Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Where it all begins

You are 17. Bruce Wayne's newest legal adoptee. The sweetest little kid he has ever taken in - "Cipher Wayne"

No criminal records. No dead parents (they just happen to travel and work too much).

You were doing just fine.

You even had a dentist appointment scheduled when Bruce randomly decided to pick you up.

He thought he was finally "collecting" a normal child.

Someone sane. Polite. Great grades. Emotionally available. An actual sleep schedule. Know how to communicate. At least he thought so.

Little does he know the kid will be the death of him…

But for now? He's greatly pleased with the newest Robin. A strangely swift adapter.

A Golden Retriever.

Everyone has a soft spot for you.

Most of the time, you spend your time training with your greatest mentor - Nightwing. The rest is for finishing high school, drinking tea with Alfred and wild rides with Redhood.

Why Jason? You will know. Soon.

Puberty nonchalantly showed up and "Alright, kid. BET."

Your voice is cracking so frequently till the point that you sound like a crow choking on his own seeds.

You are in the middle of completely serious, articulate, mature speech.

"I read the GCPD (Gotham City Police Department) report. The explosion radius was at least six bloCCH.. blockhm.. kHHHhk"

And Tim just gently pats your head like you're a child choking on his own spit.

Bruce is totally baffled.

"Is this normal?" He mentions while standing there watching you rehearsing your voice all over again.

"Average. Try not to startle him. The vocal cords are quite fragile, Master Wayne." - Alfred replies flatly.

Dick is supportive. WAY TOO SUPPORTIVE.

He casually shows up during the mid sparring session between you and Damian.

"Hey champ. Voice break, huh? Want tips? I nailed my puberty arc."

He adds with a playful wink before scooping you up from Damian and fleeing away without waiting for you to register him.

And he starts to giving you "voice acting lessons 101" warmups until you're embarrassed and genuinely uncertain if you will ever speak again without sounding like a child of a haunted flute and a broken record.

Meanwhile Dick's just casually doing scales: "Do re mi - hold on, try "mi" again. That's right. Good boy. Adorable. One more."

90% flexing his perfect voice and 10% giving actual tips. Typical.

Jason Todd? Chaotic evil.

He hears you call him "brother" ONCE and your voice just happened to break halfway mercilessly.

"Hey b-buh-bro-…"

Jason: "Buh? BRO?! DID YOU JUST YODEL AT ME??"

Then he proceeds to imitate your voice for SIX STRAIGHT DAYS. Also, he keeps records of your broken voice secretly for blackmailing later.

You try to speak once in front of him and he just clutches his chest dramatically like:

"WAIT WAIT- PLEASE DON'T TALK YET. I NEED A MOMENT." and along with the wheezing teapot noises from Jason.

Damian wants to put you down. Emotionally.

You are the only sibling who greets him like he's your three-year old baby and you gave birth to him biologically.

"Hey baby buhhhhhhh-BAAAaaahhH… bat"

YOU MAKE THAT NOISE AS IF NOTHING HAPPENED (with a beaming smile). Damian nearly combusts.

His voice trembles: "You sound like a dying goose."

You casually reply: "You are.. my favorite goose by the way."

Tim again. AWFULLY EVIL.

Every time you speak? "Click." "Click." "Click."

He has a soundboard.

You find out two weeks later. TOO LATE.

He programmed the Batcomputer to glitch and scream a tape of your voice cracking every single time anyone types "puberty."

You might or might not die at the moment you try to search for "how to overcome puberty".

Hell asides, you are still the favorite.

Because even with the horror of being seventeen in a cave of vigilantes, you are still the only one who calls Bruce: "D-d-dahhhhhhHDHDH… Dad"

And it melts him. Also, he almost chokes on his morning coffee.

Survived. Barely.

You wake up one morning…

And your voice?

IS SO DEEP that it could make Alfred pause mid-serving tea like,

"… Pardon? Who said that?"

It's SO SMOOTH. SILKY. CRIMINALLY UNEXPECTED. Like imagine someone just shoved six Hades and a late-night ASMR "alpha boyfriend hushing you to sleep" into your throat overnight.

The problem (or not) is your face is still all sweet.

You look like you should be asking Alfred for extra chips.

You smile like a kid on a scholarship interview.

You walk like a child who just got an ice cream from his dad.

And then you open your mouth and say:

"Good morning."

AND DICK GRAYSON DROPS HIS MUG.

Damian utters in horror: "You have been… possessed."

Tim just nods: "You sound like God… if he has a podcast."

Bruce? TRAUMATIZED.

You casually ask: "Hey, Daddd? Can I borrow your charger?"

And Bruce blinks like you just gave him a flashback to when he went through voice drop. He almost says "Yes, sir." out of instinct.

Guess what's next, sweetheart? Dick is embarrassed by his own voice now.

You speak once and suddenly Dick is trying to lower his tone in conversation again, going full Batman impersonator just to keep up as the big brother.

"OH YEAH? I can sound like that too - Justice… never sleeps."

You: "… You alright, Capt?"

Dick coughs as he waves his hand: "… N-no."

Jason loses his entire mind right now. He tries to mock you like always (out of love) and ends up flustered. Genuinely flaring that your voice makes him sound like the little brother.

Jason: "YOU. ARE. NOT. ALLOWED. TO. TALK. LIKE. THAT. Nope. I had the sexy gravel voice monopoly. I EARNED MINE through DEATH."

You respond calmly: "I just woke up like this."

Jason: "I will physically trip you off this roof-"

Tim recovers fast and first. He instantaneously pulls out his phone to record the new soundboard material. The internet does not survive what comes after. He posts a clip of you shouting in the mid mission and captions it: "Batman if he moisturized."

Back to you, sweetheart. You still smile sweetly. Still hold open doors. Still offer your seats on the bus for the ladies and the elders. Still apologize when someone bumps into you. But now you do it with a voice that could melt metal.

"Excuse me. Sorry about that."

"Ma'am, please take my spot."

"Ladies first."

And abruptly everyone's knees buckle.

Bruce pretends to be unfazed. Yet you catch him quietly turning down the bass on the Batcomputer so it doesn't rumble when you speak over comms.

Also he may or may not have added your new voice clip to the Batcave's "alarm deterrent system”.

Chapter Text

Damian wasn't much invested in bonding with the newest Robin.

The last thing he wanted to think about is communicating with the new legal heir of Bruce Wayne - Cipher Wayne.

The kid looked too cheerful.

You looked like you were wagging your tail every single minute. Metaphorically.

You had that stupid confidence. You laughed with sheer surprise after tripping badly. You sang off-tone but way too proud.

You had that idiotic messy hair and sweat-drenched face after missions, bothering Damian because you still looked too good like that.

You smelt too nice. Unprofessionally infuriating.

You woke up way too early, full of sunshine energy, while Damian struggled like a grumpy gremlin.

You adapted too fast. Like you were born for this madness - to be a Robin. You learned everything and made it look effortless, humbling Damian's years of pride.

You had that golden reputation. Bruce gave you silent recognition just by the look. Damian was sharp enough to tell.

You had that disgracefully shameless facade. You cannot pick up the hint that Damian's face was imprinted with "DO NOT INTERACT" warning.

You talked too much. You cared about him too much. You chattered endlessly like you actually saw Damian as a long lost brother. The questionable authority.

You countered Damian's mocks by throwing unholy praises back. Criminally felonious.

You gave Damian the look that screamed: "Aww you're the peak, the proof, the standard."

You had that embarrassing enthusiasm. You clapped at little things Damian did and got hyped every time Damian walked by.

You always called him degrading pet names such as "baby bat", "brother", "Dami". Emphasis on the "brother" one. It sounded weirdly and disgustingly sweet. You called after him like you meant it.

You remembered Damian's birthday. You wrote the most cheesy letter and an interactive postcard as if Damian's 5. You even gifted him a ridiculous Bat-themed hoodie that said "The coolest bro" in sleek embroidery.

You could even tell how vulnerable and desperate Damian was at the worst times. You weren't threatened or fooled by his sass. You just stayed there and offered burgers like Damian was throwing a petty tantrum. You acted like it's nothing after reading Damian like you were literally studying an intriguing experiment. Mad scientist. Strategically lethal.

You made Damian feel things. Small and big at the same damn time.

He despises you. He kept telling himself every time.

Even though it's painfully to admit, Damian had already expected you to look every time he flexed his knowledge about martial art and weapons. And who knows? Maybe Damian had already filled his sketchbooks with daily you before he knew that. The annoying muse, he would say.

Chapter Text

You were learning with Damian.

He was casually flexing how he would handle every vigilante if things went wrong.

He wouldn't want his competitor unprepared, just to keep things interesting. Absolutely not because you're still embarrassingly inexperienced and he's scared of seeing you bleed for foolish stunts.

He even made his presentation look like you're scrolling through Tinder matches for better understanding.

Brief summary. Strength. Weakness. How to counter.

You were nodding, taking notes and trying to brainstorm to catch up with Damian's follow-up questions.

You were being so attentive until that one name popped up - "Red Hood".

"Impertinent fool. Reckless. Immature. Disgraceful. Embarrassingly emotional. Bad influence. You have better things to do than interact with him. Escape and call for backup if you encounter him." huffed Damian.

Weird.

You could tell how Damian's gaze flickered with a tad of something that you couldn't name.

How intriguing.

Curiosity got the better of you. Later on, you found yourself spending a load of time researching for that name.

"Jason Todd, huh?"

It wasn't much challenging for you to find out what happened. You're a natural at learning everything after all, specifically some detective skills from Tim.

Little did you know he will be your downfall.

You’re seventeen. You were the soft one (or almost everyone in your family supposed so). The one who wore every patch with pride. The one who never broke ranks, never swore, never missed a target.

Jason Todd.

Bruce mentioned him so flatly when you asked, like a hideous scar under his sleeves.

“He was... intense. Did things his way."

And then he moved on. Like that was it. Like that was all Jason got. You knew better than that.

You’d seen the holes in the walls of the manor. The look in everyone’s eyes when they heard the name. And that was enough.

So you fled. You ditched Dick mid-patrol with some dramatic excuses. He was yelling over comms:

“You what? You’re leaving? We’re not done here!”

And you were already gone.

Basically? You saw his name ONCE and suddenly you're going full vigilante-mode, ditching Nightwing like “sorry mentor, this is personal. No hard feelings, alright?”

How down bad you are for that man? It's a secret between you and God, sweetheart.

You’re out there dragging drug dealers by the collar like:

“Where’s Red Hood? Tell him his biggest fan is coming.”

