certain things she already knew that Jason had taught her a few things before San Francisco. Living with her is nice though. She understands you and there is no judgment. You aren't alone.

Gar and Tim talk to you every single day, updating you with whatever is going on. At first, it was fun stuff on the road trip like sightseeing and museums and bowling. Now, it's the hell Metropolis is currently under. You've never been so happy you stayed behind. You do not want to fight a demon. You'll never admit it, but you wouldn't stand a single chance against Rachel let alone Mother Mayhem and Brother Blood. Though, you are disappointed you missed the whole zombie situation. You're just glad the boys keep you up to date with everything and you talk to Dick and Kory all the time, too. That doesn't feel too different. It feels almost like it did when you first came back to Gotham and you like it this way.

And then there's Jason.

Things are different with Jason.

"Robbery in progress in the East End, convenience store." Molly says through the comms.

"Got it, send the address." You grin wildly behind your mask before you use your grappling hook to lower yourself down the backside of the building.

Molly helping out has been new. You aren't too happy about that part but...Molly was insistent and to tell her no would make you a hypocrite. Molly stays back and is youe eyes in the skies kind of deal which has been very helpful when it comes to patrol. At least that's nice.

You take the bike and head to the address Molly sent you. Patrolling is different now, too. You've always patrolled with Bruce or Jason or the Titans. Even when Jason died, you weren't patrolling. You had set targets and that's who you went out to grab. This is patrol. This is different. You're alone with Molly in your ear. You thought maybe you wouldn't like it, Iike maybe you'd actually be really bad at it being alone. But, if you were being honest, you're really enjoying it this way. You're good at it. And it's fun and you don't have to worry about anyone else. It's just you. Your life. That's it. And you like the thrill a little bit.

Jason shoves the last of four men to the ground, his hands zip-tied behind his back and the man lets out a groan. He glares up at Jason with blood streaming down his nose, his friends all a bit battered but have learned to keep quiet. This one is annoying.

"You broke my fucking nose!" He screams up at Jason.

Jason never quite understood why people committing crimes who get caught, like in this instance for example, are confused by their injuries. They showed up to rob a local small business and expected to get away with it. They're here to possibly ruin something that someone has earned and worked very hard for just because they can. A broken nose seems to be a pretty good deal.

He's not even a stranger to robbery but these guys walked in there armed and prepared to shoot anyone who wanted to get in the way. Jason was also a teenager and desperate. These four men don't seem to be in the same boat and the way Jason sees it, there was no reason to hold a gun to someone's face for a hundred dollars in a cash register. These are not master criminals.

"You're lucky I'm in a good mood or your nose would be the last of your worries." Jason says casually through the modulator.

"Good mood?!" The man yells back as if he's the real victim in this situation.

"Yeah, good mood." Jason echoes back about to make another smart comment until he hears the sound of a motorcycle pulling up.

Jason turns around just in time to see it stop and he'd recognize the bike anywhere because it's the same one as his. He'd recognize the blue and black suit anywhere because it's yours.

You pop the helmet off and Jason swears his very heart just burst into flames into his chest and it might just burn through his ribcage. The corner of his lips starts to tug into a shielded smile at the sight of you and his only thought is that he misses you. He asks about you to your friends, not too often but...often enough for them to know. All of them say the same things, you're doing okay but they're worried. You're working with Barbara, too, running different jobs for the PD and you check in on Tim's parents every single day.

Molly always says the least about you.

Every single bone in his body feels hollowed seeing you. But when you lock eyes with him and you don't look happy, the guilt comes back baring its teeth and digging them right into his jugular.

It has been a month and a half and he is trying his best. It hasn't been easy and some days he doesn't try but generally, he's trying. It's hard whenever every breath he takes is haunted by the day he took his last. It's hard trying to figure out his footing. Jason Todd is Red Hood. He knows that. He is Red Hood. Red Hood protects innocent people and uses any means necessary to make sure they stay safe. But he is not a hero. He is doing what must be done and that is all. Jason Todd is Red Hood but outside of that, he doesn't know yet. Instead, he wraps himself in a straightjacket of guilt and remorse and agony and hopes that'll be enough to repay his debts to misery and happiness.

You eye him and it's like you're being exposed to the entire city in an instant. It's as if your suit and mask have been ripped from your body and every scar and insecurity and vulnerability is being displayed in some sort of sick museum as you see him. You have separate sections of the city. You, him, and Bruce. This is Bruce's section but he's out of town with the Justice League. It would have been Jason's to pick up but you didn't even question it when Molly mentioned it.

You wish you would have questioned it.

It is almost a relief he wears a full-face helmet because you aren't entirely sure what you would do if you saw his face, saw his expression. Would he be happy to see you? Disappointed? Mad? Would there be anything left at all or would he just look at you like he would any other vigilante showing up a little too late to help? You aren't sure which of those would be easier to swallow.

Something builds in the space between you, something hard and damaged, sucking the air out from between you. It snarls back at you both almost daring you to go ahead and try to move. Try to make the space less and see just how badly the teeth of grief will hurt this time. Go ahead and tempt death for old time's sake and guilt. Go ahead and try to mend this and pretend it's some sort of coincidence, as if fate has any hand in this. It bites and gnaws at you both as water brims in your eyes, every emotion bubbling over to the surface and grief screams out to you both.

Go ahead and try again, see just how badly this will all end again. It will only end in bloody hands and shredded agony. Guilt laughs in your faces, a devious crackle as if you are not worth the other. The both of you do not deserve forgiveness for the torture you've caused the other. Walk away. You both can hear it over and over again, guilt and grief and resentment and loneliness, walk away.

So, you do.

You pop the helmet back on your head just as Jason turns back to the robbers.

"Where are you going?" Molly asks through the comms as she watches the tracker on her screen start moving.

"You can see him here." You seethe. "I know you can see him, too."

Molly has all of your locations. She shares them with Bruce. It was part of an agreement with her doing this eyes in the skies thing and you being able to keep patrolling. It's how you all keep your sections of the city. Molly knows Jason is here.

"He wasn't when I sent you, I swear." Molly defends softly. It's not a lie, she just didn't mention when Jason happened to be moving towards the robbery. "He showed up but you were already on your way—"

"So you didn't tell me?!" You yell. "Seriously?"

Somewhere in the last month and a half, grief has metastasized into something resembling resentment. It's not him. You know that. But, seeing him just now brings back too many feelings you've yet to deal with properly, you're trying but you haven't gotten that far yet.

Grief bubbles back and transforms into something like resentment because you should be together. You should fucking happy and you aren't. You are, generally, but there is this void echoing in your chest. A burning pain right on your heart where his name was stitched. It sucks to be blind-sided into seeing him even if the resentment is towards yourself. You just would have liked some fucking warning about it.

You need to be prepared if you're going to see him and you aren't entirely sure you're ready. There's still a lot of shame even if missing him makes you feel like Atlas. Half the damn time it takes everything in you not to call him. Something will happen and he is still the first person you want to tell. But, you're not talking. Instead, you get updates about him through Molly and Gar and Tim. All of them have said he seems okay while sounding worried about him. It's hard not to worry about him. He's Jason. You think that's your only relief, knowing he's at least doing okay.

You just wish you had it in yourself to check in but he said space and you said space. You agreed and guilt and shame suck the very air out of your lungs to the point where you think this is your way of punishing yourself for everything you've done to him. Forcing yourself to not contact him first and check-in. You're punishing yourself but keeping to what you know and staying away from him. Maybe it was him who was always better off.

Molly sighs. "You have to talk to him eventually." Molly rolls her eyes on the other end and decides to drop it. She can hear the engine of the bike roaring louder than usual. This conversation is not one to have at the moment. "Mugging two blocks from you, take a right."

She is thankful the two of you have not put her in the middle. The most that happens is you both asking about each other. Other than that, you don't ask. You don't mention each other. It's as if you only know of each other through your mutual friends. Molly thinks that might actually be worse sometimes.

Jason gets back to his safe house and strips from the Red Hood gear. He heads right for the shower. Seeing you tonight, it feels like a lot. He never tried to kill you but somehow, you're the person he betrayed the most and dealing with that has been a lot harder than most of the rest of it. Your dedication and loyalty to him he thinks has made it so hard. To have someone so loyal and love him the way you did, sends his head fuzzy with regret knowing the pain he caused you.

At first, Jason thought it'd be a week or two. You'd both cave and talk again and then one thing would lead to another. Maybe it wouldn't be the healthiest way to deal with your shit, but you'd be together and you'd figure it out. But then a week or two turned into three and then four and then six. The more time that passes, the harder it gets to pick up the phone. Maybe that's why he asks Gar and Tim and Molly about you. They all say you're good but they're worried about you. They're always worried about you. But at least you've been good and Jason is grateful for that. He just wishes he had it in himself to suck it up and just call you. But, he doesn't so he showers away the thoughts of you and drowns himself in his guilt and regret.

By the time he's out of the shower, his phone is ringing and he's drying his hair with a towel, the white streak staring back at him in the mirror and he's still mad Dick didn't get the same thing he did.

"Yeah?" Jason answers the phone.

"I need your help." Dick states on the other end.

Jason pulls the phone from his head, looking at the caller ID before he puts the phone back to his ear. "With?"

"Training Tim." Dick states.