You're hunting him down despite your best judgment, as if you were possessed by Hades in the way he entirely devotes to Persephone.

Meanwhile Jason heard rumors like:

"There's this new Bat kid looks like a damn maniac fanboy. Keeps asking for Red Hood's autograph and location mid-beating. Who the fuck even knows?"

And Jason dramatically cleaned his guns, spiraled and showed up himself.

Gunfire. Smoke. Jason tilted his head slowly. That’s what you always remember first.

Crime alley. Gotham doesn’t sleep here, it rots slowly.

The thug’s breath reeked of blood. You got him pinned to a rusted fire escape with your knee on his chest.

“Red Hood,” you said, voice low. “Where is he?”

He chokes. “Man, I don’t- I barely know him!”

“Wrong answer. Try harder, buddy.” You pushed harder. He screamed.

Behind you, a gun cocked.

Click.

“You’re not bad. Little dramatic."

"But you’re hunting in the wrong graveyard, kid.”

His voice was rough, dipped with sin.

You knew that voice. You studied it.

You froze. But your blood surged. You turned slowly, heart hammering like a drum. And there he was.

Red Hood. In the flesh.

Helmet gleaming under the moonlight. Leather jacket fluttered. Pistols holstered but hands twitchy.

He’s already reading you. Your posture, your expression-

Dozens of thoughts were running wild in his mind.

You looked just like him. He knew that gaze. He knew that temper.

Running around just like him.

He knew.

His breath hitched. His expressions behind the mask grimaced. He felt like there was a strange lump in his throat.

He saw the ghost of him.

You're too much.

"Bruce’s new kid?”

“What? He sent you for an autograph, replacement?”

He scolded with venom.

Jason stared. And stared.

You didn’t say anything at first.

You just… looked.

Your eyes traced around the figure. From the holstered pistol, then to the shabby jacket, the ruined gloves, the cocky way he stood like Gotham belongs to him.

You swooned. Badly.

Visibly. Like you’ve just seen God, but he’s angry, armed, and kind of hot about it.

Jason blinked once behind the helmet.

“… Are you… fucking blushing?”

You straightened, tried to recover and fail instantaneously.

“No.”

Too fast. Too defensive.

You absolutely were. You're glowing like a kid seeing Superman for the very first time and Jason could tell.

Such a terrible liar.

He’s staring harder now, like he’s trying to figure out if Bruce sent him a fan or a stalker. The drug dealer on the ground groaned and Jason kicked him without even looking.

“You hunted down my guys… to find me? Bruce's taste is disappointing nowadays. You do know stalking me is a pretty bad idea, right?”

”Dumb replacement."

“You're trying to arrest me or marry me?”

The way he said it is pure Gotham.

Sharp. Taunting. Lethal.

Yet there’s a flicker, he’s amused instead of being frustrated.

Curious.

You weren’t what he expected. At all.

And you just kept looking at him like he’s your new religion. He could even feel the vows forming in your head. And he couldn't take it really well.

You finally found your voice.

"Why did you say marry twice?"

"And for the record, I'm publicly tracking down. Thank you very much."

He went speechless.

You slipped right out while he was busy rebooting his brain.

Damian showed up to scoop your ass away with serious scolds and lectures after that.

Chapter Text

Your stubborn head wouldn't easily give up on Jason without a fight. But this time you knew better not to startle him.

So you stalked him.

He knew and called you out every single attempt.

"You have twenty seconds to run before you become my 85th person."

He despised how casual and shameless you were.

He showed up in alleys, rooftops and even near the Batcave, just to swing at you out of nowhere.

You didn't dodge? "Pathetic. You're dead"

He threw disgusted glares and left. This man? Full beefing about you.

You learnt that fighting back would get him to stay longer.

He aimed at your ribs, shoulders and legs, bruising you hard. You learned how to protect weak spots.

He turned nights into psychological warfare. He taunted you, making you mad enough to fight back sharper.

"C'mon, pup. Bruce would have benched you already."

"You drop your guard like that in Crime Alley, you never have breakfast with Alfred again."

You were beaten into mush.

You felt excitement.

You knew that he cared enough to fight you.

You knew this was his way of saying "I want you to survive Gotham" by knocking you on your ass. Either you gave up stalking him or you bounced back stronger.

You knew he saw too much of himself in you. So "training" became his love language. Maybe you wouldn't die the way he did.

The only way to step closer toward him.

He knew the better way to take care of you. He knew how to protect you.

"… You are a terrible mentor."

"Best kind. You will thank me when you still breathe at twenty."

He ruffled your hair. Too soft. Too raw. Too much.

Of course, that's what happened after knocking the air out of your chest.

He tossed you a burger. A BURGER. Your favorite. Or his. Whatever. He walked off like nothing happened.

Bruises piled up, so did experience. You could read his shoulders, his feints and his dirty tricks.

"No one fights dirty like him. Insane." you whined.

One night, you finally countered his hook, swept his leg and pinned him down (for like 14 seconds before he flipped you off).

"Not bad, replacement."

You beamed anyways.

That was the youngest, freshest, sweetest laugh he had ever heard.

No edge, no walls, no games. Just you.

His chest does this agonizing, stupid squeeze, like he’s been sucker-punched. He didn't even realize he’s softening until you spoke up.

"You're my brother now, ya know?" you teased.

Jason snapped out of it, instantly defensive. His ears burned red crimson as he growled.

"Drop it."

You got strangled.

"Kinky."

He shifted his weight slightly to one side to free up the angle, hooked his boot against your calf and kicked you with the right angle so your body followed the momentum of the roll.

Oh no, you hit a nerve.

You rolled like a poor burrito and the moment you got up?

Jason? Nowhere in sight.

Chapter Text

Couple nights later, Jason and you’re eating together again. Probably because you lasted longer against him. Or you whined too much. Or Jason wanted to try that new cheap burgers place. Jason half-slouched like always, trying to act like nothing changed. He didn't mention that night. Not once.

You sat across from him, taking obnoxiously small bites, eyes glittering like you were plotting against every single villain in Gotham. Every time Jason glanced up, you'd already watching him, smug as hell. Finally, he snapped:

“What?”

“You like me.”

“Shut up.”

“You like me.”

“Eat your damn burger before I strangle you.”

“You even rubbed my dusty cheeks. So tender. So protective. So-”

Jason choked on his soda.

“You little-”

He threw a napkin at your face, ears turning red.

You just grinned wider, bites into your burger like you won. Basically? You did.

And from that moment on, every chance you got, you pushed it further.

You called him brother, praised him like he hung the stars, and let him take the last burger.

It’s late.

Jason and you had just gotten out of a rough training run. Jason patched a scrape on your elbow, muttering curses the whole time.

You’re sitting on the hood of his bike, eating fries from a greasy paper bag, shoulders bumping occasionally. Silence stretched comfortable for once.

Then, out of nowhere, you repeated it.

“You’re my brother, y’know.”

Jason froze.

“Not again.” Jason retorted. He hated how natural and sweet it sounded.

"You heard me.” Your voice was flat. Eyes were looking at something faraway. Or maybe nothing at all.

Jason's chest felt tight, like someone stuffed gunpowder in there and lit a match. He turned and looked at you. He saw something else. Something different this time.

Your eyes darkened into something layered, something unreadable, like you were staring at more than the world in front of you. Your eyes would drown him if he kept holding eye contact. Your eyes told him that he didn't know you well enough. Your eyes screamed that he wouldn't escape if he tried to.

You looked like someone could love him. You looked like someone who would choose him against all odds. You looked like someone who had been with him in every lifetime.

You were pressuring and crushing him with the most tender way possible.

Suffocating.

You terrified him.

And he would die for it.

A beat.

You blinked.

And abruptly you gave him the softest gaze ever with a small smile. As if he was hallucinating.

“You’re mine now, old man. Brother’s oath.”

You hook your pinky through his glove like it’s sacred.

Jason stared at your hand for a long time. Then, against every survival instinct he’d ever had, he let his pinky curl back. Just slightly. Just enough.

His throat worked, shaky.

“You’re a pain in the ass.”

“Love you too, brother.” You replied with a smug, leaned back in satisfaction.

Jason nearly fell off the bike.

Few days later, Jason showed up at the usual rooftop like nothing happened, mask under his arm, voice sharp as ever. He tossed his gear onto the ground, pulled out a drink, and didn’t even look at you. That’s the first sign. Normally, he’d at least grunt a greeting.

You knew it instantly. He’s dodging.

Jason didn’t meet your eyes, just kept his back turned, shoulders stiff.

“Rough night?” you asked, all fake-innocent.

Jason popped the beer cap with his thumb and took a long sip. “Don’t start.”

“Start what?” Your tone was too light, too casual, but the smirk was already tugging at your mouth. You wanted to see him crack again.

Jason finally looked at you, and his jaw was tight. “You know damn well what.”

“Ohhh,” you dragged the sound out, grin widening. “You mean when you basically looked at me as if you were picturing how good it would be having me as your little company? That part?”

He set the bottle down harder than he meant to. “Drop it.”

But you didn’t. Of course you didn’t.

“What’s wrong, brother? Afraid you’ll get attached?”

Jason’s eyes flashed. He towered over you, hands clenching at his sides like he’s fighting the urge to grab or shove. His voice came out low, rough, restraint:

“I always make the mistake of trusting too much.”

Your expression flickered, just for a second. But then the smugness returned, softening into something more genuine. “Scared of me?”

Jason exhaled sharply through his nose, spinning away before you can read more in his face. He grabbed his mask, shoving it over his head. “Scared of needing you, broth- Drop it.”

He slipped. You won.

“Not gonna,” you shot back, voice light, almost sing-song. “You JUST let it slip. Can’t take it back.”

And that made Jason threw you a smoke bomb when he left.

Later on, he stood in the alley with his mask still on, chest heaving, because the truth burned him. He was attached. He hated that you knew it, hated that you’re right, and hated even more that a part of him wanted to give in anyways.

But he couldn’t. Not yet. Not when the word “brother” felt like a curse and a promise all at once.

He circled the city twice, bike roaring too loud, like maybe he could outrun the words still branded into his skull.

You’re my brother, y’know.

It replayed in a loop, and every time it did, his grip tightened on the throttle until his knuckles ached.

It shouldn’t matter. He’d had people call him worse, better, every name in the book. He’d been “soldier,” “Robin,” “Red Hood,” “criminal,” “failure,” “resurrected mistake.” He’d had strangers on the street scream “monster” and whisper “savior” in the same night. None of it stuck. He learned how not to let it stick.