Jason almost laughs at the very statement. It's not that Dick is asking for help in the training department, he has before. That's fine. It's that Tim is supposed to be Robin out there and Jason knows they are actively fighting demons and zombies. Tim should absolutely be getting trained in between all of that.

"You haven't trained him yet?" Jason scoffs in surprise before he walks out of the en suite and into his bedroom.

"We've been busy." Dick scoffs back knowing damn well Jason knows what's been happening. Dick has mentioned it and Gar gives Dick updates about Jason meaning Gar talks to him plenty. "Between everything that's been going on since we got to Metropolis, we haven't had time."

Jason chuckles softly on the other end. "Yeah, uh, Gar was telling about me about the zombie shit. Fucking Deathstroke? Glad I wasn't there." Jason laughs softly and he can't see it but there might even be a faint smile on Dick's lips. He sounds good.

"Yeah," Dick huffs, running a hand through his hair. "You gonna be able to help?" Dick asks.

"Yeah, I owe you anyway." Jason agrees. "Not gonna go easy on him though. I'm gonna make sure he's ready when he comes back."

It doesn't take Jason long to have his decision. There's something...weird with someone replacing him in a way, as Robin. But, if someone is going to be Robin, they have to be prepared, more prepared than he was. Jason doesn't want someone else to end up like him and he knows Tim, kind of. He owes Dick for everything Jason has put him through and Jason did always like helping with the training. It's not a difficult decision.

"Good, that's what I expect." Dick nearly chuckles. "If he's going to be Robin, he needs a good teacher."

"Wouldn't go that far, man." Jason shakes his head, still getting used to Dick being nice.

"You trained y/n and look at what she can do. That is mostly on you. Do the same for Tim. I'll have him in Gotham tomorrow."

"You just gonna send him to me?" Jason's brows pull together as he puts a hand on his hip.

"No, I'm going to send him on a mission that is all just a ruse to get him there. You'll find him and go from there. Don't tell him." Dick explains simply as if Jason should have known Dick would have a...ruse?

"So, you're gonna send him here on a fake mission with no training as Robin?" Jason lets out a laugh. That's ridiculous and somehow Jason finds himself not entirely surprised. "Why not just fucking tell him, man?"

"I want to instill confidence in him." Dick states, almost defensively. He's trying his best and he also knows that Tim is very confident and maybe he needs to see he needs the help. "Should have done it with you guys. Not making the mistake again."

Jason clears his through. "Yeah, okay, deserved that." Jason shakes his head. "Alright, just let me know when he's on his way and where I need to be. I'll get him ready to actually be Robin."

"Thanks, Jason." Dick's voice is sincere.

"Yeah, don't mention it." Jason lets out a sigh before he hangs up.

He plops onto his bed, his eyes falling onto the helmet resting on the dresser on the opposite side of the room. Right after leaving the manor from talking to Bruce, this is not where he saw Red Hood being. Being a vigilante is now something Jason feels like he has to do, he likes it but he is trained to do it. He's trained to help people and if no one else is going to help them, Jason might as well. It's taken a little getting used to, rebranding Red Hood in a way. Red Hood is not a murderer. He kills really horrible people for the greater good. He targets people like Black Mask and Penguin by working his own circle to steal their business. He sabotages their work and steals their shipments. That part is always a bit fun. Red Hood patrols Crime Alley. He helps them. He is not a murderer.

He's still getting used to it but it's better than it was. Even if the blood on his hands burns from time to time.

This is kind of nice though, the ability to train Tim. He does miss that part a bit, training with someone. Training alone only does so much sometimes. Jason liked helping train the other younger Titans. It made him feel important and now he gets to train Tim. He'll never tell Dick, but it means a lot for him to ask for help here even if it's just because the Titans have been busy.

This is the last one for the night. You've been tracking this group of people who work for a pretty bad pimp in the city. You've gotten a couple of the women to turn and Barbara has put them into protective custody, immunity from any and all charges. It's not them they want anyway. It's the pimp and his right hand but when women stopped showing up, he got wind and went into hiding. So, did most of his men and women. Until tonight when Molly grabbed one of them on a camera in Gotham Heights. You wasted no time in trailing him.

The second this guy sees you, he takes off like a bat out of hell and the only thing you can do is roll your eyes and go after him. They always run. It's like they really think running is going to work for them. Between the cardio and the grappling hook and the bike, why do they think they'll actually get away? They always run.

The guy thinks he's smarter and quicker. Well, maybe he's quicker but he is not smarter. Molly is tracking him through every traffic camera he hits while you stay a good distance behind him until the opportunity comes for you to get onto a rooftop and continue the chase that way. He's heading somwhere, it won't be toward his boss. There's no way he's that stupid but he is heading into the perfect spot for you to grab him.

You turn off and then jump a few more buildings before ducking down into an alley. You walk to the very end and then wait a few seconds for the running footsteps to come closer. You grab a knife from your belt and then just as he goes to run past, you grab him, spinning him and pinning him against the alley wall.

You hold the knife to his neck and press it into his skin, not enough to cause serious damage, just enough to let him bleed. Blood gets people talking quicker and you're tired and hungry.

"Where is he?" You demand.

The man gulps and the blade presses into his neck further, his breathing heavy and shallow. "I don't know who you're—"

"Your boss. Yes, you do. You're all in hiding but you came out and for what? Where he is?" You question again, not in the mood to even let him think for a second he's smarter than you.

He looks at you with terror. Somehow, he wishes it were The Bat that grabbed him and yet he finds himself thankful it's not The Red Hood. The Bat won't kill him but Red Hood would make sure his death was painful if he really wanted to. You're not one to be messed with either. But his boss? That's just signing his death certificate.

You pull the knife away, kneeing him in the stomach before you land a punch to his face. You don't want to kill him. You read his record. Wrong crowd at sixteen. He was probably manipulated into this, too. He's a victim, too. But, he needs to give up his boss.

The man groans, sliding down the wall as he holds his jaw. "Fuck!"

"Tell me." You grit your teeth.

"He'll fucking kill me! I'd rather you just send me to Arkham or Blackgate! I'm not a fuckin' rat." The guy seethes but there's a quiver in his voice.

You roll your eyes. "Yes, I'm aware he'll kill you."

"What the fu—"

"So tell me and give me a reason to make sure he doesn't." You offer. "You think I'm here to kill you? If I wanted you dead, I'd kill you myself. Tell me and we'll protect you." The offer is genuine even if it comes out snippy.

"I don't believe a damn thing you say." The man gives you a weak scoff and diverts his eyes to the street.

"That's a you problem then. I'm trying to help you while you help me." You offer. "It's a real offer."

"Immunity then." The man fires back without even thinking.

You scoff. Does he not realize that the whole vigilante thing is still a crime? You can't promise that. "No. And I don't have the ability to promise that anyway. Work out with the DA. I can get you into protective custody though if you give him up."

Barbara has you working this case involving some sort of ring with sex workers. It's definitely more than just some guy calling the shots and dividing up money. Missing women, bodies turning up, drugs, it all seems to lead back to him. Your argument was that half the people working under this guy are victims, too. Some of those people are given the opportunity to flip and if they do, they're given protection. Barbara said the DA isn't too happy about it and some of the civilians will probably be pissed but you don't care. Not all of them have to go down with the ship.

"Look, he's going to find out you were with me and he's going to think you flipped or you're thinking about it. You're a dead man the second you walk out of this alley if you don't help me and we both know it."

The man lets out a sigh. "Crime Alley." He finally caves. "I don't know exactly where. I heard there are only a few women who know and then his right hand, that's it."

You nod accepting the response. It's way better than nothing. "Thank you."

"You're really gonna help?"

"Yeah, of course." You get to your feet.

"Why?"

You shrug. "You're not the big problem here." You answer casually. "My advice though, take whatever punishment is dealt to you and serve it and then get out. There's a program. The commissioner will give you information about it if they decide to try you."

"Thank you." The guy nods.

"Mhm." You hum, pulling out your own zip ties before you zip tie his hands together but before you get Molly to call Barbara, Molly comes in through the comms.

"Hey, I've got Dick on the other line, you wanna take it?" Molly asks.

"Yeah, actually, I'm done here. Let the commissioner know he flipped and I got info on him so he's good." You answer.

"Got it." Molly answers before she patches Dick in.

"I need your help with something." Dick starts without wasting a single second.

Your brows pull together. "Uh, hello to you, too?" You question as you get back to your feet. "The fuck do you need my help with? I do not want to go to Metropolis." You let out a chuckle before you look out onto the street and then back back into the alley.

"Superman?!" The guy on the ground yells.

"No, Nightwing." You scoff. "Shut up. You're done talking."

"Are you on a job right now?" Dick almost yells and at this point, he expects nothing less.

"Oh, yeah, just wrapping up." Your voice is almost cheery on the other end.

"Okay..." Dick holds the bridge of his nose, not even wanting to unpack that. "I need you to help train Tim."

You cackle on the other end. "Okay, hold on, let me wrap this up. This shit needs my attention." You laugh looking back to the guy. "Alright they'll be here in a few to arrest you but I gotta head out so...sorry about this." You pull your fist back, punching the guy and knocking him unconscious. "Anyway," You start before you shoot your grappling hook at the roof and start your jumping and walking to your bike. "You need me to do what now?"

"I need you to help train Tim to be Robin." Dick repeats.

"Is that not your job?" You quip back with a laugh.

Dick sighs, seeing as he is clearly going to have the same conversation twice. "We've been busy."

"Yeah, Gar and Tim said something about Zombie Deathstroke. Sounds fucking insane. Glad I'm not there." You laugh before jumping onto a neighboring rooftop. "Wait, okay hold on." You shake your head. "You're gonna send Tim here?"

"Yes. On a fake mission to build confidence." Since he's already had this conversation, Dick knows exactly what to cut out and include in his response to get this conversation over quickly.

"Uh-huh." You nod, getting the feeling there's a bit more to this than Dick is leading on. "Right, yeah, got it. Fair enough, I guess. And why are you asking me?" You ask knowing Jason is right there in Gotham City as well.

"You're good at this, you're the newest member besides Conner but well..."

"Superboy." You finish. "Unfair fight."

"Exactly. You also have your combat clairvoyance. Jason always said you were a good sparring partner because you fit." Dick's voice is casual and simple, you know there's something he is not telling you. He's nicer than he was before. The stick is no longer up his ass, but he's being too nice.

"Yeah, he did." You roll your shoulders before jumping to the next rooftop. "And uh, why are you not asking Jason?" You ask before it goes completely silent. And you know immediately. "Oh, you did." You state.

"I did." Dick answers simply.

Of course, Dick asked Jason first. You aren't offended or hurt by it. Asking Jason to train Tim is smart. But, not immediately telling you means one of two things. Either Jason said yes and Dick is setting you both up which makes you want to jump off this rooftop or Jason said no and Dick just wasn't going to tell you. Unfortunately, you're betting on the first option just because you know Jason wouldn't send Tim to the wolves.

"And he said yes, didn't he?" Your voice is a little snippy this time.

"He did." Dick keeps his voice level, unsure if you're going to start yelling or not.

"Okay so you're asking me to help Jason train Tim but Jason doesn't know you're asking me and you weren't going to tell me but because I asked you were obligated not to lie to me in fear I'd be pissed off enough to walk out and so would Jason?"

"When you put it that way." Dick states. "Look, I know it's complicated right now." Dick tries to reason with you.

"We're not fucking talking, Dick like..." You let out a breath. "He probably doesn't want to see me, ya know?" You nearly whine at the thought because you really believe it.

You hurt him.

"I know but this is for Tim." Dick urges.

You might be giving Dick a hard time but you both know you'll agree. Not only is Dick asking for a favor but it's also Tim. You would never not help Tim especially with everything that's happened. You owe Dick and Tim for everything. But, that doesn't make the situation any easier for you.

"Jason is gonna be pissed if he finds out, ya know?" You ask.

"Yeah." Dick answers. "Tim will get the best training from the both of you though."

"Yeah." You roll your eyes. "Fine. Yeah, I'll help and I won't tell Jason. Just when and where?"

"Tomorrow, I'll text you the rest." Dick answers. "Thank you."

"Mhm." You hum.

Dick feels bad for you and Jason. You've both been through a lot individually and together. It's two of the things that brought you together in the first place. You two always seemed to make each other happy and you actually seemed really good for each other. Dick knows first hand it's not easy and it is always complicated. It's always going to be painful trying to work out the romance department while being a vigilante. It's why it didn't work with him and Barbara. It's why it didn't work with him and Dawn. It's not easy. But, he feels bad for you both. It feels like you weren't given a chance.

"Talk to him." Dick states carefully.

You groan as you look to the sky. "You're not giving me a fucking choice are you, Dickolas?"

"You know what I mean." Dick says right back.

While you appreciate the sentiment, you are not taking dating advice from Dick Grayson. As far as you know, Dick's been in love with Kory for almost a year, at least and he has not said a single word to her about it. At least you told Jason. The way you see it, Dick should be taking dating advice from you.

"You tell Kory how you feel about her and I'll have a conversation with Jason." You offer in a higher-pitched voice, offering a bit of bite in your words.

"Okay no—"

"Yes." You quip back. "Don't give me advice if you're not going to take the same advice." You jump to the last rooftop. "She feels the same way anyway." You mutter softly.

"Alright, thank you." Dick cuts you off. "Talk to him. Tim won't know you're helping him."

"Gathered. Just let me know. I know to keep my mouth shut. I got it." You assure him.

"Thank you."

"You owe me." You laugh softly on the other end before ending the call.

After the run-in earlier tonight, you weren't sure when you'd want to see Jason again. At first, you thought about it all the time. Maybe you'd run into each other just as you did earlier and he'd make some quip about you being in his territory and you'd make fun of him for needing your help. Something would click and you'd be back to normal and it would feel good. The void in your chest will fill again and it would be normal. But that's not what happened because more time passed and you think about how maybe he's mad at you. He should be mad at you still. The more time that passed, the more you convinced yourself it was what you deserved. So, you keep your distance on purpose from him. Maybe that's your penance.

But now, you have to face him.

So, you head back to the apartment to mentally prepare. Jason Todd is still the Jason you always loved and you have to act like you're fine. You have to act like it is not eating you away inside to think about him. Everything has been going okay and you're finding yourself in this city. You think your feet are starting to land on solid ground for once. But, the thought of seeing Jason makes you feel like the earth is being pulled from under your feet. It's the one thing you have deliberately not dealt with. So, you know you have to act like it's all normal. If you're going to be able to do this with him, it has to feel normal. You have to feel normal otherwise it'll be sad and awkward and painful. Maybe he won't want your help anyway.

In no way did you expect your first time speaking to Jason again would be because Dick asked for help. But, it looks like that's exactly what's going to happen. And maybe your bones are starting to vibrate with a mixture of excitement and nervousness. You might feel guilty and you might be worried but you miss seeing him. You miss the way his voice sounds. You miss him more than words could ever describe.

Maybe you hope he misses you, too even if you don't deserve it.

Maybe as the night goes on and you get ready for bed and tell Molly about it, maybe you can't wait to see him.

next chapter

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[pumpkinstrawbrew]

Out of curiosity, thoughts on Scriddler?

i thought, that one day, i’d might be asked this lol. 

i’ll be frank, the nature of popularity of that ship kinda confuses me to this day. not in irked sense, i just generally was surprised to see so much stuff for them. like, i don’t remember them interacting in anything, that i’ve watched / read. which tbh, doesn’t say much, since i’m very picky about what i engage with, when it comes to superhero media outlets. so maybe, it did happen somewhere an’ i just didn’t see it. i remember casually browsing a few of accs, who shipped it, curious, if they had some specific comic strip or cut scenes from the game, which depict those two together an’ that’s what lead them to idea of this ship. but i saw nothing of sorts. an’ it’s not a problem, naturally. but for me, an outsider, who ships a completely different thing, it was a bit puzzling. just how it came to be this broad, if there wasn’t any huge kickstarter. or well, not the one, that i’ve glimpsed. 

either way, i’ll begin with saying scriddler doesn’t personally work for me. nor does it have smth, that i seek in my otps. with this in mind, i have no intention to belittle anyone with what will follow below. it’s just my own whimsical outlook on it, based on many individual criteria, that might be vastly different for others, who see things in that ship, that i’m incapable of. similar to how i see things in my rare ships, that i know would make many folks quirk a brow as to why ‘that’s even a thing’. 

now, about jon an’ edward. a pair that might sound good on paper, depending on what you include in said paper, but for me it’s like putting a hardcore dnd fan into a pit with hardcore bookworm, an’ expect them to get along swell, just bc they’re both outcasts. ignoring how the first one is more show-offish an’ loudly proud of his abilities, an’ the other one is kinda shut-in with occasional god complex lol. one of them tends to throw ugly tantrums, the other one prone to meltdowns. both are sociopaths, who have little understanding of ‘how to human’, unless they need to pretend *for small periods of time*. 

in short, i cannot see them having enough patience to handle one another in almost 95% of their interactions. i can’t imagine antisocial, snappy jonathan to be able to tolerate edward’s endless need for praise an’ attention. more so, i struggle to picture jon even knowing how to react in those situations, or being willing to put aside a book, an’ listen to nygma’s newest scheme, if he’s not in the mood for it. or see edward going along with whatever crane has cooked up *some fear plan*, if he already has his own in drafting. it doesn’t help, that they’re also a slightly different ‘breed’ of villains too. 

indeed, they’re both operate more on intellectual level vs brute force *not without use of it tho*, but where riddler’s tick is the actual level of intelligence or level of knowledge, the scarecrow is a mindrape kind of villain. nygma likes building traps an’ labyrinths, giving quests an’ a chance to ‘win’, even if it’s all be a faux in the end. jonathan, on other hand, is mix between being sadistic an’ pragmatic. they both want / need a very different things *usually*, when they kick bruce or whoever else around. or in other words, they’re kinda useless to each other’s obsessions an’ it’s hard to imagine them functionally combining their efforts, without smth going wrong or one of them getting pissed off at the other. which was one of few reasons why jonathan got fed up with the joker, when they had their team-up *during the bane era*. crane doesn’t play well with others, an’ he also has a short temper, when someone keeps doing things, that he views as useless or silly. an’ nygma being prideful as he is, most likely won’t just swallow jon’s critic, esp bc he would have some of his own stored as well. neither of them is actually a team player. so here goes their supposed villain team up for me, like even from a technical aspect. they don't strike me as villains, who can have buddy-buddy relationships, even in part bc of their 'big personalities'.