But brother? That one crawled under his skin.

His mind kept going back to your face. Smug little grin, but eyes shining like you’d just won something important. Like Jason giving in, even just an inch, meant the world. Like you’d been waiting for it. Manipulative little shi- He cursed and tried to dismiss it. Painfully. However, he knew damn well that you meant it. That tore him in the best way possible.

Jason muttered under his breath, words tumbling, rough and unsteady:

“Stupid pup. Don’t even know what you signed up for. Don’t know what it means-”

Everything.

He would be so ruined and blessed at the same time.

He wasn't ready to love or to be loved.

He wasn't ready to trust again.

He wasn't ready to be looked as if he was enough.

Tainted, flawed and dangerous as him. No fixing. No saving. Nothing.

He wasn't expecting anything. At all.

He wasn't-

And yet… he felt your pinky hook into his glove. That small, stubborn touch. He could’ve pulled away. He should’ve pulled away. But he didn’t. He curled back. Just slightly. Just enough to betray himself.

“Damn it.”

But the anger couldn't kill the warmth in his chest. The only thing it did was bruising his soul with more pain knowing that he was too far gone to shut everything down.

He heard it again, in that smug little voice: Love you too, brother.

He groaned like he’s in pain. Because he knew next time he saw you, he wouldn’t be able to look you in the eye without that damn echo rattling through him.

Sometimes you two worked together. Sometimes you two were trying to outdo each other. Sometimes bullets flied a little too close on purpose. Jason kept score. You kept track. Jason’s injuries. Jason’s moods. Jason’s tells. You patched Jason up after fights Jason swore he hadn't lost.

Jason said things like: “Don’t look at me like that. You’re not my brother.”

That's a lie. But not because he believed it, he needed it to feel survivable.

You just hummed and handed him clean bandages. You never really corrected Jason.
Not because you didn't care but because you knew Jason would have flinched if you had said it out loud.

Jason escalated. Picked fights more frequently. Pushed boundaries. Because if you ever snapped, ever left, ever said “I’m done”, Jason would have been right all along.

You never did.

That’s what broke him.

Jason’s self-worth is in the gutter, marinating in trauma. To you, Jason was someone you had already chose. Jason was wounded, not cruel. Jason was worth waiting for. Love isn’t loud. Love stays.

Jason hated himself for wanting more than he thought he deserved.

One night after a mission went sideways, Jason finally snapped:

“Why do you stay?”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“I’m not… I’m not good at this.”

You didn't say "I love you." You said:

“I know.”

“That’s why I stay.”

And Jason had to sit with the unbearable truth that: you saw him clearly and chose him anyway without asking him to be better first.

Which was terrifying.

Jason equated love with earning. You practiced love as devotion. Jason thought patience means waiting to leave. You knew patience means never rushing the wound.

You two clashed because Jason was fighting the version of himself you had already accepted. Jason and you took it to the mat. No rules. No witnesses. Jason fought like he’s trying to prove something. You fought like you were trying not to hurt him.

Jason clocked that instantly and it pissed him off.

“Stop holding back.” Jason growls, kneeing you. “What? Afraid you’ll break me?”

“No. I’m afraid you want me to.” You pinned him and bit back coldly.

That line hit somewhere unarmored.

He bucked harder, got free, swung wild.

“You think you know what I want?”
“You think you get to decide that?”

“I think you want permission to fall apart.” You answered.
“And you hate me for not letting you pretend you don’t.”

Jason lost it.

“You don’t get to stay if you’re just going to look at me like a problem to solve.” Jason hissed.

“And you don’t get to use me like a wall you can punch and then blame me for standing there.”

“I never asked you to stay.” His body shook just slightly.

“You just get furious every time I don’t leave.” You retorted, unflincing.

Silence.

Jason’s jaw tightened so hard it hurts.

“You want the truth?” Jason snarls.
“I don’t trust people who stay. They always leave worse.”

“Then why are you trying so hard to push me into proving you right?”

That one left Jason speechless.

Jason turned away first. Angry. Shaking.

“Get out of my head.”

You grabbed his wrist. Not gentle, not rough. Intentional.

“Then stop letting me in.”

Jason yanked free.

“I didn’t invite you.”

“You didn’t stop me.”

The argument detonated swiftly.

Jason threw the words like grenades. They are half-formed, sharp, unfair.

“You think staying makes you better than me? You think I need you watching me like I’m one bad night away from cracking?”

You didn’t interrupt. That alone infuriated Jason.

“Say something.” Jason snapped again. “C’mon. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me I’m broken.”

“I won’t.”

"What?" Jason froze.

“I won’t chase you into a version of this you already decided on. If you want to go, go.”

That’s it.

No grabbing his wrist.
No “Jason, wait.”
No fight.

Jason laughed, sharp and hollow.

“Yeah. Thought so.”

He stormed out.

Door slammed hard enough to rattle the walls.

You stayed.

Because chasing Jason when he runs didn’t stop the damage, it just taught him that running works.

Weeks later, you two didn’t talk about it. Jason and you just… ended up on the same mission weeks later.

Different entry points. Same target. Same hell.

Bullets screamed past concrete. Alarms blared. Smoke everywhere.

Jason dropped in from the west corridor, guns blazing. Your voice crackled into your comm like it never stopped belonging there.

“You’re off-path.”

Jason snarled back instantly.

“Didn’t ask.”

“You’re walking into a crossfire.”

“Story of my life.”

The argument exploded mid-fight. Jason took a hit - graze to the ribs. You caught it immediately.

“You’re bleeding.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.”

Jason fired blindly, ducking behind cover.

"Wow” He bristled. “Miss me that much?”

Gunfire punctuated the silence. You reloaded calmly.

“You ran.”

Jason laughed. Wild. Breathless.

“And you let me.”

“I respected your choice."

Jason popped up, fires, dropped back down.

“You could’ve stopped me.”

“And prove you were right about me?” You shot back. “No.”

Another explosion. Debris rained down.

Jason shouted into the mic, voice cracking with adrenaline and fury.

“You don’t get to decide when I’m worth fighting for!”

You snapped for the first time. Sharp. Raw. Loud.

“I’ve been fighting for you since the day we met!”

Jason went silent. Just for half a second. Enough to almost get him killed.

Jason glared at the comms like it offended his Fatson.

“Say it again.” Jason dared. “Say you care.”

“I care. But I will not chase you when you’re trying to disappear.”

Jason’s jaw trembled.

“Then don’t. Just don’t act surprised when I keep running.”

“Then stop running back.”

Nothing more.

Just gunfire.

Just breathing.

Just two people fighting in the ruins of everything they refused to name.

The two of you finished the mission. Separated without goodbye.

But Jason didn’t forget: you didn’t chase him, you didn’t abandon him, you matched him word for word, bullet for bullet.

Then there came the ugly jealousy. It’s stupid. That’s the worst part.

Not a rival. Not someone dangerous. Just… a contact.

You were leaning against a worktable, calm as ever, talking to someone who clearly knew you. Too comfortable. Too familiar. They laughed soft, private. Jason clocked it instantly. That hot, ugly twist in his gut hit before he could stop it.

What the hell is that?

He told himself it’s tactical.
He told himself he’s assessing a potential threat.
He told himself a lot of lies very fast.

You reached out. It's brief, absentminded. Just adjusting the other person’s sleeve where it’s torn.

Jason’s jaw clenched. His grip on his helmet went white-knuckled. And suddenly he’s furious.

At you.
At the stranger.
At himself.

Because jealousy means claim. And Jason didn’t believe he’s allowed to claim anything.

He interrupted them too sharply.

“We done here?”

You turned, surprised. Just a flicker.

“Almost.”

Jason snapped back before he could think straight.

“Good. Some of us don’t have time to play nice.”

The contact stiffened. Your eyes narrowed. You're not angry, just… attentive.

“Jason, it’s handled.” A soft warning coming from you.

Handled.

Jason hated that it sounded intimate.

They left. Jason stalked ahead, boots heavy, shoulders tense. You caught up easily. Of course you did.

“What was that about?”

Jason laughed. Short. Mean. Fake.

“What? You flirting on the clock now? Gotta say, didn’t peg you for that much sentimental.”

The second it’s out, he regretted it. You stopped walking. Jason kept going for two more steps before realizing you didn’t follow. That’s when the jealousy curdled into shame. Because you were not defensive. You were just… hurt.

“I was being polite. You don’t get to punish me for that.”

That’s the line that gutted him. Jason despised himself because he knew he had crossed something. Because he felt possessive and liked it. That scared the hell out of him.

He turned back, hissing coldly.

“Forget it. Wasn’t my business.”

“Then don’t make it sound like it is.”

Silence.

Jason nodded once.

“Yeah. Right.”

But later, alone, he sat on the edge of the bed, helmet in his hands, and it hit him full force:

He wasn’t angry because you were careless.

He was angry because you weren’t his.

Then Jason left the helmet aside, laid awake on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

The question looped endlessly:

What if I’m not allowed to be hurt?

Jason pressed his forearm over his eyes.

He disgusted himself for wanting exclusivity.

For wanting reassurance.

For wanting something that sounds too much like home.

And there was another mission. It was supposed to be clean. In-and-out. You overwatched. Jason breached.

Standard. Routine. Safe.

Jason didn’t even check your channel as often as he should because you were always there. Because you didn't fail. Because you leaving had never crossed his mind as a real possibility.

That’s the lie.

The comm crackles once.

Static.

Jason paused mid-step. Just a beat. His brain supplied excuses faster than fear could form.

Interference. Your rerouting. You are fine.

Jason kept moving.

Then an explosion (of course, tradition), not close enough to hit Jason, but close enough to shake the building.

Your channel stayed silent.

Jason stopped breathing like he was realizing something is wrong. Like a man who forgot he was allowed to care.

“Status.” He called. Sharp. Controlled.

Nothing.

Jason told himself he’s irritated. Annoyed. Angry at bad comms.

But his hands were shaking when he reloaded. He switched channels. Overrode protocol. Barked orders at nobody.

“Answer me.”

Still nothing.

And that’s when it hit him. Not fear. No no no, not yet. But something worse:

Jason had never rehearsed this scenario. He had backup plans for everyone else. Exit routes. Body retrieval. Worst-case calculations.

But not you.

Because some part of Jason never believed he was allowed to lose you.

Jason abandoned the objective.

He didn’t announce it or justify it. He just turned and ran through smoke, through gunfire, through everything he’d trained himself not to feel. His thoughts fractured:

"He didn’t say goodbye. I never asked. I was careful not to need him."

And then the terror finally gets a name.