an’ circling back to their obsessions, it’s pretty much a core of their persona. the root of their disease an’ addiction. an’ also a thing, that usually pushes them to engage with anyone in a meaningful way at all *at the very beginning, at least* an' it’s kinda clinical in that regard too. i don’t think that jon would be engaged with riddler’s fear in any intimate fashion, for one. i don’t think, that past abuse or trauma or hardship is enough for him to get obsessed with a person. in fact, i think that he usually simply gets pleasure from making someone feel awful as simple as it sounds. unless, they’re his bully or someone, who has wronged him, he seems to just forget about those, who he hurt along the way. it’s unflattering aspect of the antisocial brain, but that’s just how it is. nygma’s past won’t be able to be memorable for him, partly due to crane’s general lack of ability to relate to others, without it being very heavily connected to his own woes. an’ even then, he tends to misunderstand it. an’ in return, doubt that nygma would understand why jonathan was that affected by bullying, considering that in edward’s eyes, it’s an attention *no matter what kind* an’ attention is good. after all, he did say that people usually literally looked past him, not even jocks were interested in tormenting him, until he became smth ‘worthy’ of their aggression. so from his perspective, he might think that jon being dramatic about it, since crane was on opposite side of the issue, he always attracts attention to himself. a very bad, bad kind, but attention anyhow. meanwhile, nygma *in his own eyes* has to fight tooth an’ nail to get any. an’ it might start as one time fight, but it will be an always looming issue, that eventually would blow into their faces. there is no denial, that it played a huge part of what made them so dependent on their gimmicks in the first place. the way the world around them engaged with them or in nygma’s case, the way, it did not. so yeah,  it’ll be a big ole mess, an’ neither would be able to navigate such a situation. 

from what i saw, people tend to depict them as ‘two evil old men in relationships’, an’ it feels like they both more put together in those set ups, than they usually are. or like jon is very receptive toward edward’s attempt to befriend him, an’ nygma actually is pretty good at figuring out what scarecrow might like an’ what not. an’ the problem with it is that i don’t see edward being this thoughtful about anyone. ever. period. in most cases, his disorder just won’t let him be this considering, even if he would have wanted to. like, even if we take newest batman 2022 movie, in there riddler is very-very delusional about the bat, an’ it doesn’t even occur to him, that bruce might have different needs / goals vs what edward imagined him to lol. an’ jonathan is this, but even worse. he openly tends to dehumanise an’ objectify others, seeing them only as tools or props to get what he wants. i don’t think that such person would suddenly act differently around nygma, who on top of everything is also clingy an’ needy. for jonathan, who doesn’t have any experience with companionship at all, an’ who lived most of his life alone, that’s be overwhelming an’ confusing, an’ also annoying. whatever good qualities they have, an’ whatever we love them for, it’s given that both jon an’ nygma be hard to be around in long term, an’ would at times get hella unpleasant too. picturing them trying to mend things in 'normal' ways, or talking about it like normal people is smth that i personally cannot invision at all. or in other words, from my perspective, they’re too mentally ill for each other. in fiction, it's often be a positive thing. like, that two mavericks with huge problems can make it work together, but my personal experiences pretty much prevent me from seeing it this way. unless, one of the two is at least somewhere leveled or tries to be, there is just no way for such relationships to hold on for too long. in jon's an' riddler's case, we talking about an actual extremes on top of all, so it's be even harder for one of them to pull up the other, when they themselves unwell. one might argue, that there is potential for them to make each other worse, then. but they already *objectively* suck on their own as people. the corruption only works if there is smth too corrupt to begin with. some versions of the scarecrow an' riddler are already too far gone, for anything else to make them suck more lol. an' once again, they don't share gimmick, they don't share worldview or have the same goals, so it's hard to picture them infecting the other with their own desease, so to speak.

there is kinda more, that i can say on the topic, but it’s getting hella long already, so i’d skip a few things an’ will go straight to my next point. i suppose, that i already gave an outline of why i cannot see them working together personality wise, so next i’d get to their general aesthetics or visuals. the surface stuff, if you may.

i love their general designs *some more than the others, naturally*. but when i look at them side by side, i’ll be honest, i just see two bottoms lol. an’ while yeah, there is such a thing as switching, i kinda rarely vibe with it. an’ with jon an’ edward, it’s just that. they're purebred bottom cocksuckers in my eyes. them havin’ twink on twink sex isn't very sexy or hot to me. i feel like they both would want or at least have that not-so-secret fantasy about being domed into ground by a 'superior man'. bottoms fighting each other about who should top is more of a comedy set-up in my eyes, than anything else. esp bc they both will be like 'you should top' vs 'i wanna top' lmao. i also will add, that i hc both edward an' jon as kinda shallow in sense of who they find attractive. i picture them pawing after men, who are *technically speaking* out of their league. my personal joke about them is that they're both middle aged virgins with hilariously high standards, who won't beat it just to anyone or anything. they pick misery over everything else lol.

an’ that’s all that i’ve got on the topic of scrridler, pretty much! hopefully, this mini essay did explain my view on the pair. an’ i also hope that it was at least, kind of entertaining to read as an outsider's pov. in the end, if you ship it, i do encourage you to just see this as some rando sharing their opinion an' nothing more.

[ellesthots]

Fateful Beginnings

XXVIII. “eleventh hour”

parts: previous / next

plot: witnessing the breaking of Bruce, your desperation reaches new heights.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, mention of suicide, description of panic attack/psychosis, light gore, angst, hurt/comfort, ableism (internalized; ‘crazy’ etc.), manipulation/lying

words: 8.8k

a/n: if you do not wish to read this, I will post a blurb at the front of the next chapter to summarize what happened in this one so you can still follow along. this is the last chapter for a while to talk about it explicitly.

prev. chapter summary (XXVII): You visit Bruce at Arkham, and share a tender moment. Bruce is moderately injured. Dr. Crane explains to you the protocol for interacting with patients who experience schizophrenia or psychosis, including not directly engaging with their delusion. Bruce remembered a powerful, owl-like creature attacking him, but it was ruled a suicide attempt. Bruce visits your apartment after his hold ends, where he tells you he didn't try to kill himself. Frustrated at not being believed, Bruce leaves, with no intention of getting medication or therapy.

In the afternoon you awoke, even more upset than the night before. Sleep allowed the weight of your task to internalize—you nearly passed out peeking at the news on your phone, fully anticipating news of his death—though you found nothing, the fear wasn't alleviated. A look at Scypher proved no one knew he'd been to Gotham General or Arkham, either. As day crept into night, you found yourself pacing about your apartment. Your mind's current fixation was on whether or not you should go to Alfred, and if so, whether to leave now or later. Now would increase the odds of Bruce seeing you, probably as he donned the suit and left the tower for another shift; that could leave him agitated. Leaving later would increase the odds of danger finding you, make it a sketchy Uber driver or chancing a walk across town in the total dark; neither option bode well, but there was no chance you would stay here. Every tick on the clock felt like a drop of blood spilling out of Bruce.

You paid extra for Uber Luxe, hoping that might decrease your chance of being assaulted or beheaded. Your taser sat thick in your sweatpant pocket, jostling with every step. You'd given the driver instructions to drop you off a block before Wayne Tower grounds, at the last convenience store. The drive was unfortunately short, leaving little time to plan what you wanted to say. Alfred would likely still be awake, waiting up for Bruce who was ever so ungrateful to have someone waiting and praying for his safe arrival.

Walking up the grounds was ominous; this wasn't what you thought a celebrity's house would be like, and you cringed thinking of him that way. There were no overlording guards, security staff peppering the outskirts, or someone watching the door. It was empty, quiet, and dark. The steps to the main entryway were broken concrete. The door was thick wood, double the height of a regular door, and equally wide. When you knocked it hardly made a sound.

The door opened without fanfare, the only sound the echoing creak of the door hinge bleeding into the foyer. Alfred's eyes brightened momentarily, and only slightly, at your arrival. He gave a watery grin and stepped aside for you to come in. "Miss Y/N. Master Bruce told me you visited at Arkham." You were struck by how different he seemed; his previously warm, jolly demeanor was replaced with all-encompassing fatigue, dread swaddling him with a sweaty blanket. "If you want to check on him, I'm afraid he's out." He walked to the unlit kitchen and grabbed a glass from the counter, drawing water from the sink before taking a gulp. His hand rested on his waist, his head facing the ground as he sucked his teeth. He rubbed his eyes.

You shut the door behind you, crossing your arms round your waist. "He looked pretty beat up."

Alfred gave a solemn nod. "Did they tell you what happened?"

You reciprocated. "About his great grandfather too." You paused. "Doesn't seem like he believes it."

The sigh the man heaved could've moved mountains. "I've tried to get through to him." His voice cracked. "Only seems to make him more resentful." He laughed hollowly.

Your heart hurt for Alfred. Maybe you'd only scratched the surface and the old man was some abusive piece of shit, maybe Bruce was perfectly right to disregard him, maybe it was all a show, but from what you'd experienced with Bruce, he seemed unwilling to consider his impact on others, not the other way around. "Did he seem worked up at all?"

Alfred, though exhausted, easily sniffed out your not-so-subtle attempt at gathering info. "I see—the psychiatrist brought all hands on deck." He'd wondered why you'd visited; it was hard to believe that Bruce would have asked for you, even if he'd wanted you. The boy hadn't even asked for him—though that could've been his altered consciousness after the attempt, or shame, embarrassment. On a good day the boy was tough to crack. He hadn't heard a thing about you since your leaving the mansion in the spring.

When Alfred got the call he panicked, quite literally dropping what he was doing to rush to him, but it was when he was pulled into a private room with the doctor that his heart shattered. How alone did Bruce feel? How isolated, lonely, and helpless had he felt? That night when Bruce arrived home from Arkham he'd had a long, heartfelt, one-sided conversation with him while they waited for his med timer to go off. He went on about whether Bruce would attempt again, and how Alfred could help prevent that. Bruce averted his eyes and listened, for a while. Eventually he stood with dewy eyes and told him he hadn't done it. The ensuing argument was steeped in desperation from both sides; Alfred hadn't slept a wink since. He checked on the boy every half hour as he slept and hadn't left his general vicinity until he slunk off in the suit.

"You know him best." The hallway cast an echo to your words. "Do you think there's anything you or I could do, or say? To make him get help?"

Alfred's laugh startled you. "That's precisely the issue, Miss. Bruce has an unforceable hand." He set the glass down, body tense. "He has to want it for himself. And he doesn't." The way he planted himself into the dining chair had you wonder if the sink wasn't actually filled with vodka. It almost looked like Alfred had given up. It pissed you off—not at the sorrowful man before you, but at Bruce. If your mom had begged like that, you wanted to believe you'd try something. This path of destruction he was on...

He interrupted your fuming. "Is that why you paid him a visit, to convince him to seek help?"

You nodded but his back was turned. "Yeah. Dr. Crane seems to think I can get through to him. No idea how. Said I was the last point of contact."

He huffed. "At this point anything's on the table." So maybe he hasn't given up hope... or maybe he truly sees no scenario where Bruce makes it out.

Footsteps sounded from the shadowy hallway at the back of the kitchen and before you knew it, Bruce arrived in the suit. His black eyeshadow had smeared at the edges. The cowl hung in his left hand.

"Master Bruce,"

His voice was terse, still hoarse. "What's she doing here? Did you call her?" He strode past Alfred in the kitchen to rip open the fridge and grab an apple. God, you wanted to scream. As he moved toward the elevator, you nearly flew off the handle at the combination of his back facing the two of you and his disgruntled sigh. With how fast he was escaping, that rage was unable to be tempered in time for a measured response. "So you're gonna act like I'm not here?"

He stopped but didn't look back. "I asked him a question."

"I didn't call her, Bruce." He rubbed his temples, a migraine forming. Alfred sighed and excused himself to grab an aspirin upstairs. Bruce kept forward. His stomach twisted into knots seeing you here again—intrusive, meddling, righteous. He took massive care to avoid limping.

The scene was poetic: Bruce disdainfully walking away while his butler (and only guardian) went to medicate for a stress-induced ailment. Metal clanking signified his nearing departure and you snapped. "Do you see how much you're hurting him?"

That was the single most aggravating and entitled thing you did: pretend you had any damn idea who Alfred was or had even a crumb of knowledge about their relationship. He spun around. "You know nothing about him—"

"I know he's exhausted and miserable waiting on you, he's alone in the kitchen at 10 pm with his goddamn head in his hands—"

"I told him he doesn't have to worry."

You could've laughed, but your body wouldn't let you. "You are genuinely risking your life, how the hell are we not supposed to worry?"

His eyes flashed at your pronoun choice. "You're ridiculous to think you're in any alignment with him."

"Are you?"

He stepped out of the elevator, his chest thick with tense breathing. "You don't know when to stop talking, do you?"

You shot an icy glare. "Is that a threat?"

He snarled. "Observation."

Heat rose to your cheeks for reasons you couldn't yet decipher. The longer he stayed arguing with you the less time he'd have for seeking behavior, but you had to toe the line. He was getting too riled up. "We-I just want you to be safe."

He stared at you for a good few seconds, trying to do a temperature check. You were hard to read. Ever since you'd come back he'd been decidedly disappointed in your intermittent composure. These glimmers of bite made him feel curiously alive, in ways both delightful and infuriating. "You got what you wanted from me. Why are you still here?"

It was like he was ignoring you on purpose; like he hadn't cried into your touch a day prior, like he couldn't fathom if he had been successful, Alfred would be planning a funeral right now. You shrugged, your chest procuring an exasperated sound to accompany it. "Do you not know how serious this weekend's been, or do you not care?"

He paused only briefly, enough for him to shoot a dagger stare. "It's not serious in the way you're painting it."

"Can you suspend your disbelief just a moment?" Please. Please. Please. You began to sweat.

"I could say the same to you."

You were losing him, you knew it. Whatever thin string tied you to him was threatening to sever. You opened your mouth but he cut you off, knowing if he gave you space to speak he would implode. "I know what I saw." His hands flexed in and out of fists, trying desperately to metabolize the stress, to temper the helpless rage bubbling in his stomach.

No idea what to say and at an utter loss, you stood and looked at him. The moon only lit up your half of the kitchen. The air was tense and brittle as ice. Dr. Crane's voice was a subtle pulse cocooning every sentence you thought you might say. "I know you saw that, I believe you."

His jaw set. He responded with a colossal eye roll and scornful jeer. "You don't believe it happened, you believe I experienced it."

Your voice lost its gusto, your mind going blank. "I don't know what else to say."

"Say nothing. It's not needed." He moved to turn and you reflexively tossed a lasso.

"You're needed; who will protect Gotham?" You paused too long in the middle there.

He cackled—a jarring, unsettling sound in the chilled air. "There's no line you won't cross."

Fuck. You wanted to stomp your foot, and throw a tantrum to shake the house; this visceral experience of exasperated compassion fuzzed your restraint. "No line you won't ignore."

He stopped turning and scowled, his voice devastatingly cutting. "Says the person loitering."

He needed to know how serious this was; all arrows pointed in one direction. "If you'd been successful, we wouldn't even be t—"

"I didn't do it!" It was the first time he'd really yelled around you, and definitely the first time at you. It peppered goosebumps across your skin and hitched a few breaths. Clamoring steps and Alfred entered, brows raised after a quick scan of the room. "What's going on?"

Bruce turned on his heel and made haste to the elevator, slamming his palm against the button before he rocketed down to the cave. His heartbeat pulsed in his ears, tears springing up for the umpteenth time this weekend. The second the doors opened he bolted through the basement, his cowl catching on the corner of a particularly obtrusive desk in the center of the room. He tossed the cowl, and as he felt the helplessness punctuate into his chest he began ripping off the suit until he was nothing but spandex base layers. He sprinted through the subway doors, past the car, and barreled north. The chilled air slapped his flushed cheeks, the pain in his foot and torso going silent as he sprinted through unlit sidewalks and alleys. He'd find it. Find something. Find anything. His weak ankle slipped on a patch of oil, and he landed swiftly on his back. Unprotected by the suit, the thud knocked the tears out of him, and they slid silently down his cheeks until they joined the puddles on the ground.

Alfred turned toward you and searched your face. "I heard shouting?"

You whipped out your phone and dialed Dr. Crane. He picked up on the second ring; you put it on speaker for Alfred to hear. "Ms. Y/L/N. Is something wrong?"

"I don't know. I went to see Mr. Pennyworth, and Bruce caught me there and, we had an argument and he just, he ran off." The adrenaline rush of his shout lingered much like sweat. You fought to catch your breath as tsunamis of guilt and fear crashed into you. Would he hurt himself right now? Is he gonna die? Dr. Crane sighed. "Certainly not ideal..." Another sigh. "Did he make any threat against his life, or anyone else's?"

"No."

"Did he seem oriented to place and time?"

"Yes."

"Unfortunately there's not much we can do at this point."

Your hands shook. Alfred placed a hand on your arm to steady you. "I could go after him, I don't, I don't know,"

"No." Dr. Crane was quick with it. Alfred shook his head at you too, but remained quiet. "That might push him further. Mr. Pennyworth has this number, let him know to call me if he doesn't come home in the next few hours. Anything else I can do for you?"

God this was hopeless. Guilt ravaged through you, and you barely contained a sob while telling him that was all. You stowed the phone in your pocket, callously wiping hot tears from your face. Alfred dropped his hand from your arm, face empathetic but grim. "Miss. This is not your responsibility."

"I need to leave, I'm not making this better,"

"Let me drive you."

You shook your head. "I need to walk. I have a taser, I'm fine." You brushed past him before you melted into a pile of dust and became unable to command your legs.

Alfred walked across the kitchen and pulled off a piece of paper towel. "At least take my number. I'm a call away." The soft lull of his accent and the smooth feel of the fiber grounded you enough to walk out the door and brace yourself for the two-mile walk back, after a brief embrace and thanks. You stomped along the sidewalks with your arms across your chest, both grateful and suspicious at the lack of people around. Glints of flickering street lamps caught your attention on the wet cement. It shocked you that Gotham still got rain in the summer—much less, yes, but the littering of puddles and slick pavement was an ever-present ghoul.

The sidewalk curved to the left, jutting out to various side streets and alleyways. Some faint yelling punctuated the otherwise quiet evening, but that was usual. As you walked further however, it grew louder, sounding distressed. You grabbed your taser and held it in front with the trigger ready, safety off. The screaming kept an insistent space in the ambiance. Shuffling, hitting, thudding, scrambling. The fuck? Curiosity outweighed the fear that criticized every step toward the noise pollution. By this point the main street's light source had waned, rendering your phone the only way to not trip and break your nose against disgusting concrete. You yelped when someone ran out in front of you—it took a full ten seconds to realize it was Bruce.