This is panic. Jason hits your last known location and finds wreckage.

Blood. Not enough to be certain.

Jason dropped to one knee without realizing it. Breathing wrong. Vision tunneling.

“No,” He whispered, and it’s not a command this time. “No, no… please.”

He didn’t pray. He bargained. He promised things he never let himself want.

He found you.

Alive. Barely. Pinned, concussed, bleeding.

Jason made a sound he didn't recognize - half relief, half grief and absolute fury at himself. He’s shaking when he pulled you free. Hands gentle. Too gentle.

“Hey.” Jason said, voice wrecked. “I got you. I got you. I’m here.”

You blinked up at him, unfocused but smiling anyway because of course you were.

“You came fast.” You murmured.

Jason laughed. A broken sound.

“Yeah.” Jase said, pressing his forehead to yours. “Yeah. Guess I’m bad at following orders.”

Back at the safehouse, you slept under sedation. Jason didn’t. He sat on the floor beside the bed, armor still on, hands clasped like he’s holding himself together manually.

And the realization lands slowly and irreversibly:

Jason didn’t just panic. He panicked without permission. Without justification. Without believing he was entitled to the fear.

Because fear means attachment.
And attachment means worth.

And Jason never believed he had earned either.

You would wake up later and tease him. Call him dramatic. Say you knew Jason would come.

Jason wouldn’t argue. But something shifted.

He hadn’t said I love you.

But he had sat there all night anyway.

Because panic taught him something patience never could.

Jason didn’t cry. He didn’t confess. He didn’t suddenly become soft.

But he stopped pretending he didn’t care. Which, for him, is catastrophic.

Jason couldn’t go back.

Jason didn’t stop pretending because you demanded honesty.

He stopped because love finally outweighed his ability to lie.

It’s late. Safehouse quiet in that humming, post-mission way. You were moving around, methodical like packing gear, rechecking straps. Just stepping out for a supply run. Routine.

Jason’s leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, posture casual. He’s already halfway into a joke.

“Y’know, if you get yourself shot again, I’m charging you for emotional damages.”

You smiled. Small. Fond.

“I’ll be careful.”

You turned back to the table. Jason opened his mouth to add something… Just something flippant, something easy.

And nothing came.

The words jammed up in his throat like they didn’t recognize him anymore.

Jason’s voice came out rough. Quiet. Barely there.

“Stay.”

One word. Not loud. Not dramatic. No sarcasm. No grin to hide behind.

You froze.

Jason swallowed. Neither did he look away nor laugh it off.

“Just…”
“… stay.”

His hands were clenched at his sides. Knuckles white. Like if you said no, Jason might have actually fallen apart. And Jason knew it. That’s the difference.

He handed you his vulnerability.

You turned slowly and studied him. Not the armor. Not the attitude. But the man who finally stopped pretending he didn’t care.

“Okay.” You replied. Immediate. Certain. No sigh. No commentary.

It’s too quiet after that moment. Jason exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for years. He waited for the urge to cover it with a joke. It never came. That’s how he knew it mattered.

“You don’t have to-” Jason muttered, old habits clawing back. “I’m not…”

“I know.” You stepped closer. Steady. Calm. “I still want to.”

Jason nodded. Once. His eyes burned. He blinked hard.

“Okay.” He uttered.

And that’s it.

No laugh. No deflection. No pretending it meant nothing.

You sat beside him. Not touching yet. Jason leaned in first. Just barely. Like he’s testing gravity.

And when you didn’t move away, didn’t tease, didn’t make it lighter, Jason let himself rest there.

For the first time, “stay” wasn’t a trap.

It wasn’t a joke. It wasn’t a test. It was need.

Chapter Text

It’s the usual late night. You sneaked back into the Manor after another rooftop lesson. Jacket zipped tight to hide bruises, bag of fries hidden behind your back. You barely made it two steps into the hall before Bruce’s voice startled you. Low, sharp, accusing.

“Where were you?”

You froze and stammered.

“…Patrol?”

“That wasn’t patrol.”

Bruce’s tone sharpened.

Before you could scramble an excuse, a voice drew behind you. Jason retorted:

“Relax, old man. I was just knocking the kid around a little.”

Jason’s leaning lazy against the railing, smirk plastered across his face, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.

“You’ve been what?” Bruce snapped.

Jason shrugged and rested his arm over your shoulder casually.

“Training him. Gotham’s a hellhole, duh.”

Bruce frowned and glared. His ruffled voice rose along with his disappointment.

“By ambushing him? By bruising him until he can’t breathe? That isn’t training, Jason. That’s violence.”

“Violence is GOTHAM. Or do you want your new golden child ending up in a coffin like ME?”

You could feel his fury and distress by the way his body shook subtly.

The room went dead silent.

Bruce’s jaw tightened. His chest clenched. His voice is laced with agony and assertiveness.

“…You DON’T get to use your death as justification for putting them in danger.”

“I’m making sure they live. Because you sure as hell… didn’t do that for me.” Jason breathed out slowly and quietly.

You finally found your voice again, blurted out in panic.

“Daddd… He wasn’t hurting me, he was helping. He cares about me. He just shows it differently. And I bask in it.”

Both men turned to look at you. Jason blinked, thrown off. Bruce’s expression flickered by something else. Concerned? Disappointed? Surprised? Maybe a little of all of that.

Jason gruffed and looked away: “Don’t put words in my mouth, kid.”

Bruce didn’t blow up further.

He just exhaled, heavy, and said in that disappointed Dad-voice that weighed a thousand pounds:

“… This isn’t over”

Then he looked at Jason and you simultaneously. His eyes were soft, undeniably longing as if he was embracing both of you silently. And he disappeared into the dark, cape swirling. Jason and you were left standing there, fries forgotten, bruises throbbing.

“… Halfway to approval?” you muttered.

Jason smirked, ruffled your hair rougher than necessary.

“You’re mine, trouble. With that old grumpy man’s approval or not.”

Chapter Text

The shouting with Bruce died down.

Jason and you were still in the hall, trading mocking banter over fries, when another voice cut through.

“…So that’s where you’ve been disappearing to.” Dick mocked. He's furious. And hurt.

You jolted.

Dick’s standing in the doorway, arms crossed, blue eyes sharp like Batarang. He looked less like a brother, more like a mentor who just found out his favorite student had been sneaking out to party with the wrong crowd.

You spoke up in guilt: “Capt... I-”

“Don't Capt me. You ditched me, baby. For two weeks straight. Mid-mission, mid-training, no calls, stupid excuses. And it was for him?” He cut you off and jerked his chin at Jason, who grinned like this is great entertainment.

“Don’t look at me, circus boy. Kid kept running back every night. Guess they like a teacher who doesn’t cuddle.”

Dick snapped.

“You think you're better at mentoring than I do?”

Jason shrugged and taunted back: “Better than whatever babysitting you call training, Boy Wonder. He's sharper with me than he was with you.”

“You don’t get to corrupt them just because you’re bitter.” Dick clicked his tongue.

Jason’s grin dropped.

“Better than blind. At least I’m preparing them for Gotham. What’re you doing? Teaching them how to flip on rooftops and smile for cameras?”

You cut in desperately.

“I wasn’t ditching you. I wanted to be better.”

Dick’s expression cracked. Jealousy melted into pure hurt.

“… You didn’t trust me with that?” Dick uttered softly. His voice broke.

Your throat died. Jason looked away. For once, he didn't throw in a quip.

The silence stretched uncomfortably.

Finally, Dick muttered.

“… Fine. If you want him as your mentor, then that’s your choice.”

And he stormed off.

You stared after him with your chest in knots.

Jason watched him go, then looked at you.

"Congratulations, pup. You just broke Boy Wonder's heart."

“… He’ll get over it. You know Grayson. He’s always gotta feel like the favorite big brother.”

Yet both of you couldn't form a smile.

The next night.

Dick was back to his apartment in Bludhaven after a rough patrol. All sweat and dust. He couldn't shut down his disturbing thoughts. He kept thinking about what he did wrong. Was he being too soft and easy? Was that the reason why you left for Jason? Was he wrong for not pushing you hard enough? He didn't believe that. He didn't want to believe that he was that replaceable and disposable. So damn easy. So damn forgettable. It's torturous to think about. He didn't think that pushing around is the right answer. Still. He wouldn't change his mind anyways. His hair was messy from running his hands through it. His chest went tight. His mind was swarmed with restless buzz. His throat was bitter as he chuckled mockingly to himself as he opened the door.

You’re standing there holding a greasy paper bag from your favorite Gotham burger place.

“Truce?” You smiled nervously.

His expression’s cool. He’s not resentful anymore, yet he’s still hurt.

“You shouldn’t sneak out so late, baby. And what with that lock picking? Learned from the "best"?” He crossed his arms, leaned on the door frame and jeered.

“Didn’t sneak. Walked. With purpose. For this. Anddd technically I didn't pick the lock. I persuaded it. Strategically. Also testing your home security? Maybe a family discount entry?”

You dropped the bag on his desk. The smell of fries and burgers filled the room. His favorite.

He raised one eyebrow in amusement.

Too quiet.

“I’m sorry, okay? I think I worded it wrong. I didn’t mean to ditch you. Or… make you think I trust him more than you. I just thought if I told you, you’d stop me. I know you're always so patient, protective and caring. You always look out for me. I appreciate everything. But I wanted to get stronger in many ways. I wasn’t trying to… replace you. I know I messed up. I made you feel like second place. Truth is… you were my first. My first real mentor, my first partner who made me feel like I wasn’t just a sidekick. I was part of something much more meaningful. You made me want to be a hero. Jason… he’s my brother. But you? You’re my Captain. My North Star. My compass. My leader. Also brother. I’m sorry. Please don’t bench me. Please don’t hate me. I brought chips because words weren’t enough, and burgers were messy. Tactical food after patrolling?"

Dick stared at you for a long moment. Then his mouth twitched. He laughed softly. Stunning. Breathtaking. Gorgeous. He walked up to you with that sunshine vibe and flicked your forehead playfully.

“You really think burgers buy forgiveness, sugarplum?”

You beamed immediately like a puppy.

“Yes. Absolutely. Look. Double cheese. Extra pickles. Just like you like.”

Dick sighed, ran a hand over his face, yet he’d already giving in.

He pulled the bag closer, unwrapping the burger. He took a bite, whispered:

“You’re still my partner. You know that, right?”

You nodded fast.

“Yeah. Always.”

Dick reached over, cupped your cheek, caressed around tenderly.

“Next time you wanna go running off with Jason, just tell me. So I don’t sit around imagining the worst.”