His clothes were completely torn up; he wasn't in the suit, which confused you. Is it lying somewhere? Someone could easily trace it back to him. He turned quickly and paced back from whence he came, a small alley littered with garbage and decaying leaves. You could make out even less of what he looked like now. Every time you moved your light up he flinched, turning hard away from it. The puddles refracted the light off your phone, allowing just enough to frame his expressions and movements. He was hunched, shaking like he was in an earthquake, and shreds of his shirt and leggings were strewn about. "Get away from me." He grumbled, loud, his voice bloated and cracked. The hoarseness from earlier had devolved into a scratchy sound, almost like his throat had open wounds. He spoke too loudly, with some words emphasized and shouted while others sounded more swallowed, drowning in the tears he sputtered on as he choked out shouts and screams. You didn't bother to hide your wince; with sounds that heartwrenching and lights so low, it would be futile to suppress. Upon closer inspection some of his bandages had been ripped off too; as if on cue he began ripping more of them off, digging underneath his shirt, sniffing, huffing, and heaving.

"Bruce,"

He looked at you like he'd seen a ghost. "How do you know my name?" He shrieked, doubling over into the fetal position while he anxiously ran his hands through his hair, smearing the bloody, blackened tears into his hairline. His next few breaths were desperate and shallow, and you heard the sound of air sucking through his teeth. You stood about ten feet from him, unable to step any closer due to his erratic movements. He fell onto his ass and grabbed fistfuls of his hair, yanking violently as he rocked back and forth. Spit launched out of his mouth and dangled in the corner of his lips, the hiss of strained airflow clenching your gut into knots. You gulped, your limbs beginning to numb. "I'm calling Alfred."

Your hand shook nearly as much as his as you tried to squint to read his number. After too long, every second passing like ten minutes with the state Bruce was in, he picked up. "Alfred,"

"Miss? Everything—"

"Bruce needs to be picked up." You didn't realize you were gasping until you had to speak through it. It was at that second that Bruce acknowledged you, jumping to his feet and racing to only a foot's distance. "NO!" His pupils were blown, eyes rapidly shutting and squeezing. Crouched to be at eye level, you could see how his lip trembled under the weight of the sweat and tears pooling beneath his nose. His bleary, soaked, inflamed eyes threatened to impale yours with the intensity of their focused attention. He opened and shut his mouth a few times without speaking, and when he did, flecks of spit landed on your chin. A few unsuccessful regulating breaths and heaving exhales later, he whined into the phone. "Don't tell Mom and Dad about this."

Palpable silence. Alfred was the one to break it. "I'll be there in three minutes." The phone sat heavy in your palm after he hung up. Bruce sank to his knees and pressed his forehead to the wet ground. He bloodied his knuckles beating against it. His screams became muffled as you stood, frozen. He gazed at the alley's dead end and shouted unintelligibly, his agitation mounting until Alfred arrived and helped him into the backseat. You couldn't think, couldn't breathe, and the man had to walk you to the passenger seat. "I'll take you home first, Miss."

"You won't tell them, right? I can't be out this late." Bruce wrung his hands together and looked out the window anxiously. You and Alfred exchanged a solemn look. Alfred nodded. "It'll stay between us, Master Bruce. I promise." This was bad, and you both knew it. It was sad, too. Would he wake up wondering where his parents were? Would he have any recollection of this in the morning? Would Alfred have to break the news to him that his parents had died years ago? Did this warrant an inpatient stay? What would Dr. Crane think? The hum of the cabin air was the only distraction from Bruce picking at his fingernails and sniffling up sobs. If there had been any more breathing room in there you would've joined him. But you had to wait until they were gone. Wait until the only thing around you was dark, empty silence. You directed Alfred to your apartment, and soon enough you arrived.

Pulling up to the curb of The Moore, he waited for your door to open before locking the rest. He stepped out and walked over to hold the lobby doors. His steps were slow and a bit shallow. He saw tears streaming your cheeks and stopped before grabbing the handle. "Miss,"

Now that you were out of the car you couldn't contain yourself. "It was my fault, I'm fucking meddling,"

His mouth settled into a tight frown. "As far as I'm concerned you saved him tonight. Who knows what could have happened if you hadn't been there?"

You shook your head, his words not penetrating the layers of guilt. "He wouldn't have been like that if it weren't for me. I'm inserting myself where I'm not needed."

Alfred placed a hand on your shoulder, waiting until you met his eyes to speak. "Efforts to save a life are never misplaced." With that, he nodded and bid you adieu. The walk to your room felt like a million years with the weights on your ankles. Your room was cold, a liminal space between before and after, then and now. If only I hadn't left.

Bruce had woken up screaming five times that night. The first two times he'd bolted out of his bedroom in his underwear, needing to be coaxed back to bed with firm reassurance and breathing exercises. Alfred took to sleeping in a makeshift cot in front of the boy's door to make sure he didn't slip past. When morning came, he hadn't recalled a thing; his head ached, his body felt like it'd been struck by lightning, run over by a car, and chewed on by twenty dogs. Seeing Alfred sleeping at the foot of his door prompted a conversation about what had happened last night—he'd glazed over by the time he was told what he'd said about his parents, though it didn't help the sting.

As much as he wanted to rot in bed the rest of the day until he could go out as the bat, his stomach grumbled to the kitchen. It was there that Alfred threw out the idea of going to see you. "Miss Y/N is the one who found you. She called me." After a few hours of avoidance that only propelled the day to early afternoon, he caved; the hovering presence of Alfred made his embarrassment and frustration peak, and if he'd stayed a moment longer he might have lashed out. So... he found himself once again at the door to your apartment. He felt strange being there, like he wasn't supposed to remember where you lived. He figured a text would have been worse.

You opened the door wearing black sweats and a white tee. You looked exhausted. "Alfred wanted me to stop by."

It hurt more than it should have that it didn't come from him. Moreso than desiring any self-indulgent recognition, you wanted to feel like he didn't hate you. Regret had kept you up the entire night to the extent of wicked nausea. Your knees still ached from kneeling in front of the toilet for hours on end. I'm sorry caught before it passed your tonsils, evaporated before reaching your tongue. All night you'd ruminated about how ridiculous and intrusive you'd been. All you'd done was fuck up his life. Why had you even gone over last night? Because some man in a blazer with a fancy degree gave you a crash course on mental illness meant you had any right to meddle? Those thoughts stormed against others that saw the pain and dangerous denial plainly in him, like a ticking time bomb.

Dr. Crane had called you earlier that morning to warn you about his condition. "It appears he's in a state of delirium. This is the worst-case scenario outside of another attempt... which is usually imminent soon after." His words echoed through your best attempt at listening. You'd have to remove 'works well under pressure' from your resume after this weekend. The call had ended on a sobering note, such lethal stakes nearly forcing you into complete apathy. You'd sat on the edge of your couch with the phone on speaker, sitting on your hands that grew colder the more he spoke. "The gravity of his current condition cannot be overstated."

"Me talking to him only hurt him." Your voice was dry and raspy from lack of sleep. "It sent him into a spiral, I can't do that again." Your arms wrapped around your torso in a sad excuse for a hug. Walter would've been great company right about then.

"Ms. Y/L/N, I assure you: such a high-caliber reaction could not be spurred solely by asking him to get help." But you didn't believe him. At this point you snapped, wanting to drill into him that you were making it worse. "He does not like me. He only gave me the interview because I wouldn't leave him alone, I have been a stain in his life for months."

Dr. Crane sighed. "Y/N." This was the first time he'd addressed you so informally. "I am aware he might dislike you. I hear what you are telling me. My professional judgment remains."

"Wouldn't someone you hate telling you to get help only make you want it less?" This thought had plagued you between dry heaves, the thought of your assistance only exacerbating his refusal. If someone you detested—and barely knew—came barging into your home demanding you get help and told you how much you were hurting your parents... you'd want to slap the shit out of them. It was embarrassing how entitled you'd acted the night before. "I'm making the problem worse. I need to be hands-off."

"I did my graduate studies on interventions for schizophrenic populations—I focused on the different outcomes between estranged and aligned families. Some of these guardians were outright abusive and thoroughly hated by the patient," He spoke the next part emphatically. "Yet regardless of how polluted the relationship, the data was clear:" He needed to drill every syllable of the next part into your very spirit. "Once the patient entered delirium, the families who took a 'hands-off approach' had an 87% increased rate of patient mortality within one week."

If the phone had been in your hands you would've dropped it. "Whatever you need to do, make sure it gets done. Nothing is too far when it comes to saving a life. It's the eleventh hour."

You stepped aside and Bruce walked in no further than required to shut the door behind him. He looked worse than ever. How did he even walk up here in the light of day? If even one camera got a picture of him it would be plastered to the front of every tabloid, he would have to come out with a statement...

He stilled. He saw the strain in your breath, how your chest rose rapidly, the slumped defeat in your body, your swollen under eyes and chapped lips. "I also wanted to apologize." He certainly hadn't meant to, but the anger was dissipating with every second he looked at you. "Last night I wasn't myself."

Maybe he'll say it himself. Maybe this is it, maybe he came to accept it. Hope fluttered against your ribs. No more fighting, no more arguing. "I'm sorry for inserting myself. I shouldn't have said that about Alfred. I'm a stranger." After the call with Dr. Crane, you'd wondered about playing docile, but this wasn't a ploy; this guilt was desperate to purge itself, and he was an altar edging it out.