You grinned sheepishly and leaned onto his palm.

“Deal. Uh… still gonna train with him sometimes.”

Dick paused mid-bite and narrowed his eyes.

“You’re lucky you brought burgers.”

A few nights later, Jason’s leaning against his bike after patrol, helmet tucked under his arm. Sure enough, you showed up at the training spot, trying to act casual.

Jason grinned like he's up for something fishy. He was.

“So… you and Golden Boy kissed and made up, huh?”

“WHAT?” You choked.

Jason smirked, pulled a crumpled burger wrapper out of his pocket, and waved it like evidence.

“Found this in the alley behind his building. Fries too. Sloppy work covering your tracks, kid.”

You went red instantly.

“It was a peace offering, okay?! He was mad and-”

Jason blew you with mock gasp:

“You bribed him with food? That’s adorable. Tell me you even hit him with puppy eyes.”

You groaned, shoving his shoulder.

“Shut up.”

Jason just laughed, ruffling your hair the way Dick always did, but with way more teasing malice.

“What were you, a stray dog? Fight with your master, bring him a burger, tail wagging like ‘please love me again!’”

You snapped with embarrassment: “You’re the stray dog, grandpa with guns”

Jason barked out a laugh. He leaned close, smug:

“Me? That's rich coming from someone who follows me around like a stray pup.”

You rolled your eyes, but Jason’s grin softened for just a second.

He slung an arm around your shoulders as you both walked off.

“Don’t sweat it. He’ll always forgive you. He’s got a soft spot for runaways.”

And in that quiet jab, you knew he meant both you and himself.

Chapter Text

Gotham air was heavy with smoke and rain. You’re laying on your ass on the edge of a rooftop, mask tilted up, bruised lip from a scuffle. Jason dropped down in front of you, silent but pissed. Jason hadn’t meant it. It was supposed to be a feint, a shove, a check to keep you on your toes. But his hit landed too hard. You went down too hard, back smacking concrete, the wind knocked out of you. You’re trembling, trying to laugh it off as you wipe at your face with the heel of your palm.

Jason growled in guilt: “… The hell are you thinking, idiot?”

You were stalking him, again. Usually he wouldn't mind. Yet there was a night where he was dealing with organized criminal networks. It was too risky. You were too worried. You took serious precautions. It was going well until Jason caught you clearing some thugs before him. It was suspiciously too fortunate for him. That was your only blunder. Sure thing you were much more experienced and skilled thanks to weeks of training with both Jason and Dick. He trusted you enough to take down high-stake missions. He knew you. However, he wouldn't want to risk losing you. You were his to take care. Not the other way around.

So here you were. Predictably Jason brought you to a better place to "talk" once that mission was finally over. Struggles failed. He fought. You countered. Obviously you couldn't handle him for long. You were totally drained after all the stunts you pulled after all.

Jason lashed out harshly:

“You’re just another replacement, baby. That’s all you’ll ever be to him. Don’t think clinging to me like a pathetic dog is gonna change that.”

"You don't know what it means to be LEFT IN AN ABANDONED WING ASYLUM FOR OVER A YEAR... because you thought you were untouchable, do you? You genius are not ready. You will never be. You're just a liability waiting to get killed."

He was weaponizing his own traumas to push you away. You followed Jason around like he once did with Bruce. He couldn't handle seeing you risk running around with him any longer. It tore the old wound of his - feeling like a tool, a soldier, not a son. So when you acted like Jason was someone worth chasing, he just projected his bitterness right onto you. He shot you with his emotional baggage. He didn't trust himself enough to protect you. He's scared. He's scared of failing you like Bruce did. He was flinging with his own self-loathing and fear at you.

Silence.

The words hit, no- crashed like billions of invisible broken glasses shattered your eyes.

Your smile flickered, crumbled at the edges, but you forced it back swiftly, like a dog wagging its tail after being kicked around.

You tried to laugh it off, again. You mumbled weakly:

“Heh. Guess that’s true, huh?”

“You didn’t have to be that hard, y’know… but thanks anyway. Guess I’ll be tougher and more careful next time, brother.”

Your voice cracked on "brother".

Jason’s chest dropped. That word. And the smile was weak, watery, sad like you’re desperate to make him feel better even though he just shattered you. And that broke him. Hard. Because it’s too close. It’s the kind of loyalty he once had. The kind that got him killed. He didn't believe he deserved it again. Therefore, he killed it first.

Jason saw it. He saw the way your throat worked like you’re swallowing tears, the way your eyes shined but you refused to blink. And his gut dropped. He didn’t just wound you, he made you believe it. He bit his lips and grunted, refrained himself from consoling you instantly. He couldn't. He had to be break you before you got to break him. Oh. You did. How unfortunate.

You couldn’t even look at him. You didn’t yell or fight anymore. And that’s worse than any screaming. Because Jason Todd could take knives, bullets, death, anything but watching you smile through heartbreak he caused? That’d haunt him for life.

It’d been a few nights since the warehouse. You’d been avoiding him. Homework. Patrol with Dick. Small missions with Bruce. Sparring with Damian. Anything but Red Hood.

Jason noticed, obviously.

He couldn't take it well. It felt like losing a part of him that he didn't know that it was there, aching and always anchoring him. He felt like he betrayed you. Like he betrayed himself.

He'd been here before. Pushing people when things get messy and emotional was his thing. It didn't change anything at all. It didn't make it hurt less. He breathed as if something was stuck in his throat and even if he had tore his own throat, it wouldn't have gone away. He avoided places that reminded him of you. Sadly you were with him, everywhere. He despised having too much then having to let go.

He didn't want to sleep. Either it would be about dreaming about how good you and him used to be or having nightmares about your possible deaths due to his failed attempts to save you in a continuous loop.

He didn't want to be awake either. Not when his mind kept drifting back to you and him in good old days. Not when his head was replaying the words he broke you. Not when he kept searching for your silhouette in every corner of Gotham subconsciously. Not when guilt, self-loathe, traumas were eating him alive.

He was stuck. He wished that he had had the capability to forget. Maybe things would be easier that way? Yet he didn't want to live that way either. He didn't want to move on. Not like that. He didn't want to forget that you were broken. Not when he was the one who caused that. He didn't want to relearn how it felt like without you.

How came he was grieving when you were alive.

How came he found himself talking to the ghost of you as if you had never left.

How came.

Chapter Text

You came back to the Manor after a day of whatever-without-Jason.

You were hurt but you still cared anyways. Everything you did was automatic. Your mind was drifting off somewhere else. Everyone knew but they didn't dare to bring it up. You were so grateful for that.

Days without him weren't easy.

You were hallucinating.

You tripped yourself at school and hoped to hear some sass from Jason. He would probably say something like: "You know your eyes exist for a reason, right? Golden Boy didn't teach you how to flip, pup? How shameful for Bruce Wayne's heir. You're lucky you got me. Right here. Get your ass up or I'll make you.".

You wished so.

You wished to hear from him again.

Instead, your friends just helped you and asked what bothered you all day.

Your expressions were so obvious. You didn't bother to mask it. All brooding. You acted all reckless as if you had the most tragic villain backstory ever.

You imagined and pictured him everywhere you go.

You never felt resentment towards him.

You just felt unwanted.

That's what shattered you.

You never bothered to care if you were a replacement or sidekick to anyone or going to die someday. You were trying anyways. At least you would die knowing that you tried.

Surprisingly, you found a greasy paper bag left on your nightstand. Still warm. Burgers, fries, even a shake. Scribbled on the bag in Sharpie: “Don’t make me eat this all myself. – J”

You hesitated.

You opened the window. Jason was sitting on the ledge, helmet off, hood up. He looked… nervous.

“You stalking me now?” You spoke flatly.

Jason rolled his eyes and grunted.

“Yeah, well. You stopped showing up to stalk me, so guess I had to return the favor.”

You clicked your tongue and raised one eyebrow.

"You don't owe me anything. Don't you have better things to do instead of making small talks here, Red?"

Oh. My. You never used that. The names you called him were cringe. It's either the sweet "brother" or the too intimate "Jason".

You were defiant. That worked. He froze and gulped. He managed to force some words out of his throat.

"We haven't talked properly… for days-"

"There's nothing to talk about."

His expression hardened.

"Cut. The. Bullshit."

He rumbled and jumped down onto the mattress in front of you.

"Look me in the eye and tell me that we have nothing to talk about."

Your eyes softened for half a second before you turned away and sighed.

"You have 21 seconds."

Jason’s hand instantly shot out, gripping your wrist. The other hand came onto your waist, dragging you to closer to him. He let out a breath as he stumbled on his own words. Low and raw. All cracking.

“You’re not… you’re not some replacement. You’re you. And I like- no, shit.. love you for you. Bruce didn’t shove you in to fill my boots. And even if he did-”

His grip tightened in desperation.

“You’re not me. I don’t care what Bruce saw in you. Replacement or not. You’re much better than me. You’re my brother. You’re mine to worry about now, whether you like it or not. Stray dogs don’t last in this city unless someone claims ‘em. I was scared of everything. I was stupid. I was.. urgh. But now I know that I'm scared of losing you more than my liking.”

Silence. Jason’s chest went stiff like he’s waiting for a verdict.

You blinked, startled, because Jason Todd didn’t just say things like that. Your eyes sting. You sniffed and forced a small smile.

“You’re only saying that ‘cause you brought me burgers.”

Jason let out a rough laugh, shoulders loosening with relief.

“And you just called me brother.” That's not even a question. You called him out.

Jason blinked like he didn’t even realize what he said, eyes going wide for half a second before narrowing defensively.

Jason tried to backpedal and shove you lightly.

“Don’t make it weird, kid.”

But your whole puppy face just lit up. Your mouth twitched into this ridiculous, watery grin.

“You did. You did! Jason Todd just called me his brother.”

Jason groaned, dragging a hand over his face, cheeks turning red under the grime.

“If you are trying to make me blush, it's not working.”

You clung tighter, burying your face into his jacket.

Your voice came muffled, almost giddy. You whispered reverently.

“Brother.”

Jason sighed, giving in, his hand coming up to ruffle your hair rough but careful.

He muttered fondly: “Yeah, yeah, don’t wear it out, pumpkin.”

And that’s it. All the guilt, the pain shifted. You’re still bruised, still sore, but that one word from him? It stitched you back together in seconds.

Jason thought he could just say one slip-up word and move on?

Nope.

The golden retriever pup would milk the hell out of it.

Jason’s patching his gear, trying to pretend last night didn’t happen.