He blinked at the ground. "You weren't wrong. Alfred is suffering." It hurt to push those words past his teeth. "But there's nothing I can do about that." He snuck a look over, seeing your mouth open. He cringed. "Don't tell me to get help." He grit his teeth and balled his fists, the tension in his body overwhelming. When you didn't respond, he spoke again, trying to show you plainly and clearly how suspicious it was. "It's an anonymous witness. No footage."

You wanted to talk about how the witness probably stayed anonymous because he was Bruce Wayne, someone so rich and powerful they might have feared retaliation if their identity was on record, but the other times you reminded him of his status had sent him spiraling. You wanted to talk about how the city budget was so misused that most of the security cameras around town were out of order, especially in dark alleyways that businessmen didn't frequent—that was the only purpose of justice in Gotham anyway, to protect and serve the elite. But the tension was visible and unnerving; you and Bruce together at a fragile crossroad. That mortality rate sat like a boulder in your gut. Every option was bitter on the tongue.

The one thing you thought to do was the one thing Dr. Crane said to never do; engage directly with his hallucinations. Did you even care about that anymore? Was he even right? Was Bruce right? Probably not. He'd been so beyond himself he thought his parents were still alive, staring at the back of an empty alleyway like someone was out to get him. That couldn't be reasoned with. Another refrain ran laps around you: one week. Seeing Bruce Wayne in your kitchen after hearing that... it seemed the odds were more likely you'd attend a public memorial than speak to him next weekend. Oh. Fuck.

He chased after the shift in your body language. You had that look again from city hall. The expression of being far away, on another planet. It instilled in him an unquenchable urge to thrust you out of it. "Last night... It was like I'd been drugged."

Any explanation to keep him in denial. You shook yourself out of it, immediately replacing the dismissive thought with something more just. It's a lot to accept. Of course he's struggling with it. The most you could manage was to stare at his shoes. Your eyes still glazed. The room muffled. Unaware of every breath. You hadn't dissociated this hard since the first call from the doctor seven years ago. Therapy had helped back then, letting you know this served a function. Holding it compassionately wouldn't do a damn thing right now, locked in your gridlock, dipping your toes in the apathy that lusted to infiltrate your bloodstream. My apathy is deadly. My apathy could cost him his fucking life. But you couldn't shake it. You couldn't look up at him, you couldn't even speak. You burst into tears... or thought you did. You'd heaved an enormous sigh and sat with your head down, unable to well up tears in such a detached state. Even if you could, you wouldn't cry in front of him if you could manage; he didn't need that.

Your sigh had a whimper at the end of it, sending a jolt through him. The stillness of the moment had him noticing the details, like how you hadn't changed since the night before. Your apartment was still disassembled. The time on the stove read 4:18. His mind wandered. Gordon got off on weekends at five; the mask would conceal most of his injuries, and the ones it didn't would make sense. He could investigate it more with him, explore the evidence room... But there you sat. And he didn't want to leave you like this. His tone was tender, like yours had been. "I'm safe."

Arkham. "I don't know what else to do."

"Believe me." He pleaded, a gravelly whine fraying the end. Dr. Crane had warned you about this on the phone call. He asked about your plan if he came over; you hadn't had one, wanting to ignore the possibility entirely. Dr. Crane said it was likely he'd draw more desperate. You'd asked about humoring him. Tried to express how stubborn Bruce was. Nope. Not a possibility. "If you want to throw gasoline on a fire."

Your lids were heavy with sleep, stress, anxiety. You could see how much you stressed him out. How he was on the edge of leaving. How desperate he was to be believed. Fish hooks in your sides threatened to cut you in two, tugging equally left and right, splitting each layer of your skin at the belly button.

At least if you stuck with Dr. Crane's plan and it ended horribly, you would have someone else to blame... You hated yourself for letting that cross your mind. Bruce wasn't an experiment, and this wasn't a low-stakes outcome. As much as the situation juiced your heart until it was throbbing and weak, he was the one with the most to lose, and he couldn't think clearly. He needed you to stay the course. Trust the science. Listen to the data, to reason, not what tugged at your heartstrings. You took a deep breath. "I know it hurts to not be trusted, but you have to weigh the pros and cons."

All he did was glare back at you. You couldn't hesitate, refusing to waste another second. "Worst case scenario is you have some temporary side effects," You ignored how visibly agitated he was becoming, how his hands twitched and his eyes looked away as his jaw clenched. "Worst case scenario of not trying them is you do that again, and not even know it's happening."

He'd far surpassed his limit; every syllable slipping past your lips trying its best to gaslight. You'd been persistent when getting the interview, he should've seen the red flag in your tenacity. "You're never going to believe me?" Posed as a question, meant as a statement. His eyes narrowed and he stepped closer. "Why are you pushing this?" Why would you of all people be shelling this so hard?

It was simple, and you said it as such. "I don't want you to die."

Bruce didn't give it time to linger. His face was sour with a scowl. "Doesn't change what happened."

"Weigh the options. One outcome is far worse." Please. You crossed your fingers behind your back to summon the universe's luck. Please. He just glared at you. Small shaking of his head. You pressed on. "You don't even have to believe anyone, just humor—"

He scoffed, the sound like a slap across the face. "Take medication to humor..." Your audacity... fuck. He could've laughed. He could've rolled his eyes, stormed out, any number of things. His was instead welded to the floor. It didn't make sense. Any of it.

"Please." God, the way you whined. The smallest, most minuscule seed of doubt entered him. Terrified of it manifesting into slipping resolve, he turned to leave. "Where are you going?"

He kept walking. The squeak in your voice, the haze of desperation, the exhaustion weighing you down—had you stayed up all night thinking about this? You couldn't have. He reached the doorknob just as you jumped toward him. "Please, stop,"

He winced. "Stop sounding like that." Your begging was pointless. He'd made up his mind. He'd leave, he wouldn't even look back... he wouldn't think about it, he wouldn't think about you, you wouldn't get to him.

At this point your heart was beating so hard you swore Bruce could hear it. As soon as he slipped out of your apartment he would be unreachable. Every other time he'd left like this, something terrible had happened. He could be dead by the end of the night. The end of the hour. When he turned the doorknob you could've jumped out of your skin. Your vocal cords constricted from overwhelming dread. This is too much. "Where are you going?"

"Don't need to concern yourself." He opened the door and you grabbed his arm; his head whipped around to look at you, startled by the forcefulness of your grip. Through his sweatshirt he could feel how ice cold your fingers were.

"I do,"

He shrugged his arm away. "Keep telling yourself that." The door opened wide with a quick snap; the snarl in his tone, the glare set in his features, you had about two seconds before he was down the hallway to god knows where to do god knows what. Popping into your mind was his insinuation that no one had seen it; no evidence, no corroboration, and you made a split-second decision as he stepped into the hallway.

"Because I saw it." A disorienting combination of emotions swarmed you; immediate regret at having lied, and immediate relief in seeing Bruce freeze, no longer rushing out to his demise.

"Saw what?" His voice lowered and he stilled, like he knew exactly what you implied but hoped you didn't mean it.

It was hard to stay quiet through the sudden flush of tears down your cheeks. The lie ended up gasping out of you. "I saw you jump, I'm the person who called."

You barely contained a sob of relief when he stepped back inside and shut the door. He peeked at you, his eyes searching your face slowly, deliberately. This was the first time you'd had any feeling at all that he was willing to listen. This was your last chance, his last chance, anyone's to get him to safety. "I felt bad about how the interview ended, so I went looking for you."

Bruce could barely hear you, and he could only hear you. The world, his thoughts, everything but the crackle of the flaming pitchforks his defenses held faded away. It would make sense it hadn't leaked to the press yet if it had been you, but.... He said this like an accusation, eyes narrowed with skepticism. "Why didn't you tell me before?"

He was giving you an inch, you were taking a mile. You were yanking him close to you and holding him there. You would've imploded if you had to see him in a casket, knowing you could've done more. Even if it wasn't your responsibility, even if you barely knew him. "I didn't want to make you uncomfortable. Thought it'd be easier."

His heart was in his throat. Hope was lying nearly dead in his chest, gasping for air before a final death rattle. His voice was strained, weary, haunting. "You saw me jump?" His brows knit together just barely, daring you both to be honest and to spare him. "Off a building?"

You bit your tongue until a searing sting. Jesus... You couldn't hesitate. Not with him, not now. Not with him looking at you like that. Not with his pulse hanging in the balance. You nodded and strangled the words out from where they clotted in your throat. "It was horrifying. I thought I watched you die."

Bruce flinched as you said it, your words evoking a visceral sensation of being stoned. Brick by brick it hit his chest, teleporting him to the night his parents died; the feeling of watching blood pour out of their bodies, shucking sounds of it glugging against the wet concrete, seeping into puddles. Like a flipped switch, he had no choice but to believe you. This was his line. The notion that he had caused someone to experience even a fraction of that feeling... no matter how deep his denial, no matter that he saw the creature clear as day, he would have forgotten his own name if it meant sparing someone. If he suffered through the truth, fine; if it harmed anyone else, it was over. Folded. Hard limit. Fear was a tool, but not like this.