You lunged in, grinning like sunshine through the rain. You leaned on him like it's the most natural thing ever.

“Morning, brother.”

Jason froze mid-stitch.

“Don’t start.”

“What do you mean, don’t start? You said it. Out loud. Jason Todd. The big, bad Red Hood called me his brother.”

Jason gave you a sharp side-eye.

“It was heat of the moment. Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late, I’m already used to it. In fact-”

You leaned back dramatically and clutched your chest.

“I think my poor fragile heart needs to hear it again to recover from all that pain you caused me.”

Jason snorted, shook his head and mumbled:

"Guilt trip failed. Don't do it again, trouble."

But he didn't try to move when you clung all over him.

"You like the sound of 'brother' anyways."

Jason finally slammed his sewing kit down, shooting you a look that’s half exasperation, half something warmer.

“Too much.”

Your face lit up like a kid at Christmas unwrapping gifts, and Jason cursed under his breath when you immediately beamed and leaned on his shoulder like it’s the comfiest pillow in Gotham.

You replied cheerfully.

“I love you too, brotherrrrr.”

Jason sighed. Loud, long, annoyed for show.

"Don't fucking love me."

"Why? 'Cuz you will love me back?" You taunted, leaning further onto him.

"'Cuz I always do. And you're killing me."

He grabbed an arm to steady you.

"So? Thought you like playing dead."

You stuck out your tongue and rolled your eyes. He looked away instantaneously.

"You had a weird taste. Blood, baggage and Bruce's failure."

"No. Mine."

You grinned like you just won the lottery while messing with strands of his hair.

And you got battered after that.

Worth it.

Chapter Text

"You know, I was robbing Bruce's tires. That's why he took me in, called me 'Robin' and played Dad of the Year." Whimsical Jason half joked, half whined randomly while chasing after some henchmen with you.

"Then the second I didn't fit the his picture - perfect little soldier, we froze out each other. Classic Bruce."

There he went again. Jason with his backbite about Bruce. He raved a lot. Unfortunately, you were the miserable victim. Everywhere. Every time.

"Fuck… they are incredibly fast. We lost the trace, kid."

He grunted as he slumped down on a rooftop.

"Let's be honest, this is Batman's fault." Jason sighed and grumbled.

You flopped down with him and chuckled playfully.

"Mhm you're right. Bad figure."

Oops, you poked the bear. He got defensive instantly.

"What? He's not that bad. I mean he had his own stupid morals and reasons-"

You raised one eyebrow and smirked. You got him. Again.

"Urgh, pass. I didn't say any crap. What about you, trouble? You stole something too? Or you begged nicely? Maybe your parents were somehow mysteriously gone and Bruce picked you up as if he was rescuing and recruiting some shelter dogs? Or he just got his second biological son out of nowhere thanks to his playboy persona?"

You rolled your eyes and replied calmly:

"Try getting flossed, making eye contact. I thought he was some sick weird old entrepreneur trying to flirt with the receptionist."

Jason just snickered and nudged you away.

"You can't be serious, kiddo."

You just shrugged and smiled back.

You did get adopted by that way.

On a random afternoon, Bruce sat quietly in the corner, waiting for his own dental check, his eyes were everywhere.

He caught you.

The dentist misplaced a tool, an assistant fumbled.

Dropped.

Your eyes darkened so slightly.

Sharp. Intense. It’s not panic or anger.

It’s awareness, intelligence, and a latent edge that made Bruce leaned forward almost instinctively.

You caught the tool so swiftly, showcasing a glimpse of how quickly your mind can adapt and survive. Strong reflexes.

Bruce caught himself holding his breath.

You noticed tiny expressions in others and reacted appropriately. Specifically, the hygienist hid irritation and the assistant panicked, and you just subtly mirrored comfort to keep things smooth.

"An innate ability to read people, perfect for interrogation, negotiation, and detective work." He whispered under his breaths.

You distracted yourself creatively while handling minor pain, illustrating excellent emotional self-regulation. Bruce could tell that you were counting in your mind. Your fingers twitched in rhythm. Intriguing. He knew that you were intellectualizing emotions while handling stress. That was beyond most of adults.

That duality. Soft yet lethal. Curious yet calculating.

When you were done, your eyes met his for a second. The world seemed to pause.

It’s not a glance. It’s judgment. Calm, analytical, like you’re assessing him. Not in a rude way, not in a childish way. It’s smart measurement that cut deeper than any interrogation ever could.

Bruce felt it in his chest.

It felt like a deer freezing before the car crash.

It felt like you saw through every corner, picked up pieces of him like a mad scientist and decided to rearrange it for funsy.

Then, almost imperceptibly, the gaze softened. The judgmental edge dissolved like mist in sunlight, replaced with innocence and warmth. You smiled faintly, polite, attentive, even caring, as if nothing had happened. Your eyes spoke sweetness, curiosity, and sincerity all at once, disarming adults, melting hearts, and hiding the explosion beneath.

It’s terrifying, magnetic, genius and chaos bundled into a single child.

Bruce leaned back just slightly, almost unconsciously.

He knew. This kid wasn’t just intelligent. He was extraordinary. Deadly in ways most people wouldn’t survive.

You were already interacting sweetly with another small child, eyes gentle, manners perfect.

Bruce chuckled to himself internally.

"Discrimination. I might feel hurt about that. This kid… no one else can handle them. I will."

By the time the appointment ended, Bruce had already imagined ways to guide, protect, and challenge you.

It’s not just a whim but certainty.

Those eyes… they chose him before he even decided.

Chapter Text

You’re at the mall trying to buy burgers for Jason. Just being polite. Baby face. School uniform. Holding the door open for a girl.

“Go ahead, miss.”

Yeah, your gravel voice kinda caused a lot of inconveniences for you.

That girl blushes. Hard. Trips on the welcome mat. Her friends giggle. A barista writes her number on your coffee cup.

You come back stunned and embarrassed.

Jason finds the number in your pocket and has a meltdown.

Later on, he tackles you down after school. Arms crossed. Full brooding mode.

"Okay. Say it."

"Say what?"

"Flirt with me."

"WHAT?!"

"Flirt. You’re pulling people without trying. I saw your classmates' look at you. I need to see how bad it is."

You sweat. Jason glares.

For few seconds, you clear your throat, tilt your head innocently:

"You're the living proof that pain doesn't make you any less lovable"

Jason groaned like he was shot and scratched his mask.

"WHAT THE-"

"THAT WAS TOO PERSONAL. FINE, KID. YOU WIN. I’m retiring. I can’t compete."

You try to help him up. He flinches.

“Don’t touch me with that voice. I’m sick. Physically ill.”

He starts tailing you hard on missions. Sabotaging any flirting. Glaring at everyone. He tells every civilian that you 'don’t wash your hair.' You do, duh. He's just petty. He even signs you up for speech therapy as a joke. He even gaslights your potential love interests whenever you guys hang out for burgers.

“No no, that wasn’t him. You must’ve heard me. I’m the hot one. He’s seventeen. He doesn’t know what a kiss is.”

And you are so thankful for that. Every sentence you say sounds like it came with a room key and a warning label.

Damian and Time start dragging you to interrogations.

“Say something. Anything.”

“… What?”

The criminal whimpers.

“See?” Damian beams proud. “Official intimidation device. You’ll be useful after all.”

Tim just blasts your voice in interrogation room while wearing sound-blocking headphones. He won't want to remake the mistake of throwing his poor phone into the ground while having to hear your voice again and record it for the files classification.

You're on comms during patrol. Just helping Dick with a side quest.

You quietly say into the mic:

"Nightwing, your back left. Watch the ledge.

There's a loud grunt. Then a thud. Then a swear.

“What the- Capt?! Are you okay? Nightwing, do you copy?”

Dick wheezed through comms:

“Copy. I’m… I’m fine. My knee’s not. You need an autotone on comms next time, baby."

“Sorry, Capt. I didn’t mean to sound… deep?”

“You sound like shame. Like regret and temptation had a baby.”

A while later, you decided to bribe Dick with some drinks to forgive you after that incident. So you two are here. A nice cozy coffee shop in Bludhaven. Dick's favorite. You casually ask the barista:

"Can I get something warm in my hands tonight?"

And she dropped the shaker.

Dick sighed, grabbed your shoulders and speaks composedly:

"Listen to me. You’re not the problem. Albeit, You say that every time, I know. Yet, baby, your voice is. You sound like Gotham's favorite phone sex operator. Trust me, we can train it. We can use this for good."

"I was just ordering cocoa-"

"NO YOU WEREN’T. YOU WERE SEDUCING AN ENTIRE COFFEE SHOP. I COULD PUT YOUR VOICE ON MIC RIGHT NOW AND IT WILL BE RATED 21+ IN 37 COUNTRIES."

Chapter Text

It's a peaceful beautiful Saturday afternoon. You're in the manor living room, casually announcing:

“Alfred? I’m gonna go hang out with someone from school. They're picking me up in like ten. So I might be home late tonight. Don't wait up on me for dinner, boss.”

Alfred’s head slowly turns like a haunted doll. Damian lowers his sword in silence. Bruce just exhales like someone declared war.

“May I ask who they are, dear?” Alfred sighs as he places down his teacup.

“Oh it's my new best friend from school! We’ve been talking a lot lately. They’re really sweet. Funny. Smart. They said they like the sound of my voice.”

Damian rolls his eyes and mocks:

"Well apparently so does Satan, doesn't mean you should hang out with him."

Dick runs a full digital background check on your “friend.” He never felt this betrayed. You canceled the usual food runs with him for some civilian. Damian polishes throwing knives in the kitchen.

Jason? He has been noticing you texting more than usual, tilting the screen away, or hiding a grin. He’s not snoopy, but he doesn’t miss patterns.

"You have something up tonight, don't you?"

"Yeah I'm hanging out with my friend. How did you know?"

"Doesn't matter. You're not going. Lemme guess. They like your voice?"

"I'm not answering that. You're not going to sabotage my friendshi-"

"ANSWER ME OR I'LL START MANIFESTING. I'LL APPEAR IN YOUR DREAMS TO INTERROGATE YOU." He growls and grabs your collar.

"YES! YES, OKAY. CALM DOWN!!!" You go full panic and raise your hands up in surrender.

And that's it. Later, Jason is already halfway into a disguise and mumbles to himself:

“I’ll casually sit two tables away. If he breathes wrong, I’m shooting through the menu.”

Date time.

You show up looking adorable. Polite. Warm smile. A plain white T-shirt inside with an orange plaid shacket. Pairs of white sweatpants. Man, you look like someone who's about to ask him to go for a bowling game or something.

Your “friend” is clearly dressed up. He looks like he's about to model for Fashion Week. Basically a vest with trousers. In contrast, he looks like he's about to vow in a church along with the "Yes, I do" package.

All nervous and flushed.

You never saw him this way.

"Wow… Uh, you look cool tonight. Sorry for underdressing."

"No… it's okay. You look cute."

"Thanks?"

This is weird already.

The waiter calls it a 'date' and hands you a rose.

“Oh, haha, they must’ve misunderstood.”

“No, I… I requested it.”

You blink. Oh.

OH.

Meanwhile, at a table in the corner, Jason is behind sunglasses, dressing up in a proper dark blue shirt with a black waistcoat. The tie with diagonal stripes, even. Also a mustache for extra effects.

Dick is pretending to be a waiter. Every staff kinda knows but plays along with him because he looks illegally hot like that. He encounters a plethora of troubles overhearing your conversations. Other waiters were flooding him with numbers and flirts.

Damian is crouched under the nearby table, recording voice samples, listening in like it’s a black ops mission.

You barely make it through the date. You didn't even know that he was into you. Now you feel so guilty for being so oblivious. You heard gossips from friends that he is straight and basically you didn't see any sign. You swear he was being so casual and friendly. You feel like you just got a Batarang throwing at your face. This is… unpredictable. So anyways, you try to maintain things casual?

“Thanks for inviting me out. I really like your energy… it’s warm. Safe. Makes me wanna be close.” You mumble awkwardly.

Your date stops breathing.

YOU’RE JUST. BEING. NICE.

Jason rips out his ears out. Metaphorically.

“I CAN’T. I CAN’T DO THIS.”

Dick froze and groaned internally:

“He doesn't know that he was flirting. He's just... blessing that kid with that voice.”

Damian choked and whispered. “That voice must be neutralized. Immediately.”

Your "not so friend anymore" switches topics and asks about your family.

He hits the right spot.

You immediately go on a chilling and smiley mood while sipping a milkshake and going on a full 30-minute yapping.

Your “maybe accidental date??” looks dreamy-eyed, clearly smitten, and says:

“Your family sounds lovely. I’d love to meet them sometime.”

That was the worst sentence has ever been uttered in Gotham.

“Aww. I'm sure it will be fun.”

Across the diner, Jason chokes on his fries. Dick and Damian just go terrified.

You finally come home. Dick just casually asks if you had a nice time.

“I think we had fun? Albeit he looked like he was going to pass out?”

“Yeah totally not because "Wanna be close" part. Absolutely not a marriage proposal.”

“I said that to Alfred this morning? And how did you know I said that-”

Dick's hands have already been in his hair and he sighs.

“You don't need to know."

"Baby, your voice is a loaded weapon and you have the social awareness of a Labrador puppy.”

You sigh in a dramatic way as well.

"I need time to re-adjust. This voice just ruined everything."

A night or two later on, your "best friend" shows up at Wayne Manor, dresses their best and knocks. You run to open the door, grinning.

“Hi! Thanks for letting me come—"

Damian swings open the second door with his sword, unnecessary but it surely did scare someone. Simultaneously, Jason creeps up on your "date", smirking way too wide. He’s in full leather jacket, gloves on, arms crossed.

“So. You thought you could just walk in here and meet the baby of the family?”

Dick appears like a ghost, fake-smiling, towel slings over his shoulder like he’s just finished training.

“You sure this is a date, not a dare?”

Tim has already found your date’s Tinder account from 2020.

You go utterly delighted. Also, you forgot how creepy this is to normal civilians. You're 100% clueless and smitten when it comes to your brothers.

“Look! Everyone’s here!”

Your "bestie" has already sweating like he just ran a 10-kilometer marathon.

“Y–Yeah. Cool. Nice place.”

Jason grins way too hard:

“So what are your intentions, huh? Gonna take him out for a soda and some hand-holding? Real dangerous criminal activity you’re planning.”

“I’m just… I mean I really like him”

Jason just taunts and raises one eyebrow:

“Yeah. We all do. So watch your back.”

Well, your "friend" moves into another city because of "business" matters after that night. Ever wonder why?

Chapter Text

A dude finally convinces you to go out and touch some grass again. Well he's a little bit special here. Not some regular schoolmates. Let's not spoil the surprise. He said he could handle your family. You trusted him. You two dress like secret agents. All sunglasses, hats and detective coats. A ridiculous dress code but you found it funny, he spoiled you.

You arrive at the rooftop café and there’s already a table full of your brothers conveniently positioned nearby. Dick has binoculars set out. He can't handle being pestered for numbers again. Jason is in disguise again, pretending to be a janitor. Tim just sends you a text mid-laugh: “You just giggled. Are you in love now, blud?” Damian sent your date a warning letter before. Like a hitman contract. Sealed. Hand-delivered.

You raise one eyebrow and ask: “What’s wrong?”

He just rolls his eyes exasperatedly and smirks confidently:

“Your family is very present.”

Dick grunts and mumbles to himself from afar:

“He’s my baby sibling. I raised him. I watched him choking on the fries I bought.”

Eventually, you catch them.

You notice the same person at two different dates. And that stranger keeps glaring at your table. And the fact a suspicious phone number keeps bomb-texting your friend something like “If you dare to break his heart, I'm buying that building and breaking you into mush on every single floor.”, "You have a death wish or you're just genuinely imbecile?", "Even my cow knows better not to mess around with the Wayne boy you're sitting next to.".

Blah blah it's so lengthy, you won't even know. Your friend just screenshots the thread of threats in amusement, turns the silent mode on before you could question anything, goes back to smile and nods at whatever you are yapping about. Probably your family again. God, you really love your family, don't you?

You spin around mid-laugh to order again and see Jason duck behind a plant.

“OH MY GOD.”

You excuse yourself to the restroom.

The moment you get some space, you instantaneously text them.

You: "YOU HID BEHIND A PLANT FOR WHAT? CREEP."

Jason: “You’re 17, sweetheart. You can’t date until you’re 47. That’s the law.”

You look like you just aged 30 years. You can't deal with this nonsense so you move on.

Dick. Yeah you could figure it out because your friend occasionally did look at the nearby rooftop with a knowing smirk. Suspicious. Your intuition tells you that Dick is in this madness as well.

You: "Explain, brother."

Dick: “I literally birthed you, baby. You might be Bruce's legal son but you're my biological son. You laughed. I heard it first. That’s my laugh.”

Only God knows why your brothers text as if they are going to a bloody lunatic asylum together right now. You move on. Again.

Damian. You feel like bomb-texting is his style.

You: "I feel like you utilized a multitude of brain cells to send someone to hell by your dialect."

Damian: "Light work. I'm trying to save your day. Don't waste your time any longer, stupid. You need more training to reconsider your types. I'll erase his existence soon if he looks at you wrong. A thank you will be nice.”

That night you just barge in the manor, collapsed onto the couch, all dramatic and brooding:

“I can't even make friends again. My family sabotaged me.”

Alfred just tugs you some light blankets and offers some comfort biscuits and tea.

“You deserve someone who won’t fall in love with you just because you smiled at them once, sweetie.”

You didn’t mean to bring home a villain.

You just meant to bring home someone hotter, cooler, more put-together than your last date - someone who could keep up with your unpredictable hours, who didn’t flinch when you casually slipped into rooftop talk. (Or let's be honest he merely invited himself in. No silly coats, boots, hats and sunglasses this time.) You didn’t even notice the high-level red flags until Tim stopped chewing mid-bite at the kitchen counter and went, deadpan:

“Did you seriously bring that guy here?”

You blink, unaware.

“What do you mean? He’s nice.”

Tim points slowly at the man sitting in the living room, sipping tea like he owns it, all dangerous eyes and quiet confidence. Damian’s already halfway through pulling up a report.

“His ally is Penguin. He’s literally in our database.”

“Technically,” your "friend" calls back, still perfectly relaxed, “I retired two months ago. You can check the records, Damian.”

He even winks.

And then you protest profusely:

“You guys wanted me to date someone interesting. Someone with depth. Someone who ‘deserved’ the voice. Well. He has three PhDs, owns a gallery in Gotham, and used to run an underworld operation until I made him give it up for me.”

Tim sighs and hands you his phone.

"Here you go. Jason threatened me to call him if you dare to bring anyone home. Again."

Jason immediately blasts his voice through the mic.

“You made him give it up?? You pulled a villain from the abyss like some sexy redemption arc??? That’s MY move!!”

You arch a brow slowly. That deep voice rolls out, smooth as gravel and silk:

“Guess you’re not the only one who pulls strays, Todd.” You taunted him again. You called his last name. Not "Jason". Oh my.

Bruce walks in. Looks at you. Looks at the "guest". Looks at his sons already halfway into combat mode. Pauses. Blinks. Walks back to his room. He was a little bit over-confident when he thought he could handle you. Not another playboy in Wayne manor…

Alfred serves tea without comment.

Your "friend" compliments the tea set.

You are trying to be polite, now sit in the middle of a living room where Dick is quietly interrogating your date with his best Nightwing smile and death in his eyes. Yeah don't ask why he is here. Of course it's you who canceled the usual food runs with him, again. For some "friend". Jason is pacing and muttering curses under his breath like a broken NPC. He's also here. Begrudingly. He didn't take your taunt well. He's torn between strangling you and ending your "friend"'s life. Damian has left the room and returned with files. Tim takes one last look, just says before leaving:

“Dude. This is why we don’t let you outside.”

You finally groan and confess:

“I accidentally pull. I did NOT flirt. I didn’t even know he was into me until he tried to kiss my hand hours ago and said I had the voice of a corrupted angel.”

Jason throws a pillow at you. You dodged.

Dick blurts out:

“YOU THINK THAT’S NORMAL?? THAT’S A VILLAIN PICK-UP LINE!”

And "your supposed love interest now" is sipping calmly, just replies:

“I stand by it.”

Chapter Text

You’re just trying to get a snack in the kitchen, still vaguely stunned from the way your ex-villain friend kept complimenting everything about you in front of your brothers and made Alfred choke on his tea. You're mid-bite into a croissant when Jason grabs your wrist and hisses:

“We need to talk.”

You blink, croissant still in hand.

“Okay?”

He drags you into your room like it’s a hostage situation. He runs a hand through his hair like he’s been arguing with his knee for an hour already. You stare. He doesn’t say anything for two seconds then drops a missile:

“You need to stop bringing men hotter than me to family dinners.”

You choke.

“What?”