You witnessed a clear shift in him. You were too busy swimming in fragile relief to think about why that had connected. Your body was buzzing, and you watched on with bated breath as he stood in silence. If you listened hard you could hear his deep nasal inhale. His shallow, quick exhale.

He felt embarrassed, ashamed, and afraid. He hated how much he still wanted to drill you. How desperate he was to corroborate his experience and dismiss everything else. He wouldn't force you to rehash it. he wouldn't make you relive something like that. The walls began to close in as his reality rapidly dissolved; the owls hadn't been real, the creature hadn't been real, he'd really jumped off a building and his mind was so unreliable he hadn't known? Ooh, this was... this was...

You sniffed. It brought him back to space and time. He couldn't lose it yet. "Do you, uh," He squeezed his eyes shut, his mind completely numbed out. Save the spiral for later. "What do you need?"

You felt absolutely disgusting. What did you need? It churned your stomach. Why did he have to have humility now? Flashbacks to him screaming and hitting the pavement as spit flew out of his mouth. Taped down to a psychiatric bed. The scabs beginning to form on his face, neck, and hands... the pain that surfaced so quickly when you'd even barely touched his cheek. You pursed your lips and blew out a shaky breath to ground yourself. Save the spiral for later.

"You want me to get meds, therapy?" Desperation coated his tone. Like he was counting the seconds until he could leave, or explode, or both.

Your eyes were wide and bleary as you made contact with his. You couldn't bring yourself to nod, or even look him in the face longer than a few seconds. "I just want you to be safe."

He didn't speak for another minute. You couldn't tell what he was thinking, but he certainly wasn't at peace. You hadn't expected him to believe you. You hadn't imagined a universe where he would ever believe a word you said. But then he nodded. Lost in thought, eyes darting across the floor, breathing labored, and said things you never thought he would. "I'll pick some up in the morning."

The dizzying haze of shock annihilated him. He walked to the door but felt stumbled, like his saliva was thickening in his mouth, blood rushing to his core to sustain him, keep him upright, thinking, moving. When he grabbed the doorknob he couldn't feel it. In a blink the door opened and he didn't remember opening it. The zigzag pattern on the hallway rug floated, fuzzy, spotting the edge of his vision.

He walked calmly to the door; you couldn't see his face, no idea what he was thinking, and it killed you. "Are you gonna be safe tonight?"

He wanted to say yes. He wanted to reassure you he wouldn't do anything now that he knew you were involved. He wanted to tell you he didn't think he'd ever attempt to kill himself, but apparently that wasn't real. You'd witnessed him try to end his life. He was obviously unstable, an unreliable narrator, and he was afraid. The pieces were falling into place; the wear in your body, your meddling... He heard the elevator ding from the end of the hall and shut the door, leaning his sore, bruised forehead against it. What had he done to get that? He couldn't remember where half of his injuries came from. Alfred said he'd panicked the night before. Was out of his body. The last thing he remembered was staring up at the cloudy sky, wishing, pleading the universe to be believed. Then it was all black.

He spoke in a whisper, though unintentional. "I don't know." He didn't trust anything now. Was he even here? Was this even happening? Were his feet planted against your flooring, or was he actually in a field by himself? He couldn't do this now, he couldn't, he couldn't make you take care of him, you couldn't feel responsible, you weren't, this was crazy. He was crazy. His heart began to race when he heard you step behind him. He shook his head hard. "I'll stay inside tonight."

"Bruce," A plaintive cry.

He spun around. His shaky, blurred vision dialed in to your slick, puffy face. His jaw hung slack. "I'm sorry I put you through that."

It's worth it. He's getting help. No more bruises, cuts, jumps. I did what I needed to. He's not gonna die. He's not gonna die. He's not. gonna. die. You flirted with hyperventilation the more you sat under his gaze. "It's fine,"

"It's not." He wasn't going to leave you like this, alone and crying. Had you gotten flashbacks like he did way back when? Did you need a hug as badly as he did after taking their bodies away?

"You're okay, so." He stepped toward you and you jumped. He searched your face and goddammit, tracked every tear again. He is not gonna take care of me. STOP CRYING! You stammered for anything to say that could shift the focus off of you as you forced your tear ducts to close. "I can call Alfred if you want to be picked up," Guilt. Guilt. Guilt. Guilt. I'm a fucking liar. I'm lying. I'm lying.

He didn't answer. You gulped, feeling increasingly like you were about to pass out. "The smog's pretty bad today, um," Your hands shook, you needed to find something to tether them to. Heat flooded your lashes again, fuck. "I think I have some tea, if you're walking it might, it might help."

Your hands quivered against the lavender mug as you pulled it from the cabinet. "With your throat, you know." Your hands were going clammy, your forehead felt sticky. He watched your trembling fingers search the drawers, finally procuring a packet. He'd traumatized you—he wouldn't let you take care of him too. He tracked your eyes to the microwave, and moved to open the door. You filled the mug with water and put it in the microwave for two minutes.

Just walking those few steps made him queasy; on top of everything else he was late to taking his pain meds. Inside, he frantically plugged a cracking dam. Would he be able to go out as batman anymore? How would the psych meds affect him? Had anything else happened that wasn't real? Did you even know he was batman? Was batman even real? Was batman a way for him to channel his sickness into something productive? What memories were real? He held his hands in front of him. The dam was breaking.

You turned around to grab a paper towel, but saw Bruce standing a foot away staring at his shaking palms. The blueness of his eyes was exaggerated by his constricted pupils. Unsure of what to do, not wanting to make him uncomfortable, you stared at the mesmerizing spin of the mug. Round, and round, and round. The light hit his cheek, emphasizing the scabs and cuts. The beat of his rising chest pulsing in your ear propelled you forward; maybe it was the rapid fluttering of his lashes or the first tear that fell, but you grabbed his suffering hands and the room went quiet.

"Hey, hey." You squeezed his lukewarm hands with your cold ones, nearly making a self-deprecating joke about not being able to warm him. He was staring blankly over your shoulder, his bottom lip ragged from biting. The whir of the microwave came faintly back into earshot, until Bruce looked back at you. A crest of tears balanced in his waterline.

His entire body vibrated. He wanted to tell you how terrified he was, but he was sure you could see it. He could see it in you, too. He still didn't want you to have to care for him, but that was rapidly deprioritized as more fears crowded in. You could almost see the dreams dying in his eyes; uneventful, hopeless, and frustrating like a dud firework. You swallowed back bile as you grasped for anything you could say to him, repeating a mantra to stave off the nausea. I didn't cause this pain. This was the only way. This has to help him. This is worth it, it has to be. You didn't believe it, but having him alive and in your sight helped muffle the self-hatred.

The microwave sounded. When you pulled back to open it you felt resistance—he squeezed your hands lightly, his breathing heavy and deep. You hesitated before giving another reassuring squeeze; you'd acclimated to each other's temperature, your fingers no longer feeling like ice against his. His hands were calloused and rough, and your palm rubbed on the scabs when you pulled back. Before your mind could wander further, before you collapsed in a puddle of tears, you slipped your hands out of his and busied yourself with steeping the tea.

Bruce lowered his hands to his sides, gently flexing them to remember the shape of yours. He ached to hug you; he ached to go back and stay just a little longer after the interview. He could've helped you pack more. Could've called Alfred for a ride home. What had it looked like? Had there been sounds? Body fluids? Did you race after him, or stay away out of fear? Had he needed CPR? Had there been a pulse? Did you see the impact? Did you run to catch him? Were you close, were you far? How vivid was your memory of it?

"How do you like it?" You didn't have much, just some sugar and honey, some old oat milk in the fridge.

He concealed a gasp as you broke his feverish spiral. He shook his head. "It's yours."

You didn't bother fighting him on it; the warmth of the mug and taste of the ginger would be a welcome distraction until he left safely with Alfred. You placed a plate over the mug and pat your sweats for your phone. "Did you want to call him?"

"I got it." He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a regular-degular iPhone, shocking you more than it should have. You went to grab the honey while he spoke to his butler. You sat in a valley between; you wanted Bruce to leave as quickly as possible so you could throw yourself into the shower and cry, then hibernate in bed until Thursday, but it scared you to have him leaving these walls.

"He'll be in the parking garage soon."

Crap. "You need a key to open it, one of those fob things." You put a scoop of honey and mixed it in, the tremble in your hand coming back. "I'll walk you down."

The mug was cooling in the building's AC, the whoosh of the elevator doors hastening the process. The ride was quick and painless, the walk to the garage the same. Bruce had pulled up his hood, cinched it around his face, and put on sunglasses before leaving. He was actually pretty unrecognizable, but part of you wondered if that was just because you knew people would never suspect him out with someone like you; unknown, working class, in dirty sweats and flip flops.

Alfred came swiftly, giving you a wave as he pulled up. Bruce turned to you before getting in the car. "I'll keep you updated." He nodded, then sidled into the passenger seat. A second later, tint enveloped all the windows, leaving the car completely anonymous as it drove off.

The walk to the shower was excruciating. Every step felt like you were walking on legos. The shower offered a sliver of relief, but it didn't warm your conscience. It wasn't until Alfred called a few minutes after you had toweled off that you could let yourself breathe.

The old man was tearful, sniffing after every word. "Miss Y/N. Bruce asked me," He blew his nose. "To get his script tomorrow morning." He tried to catch his sobs, but they were getting away from him. "I don't know what you did, but thank you. From the bottom of my heart.

I truly believed it was the end."