Jason’s whole expression twists. He's exasperated, wrecked, dramatic like he just found out his favorite antihero was rebooted badly.

“You heard me. It’s not fair. You already have the ‘deep tragic voice’ thing. You already say stuff like ‘I didn’t mean to turn him good, he just followed’ like it’s NORMAL. And now this guy?? Tall. Smug. Villain past. Good hair. He looks like he was built in a lab to seduce you out of my range.”

You blink, slowly.

“Jason… are you-”

“YES, I’m insecure, okay?! You used to hang out with me and I was the hottest in the room. That was my thing. I had trauma. I had messy hair and gun metaphors. And now you-” He doesn't even bother to act cool anymore. He's spiraling.

He cuts himself off, gesturing wildly.

“Now you show up with him, who reads poetry and has a mysterious face scar and talks like he narrates crime novels, and suddenly I’m not the main character anymore.”

You're genuinely astounded.

“I made friends with him because he likes cats and knows how to fold napkins?”

Jason stares at you like he’s been personally betrayed. As if you just told him "Oh you're the coolest, strongest, handsome antihero in Gotham. Still my second choice, though". Then he whines and slumps against the wall melodramatically, arms crossed, tilts his head back like this is his second villain origin moment.

“I can't compete with a reformed art thief with a six-pack and a tragic past, okay??? I shoot people. Badly. With emotion.”

A pause.

You squint. “Wait. Did you just say reformed art thief? You read his file?”

“I might have played his file aloud. While driving at 46 mph to here. Shut up.”

You raise one eyebrow and step closer.

“Jason. Jealous?”

He flinches like you pulled a trigger.

“I’m not jealous. I’m annoyed. I’m emotionally inconvenienced.”

“Uh-huh.”

“...Fine. I’m jealous. But only a little.”

“Mhm.”

He avoids your eyes.

“I was fine until he started saying you ‘brought light to the shadows in his soul.’ Who says that?? What is this, fanfiction??”

(Yes, unfortunately.)

Your smile twitches.

“Green-eyed monster.”

“Shut up. I’m still hotter. I have scars and sarcasm. Also, I read classic literature. That man probably moisturizes and listens to jazz.”

”You enjoy jazz too.”

”Shut up.”

Jason’s still fuming in the hallway, arms crossed, face flushed in that "I will punch my feelings into a wall" kind of way. You’re so done with his spiral and a little touched, honestly. So, you do what anyone would do in your position.

You lean forward, hold his hand solemnly and place a warm peck on his knuckles.

Just a soft little "You're still my favorite disaster" press of lips against skin.

Jason freezes.

Like. Completely.

No breath. No movement. Just static in his brain and a very loud Windows reboot tone in his soul.

“... What?”

You shrug. “To prove you’re still hotter.”

“Oh my goodness gracious.”

He blinks. His hand rises up like he’s been shot there. He’s not even angry anymore. He’s just spiraling with dignity.

“I’m gonna kill him.”

“Jason!”

"Fine. I'm just currently possessed by two monsters named emotional vulnerability and impulsiveness right now."

Because you both step back into the room where the ex-villain you accidentally pulled is lounging, all smug and smiles with ‘I almost stole the Louvre’ posture, and he looks up. Everyone else seems to get bored and leave already.

“You alright, Jason? You look flushed.”

Jason says nothing for a beat. Then, with zero hesitation:

“Yeah. My partner just kissed me. So I’m doing great, thanks.”

The room freezes.

You choke. “Jason???”

“What?” he mutters under his breath, low and too fast, super duper pleading. “Play along. Please. Just one minute. I’ll behave. I'll spare you the last burger bite. I'll let you ride- no, crash my motorbike next time. I'll let you toss my guns around to shut your alarm. I'll let you use my crowbars as your marsh mellow roaster. I'll even let you rename my last name Wayne. Anything. Just this time, pretty please, sweetheart.”

You narrow your eyes.

Then, with the world’s most dangerous smile, you slide your arm around his waist and lean into him.

“He gets like this when he’s possessive. Don’t mind him.”

Jason makes a sound that is somewhere between a gasp and a groan. His brain is off. God, you sound like a loving wife.

The ex-villain raises an eyebrow. “Possessive?”

You grin.

“He watched four hours of your interviews last night. He’s obsessed.”

“THAT'S NOT TRUE.”

“You took notes, babe.”

Your "supposed love interest but lost" just chuckles and leans back, clearly enjoying the meltdown. “Don’t worry, Red. I know when I’ve lost.”

And he walks off coolly.

"Also, call me if you change your mind. I'm always available."

Jason should be smug. Victorious. Relieved.

Instead, he’s short-circuiting again, still holding your waist like he doesn’t know how to let go.

“... Are we still pretending?”

You smirk. “Depends.”

“On what?”

You lean up to whisper near his jaw, just barely touching his ear—

“How long do you want me to keep calling you ‘babe’?”

Jason Todd is never the same again.

Of course, you're still playing along. Your arms thrown casually across his shoulders. (You did take considerable efforts. Height difference was height differencing. Thanks to his bad postures, you managed to succeed.) You are grinning like you married him out of spite.

Jason's still spiraling and holding it together by sheer willpower and sarcasm.

“You’re enjoying this too much.” he mutters under his breath, lips inches from your ear.

You hum.

“What gave me away?”

“You’re smiling like you’re about to commit tax fraud.”

You tap his chest playfully.

“That’s your influence, Jay.”

Not "Red". Not "Todd". Not "Jason". Not the casual "dude-who-drags-me-into-crimes." Not "brother". Not "grandpa with guns". Not even "hey idiot".

No. You dropped "Jay". With affection. Soft. Unbelievable. Intimate. Fatal. His world shattered. You called him Jay, like you're already in love, like he’s yours, like you trust him in ways he can’t even begin to deserve.

Jason Todd is not surviving this arc.

Silence.

His whole body stills.

“You never call me that,” he says, very quietly.

“What?”

His voice is soft now. Almost hoarse.

“You don’t just call me Jay. Not even when we mess around. You always keep it... jokey or affectionate.”

“I didn’t mean-”

But he shakes his head.

And looks at you like you just cracked open a part of him no one’s been allowed to see in years.

“Don’t take it back,” he says, voice breaks. “Don’t say it was a mistake.”

You stare at him. You didn’t mean to drop your guard, but the second you did, he folded. Everything performative melts off his face. The confidence. The arrogance. The smug retorts. All gone.

Just hope. Raw and stupid and dangerous.

You reach out, slowly brushing a lock of hair off his forehead.

He closes his eyes like he’s being blessed.

“Shit,” he breathes. “You can’t… say it like that and expect me not to-”

“To what?”

He opens his eyes. And smiles. Twisted. Honest. Broken.

“Fall in love with you for real.”

His breath is still ragged when you lean in closer than ever.

No teasing now. No fake bit. Just you. Just him. And the weight of every line you both crossed without saying it out loud.

His forehead dropped down to nuzzle against yours instinctively.

And in the softest, most damning voice imaginable, you whisper with a smirk:

“You said no dating until 47?”

Of course, you had to break the mood. You can't handle the tension.

Jason stops breathing.

Just stares at you like you personally insulted his entire bloodline.

“You little-” His voice breaks, jaw tightening. “Don’t… don’t do that.”

Jason is not okay. He is never recovering from this. His bones left his body. His trauma just walked out the room politely to give you two space.

You blink at him.

He looks wrecked.

“Don’t act like that was normal,” his tone wavers like he's trying to force the words out. “Like we didn’t both feel that hit like a fucking truck.”

You try to pull back to laugh, to defuse, to go back to your normal chaos.

But Jason’s hand grabs your wrist.

Not rough. Just desperate.

“Say it again.”

“Call me Jay again.”

"Please."

"Here I am. Your Jay."

You look at him. Eyes wide.

“Jason-”

“No.” His hands slip to your cheek and cup them like they are fragile.

“Say my name. Like you meant it. Like you did when you looked at me like I mattered. Like we have been together for a thousand year. Like we are meant to be in every timeline. Like we cared for each other before we know what 'care' is.”

You swallow. Something in your chest just cracks open.

“… Jay.”

His breath stutters.

“Fuck” he cursed.

“Don’t you dare to give me a taste of that if you’re just gonna take it back.”

You freeze.

“I’ve had years of people teasing me. Wanting the chaos. The bite. The thrill of playing with me like I’m disposable.”

Your voice is barely above a whisper now.

“I-”

He cuts you off. Not with a kiss. Not with a threat.

With a plea.

“Just tell me,” he breathes. “Tell me if I get to have this. If I get to be your Jay.”

You look at him.

And for once, you drop the act.

“You were always my Jay.”

He blinks once. Then grips your waist and yanks you into him like you belong there. It was rough, instinctive, chest rising fast. Both of you collapse onto the mattress. He embraces you like he married you 168 years ago.

You glance down at his hands, then up at his starving and vulnerable eyes.

He groans, head falling against your shoulder like it physically hurts.

Then Jason grabs your jaw, tilts your head, and doesn’t kiss you yet. He stares at your lips in a seething way

“If you’re gonna pretend we’re nothing again tomorrow.” he rasps.

“I need you to walk away right now.”

Yet he doesn't loose the grip just a bit. If anything, he grasps you impossibly closer like he's trying to imprint his soul into yours. He isn't taking a no.

And you sweet, evil little thing just sigh and brush your nose against his, whisper sacredly:

“Jay.”

That hits straight to his heart. God, that sounded like a promise and a confession at the same damn time.

You’re barely on the mattress before Jason’s weight sinks over you. Hot, heavy, shaking. Oops. You got pinned down. He’s still gripping your waist like if he lets go, he’ll wake up like it's a fever dream and this will have never happened.

“Say it again. Right here. I want the whole damn night to hear it.”

You squirm beneath him, flushed, fidgety.

But you started this. You whispered Jay. Basically that's your fault. No, a felony.

Anyways, you barely dated anyone. Never been this close to anyone. You could call this your first time. Yes, you are sharp and have high emotional intelligence. Yes, you have enough sarcasm and flirts to pull people. And yes, you can't still deal with the real thing.

So now you’re flustered out of your mind. Your eyes were darting everywhere except his. You’re practically vibrating under him now, face on fire.

Therefore, you try to hide, hands over his eyes, breath shaking.

And he snarls.

“No. No. No. NO. Sweetheart, don’t you dare to hide now.”

He grabs your wrists, yanks them gently from his face, and holds them pinned to the bed. His mouth is so close to yours now it’s barely bearable.

“Say it again. Let me keep it.”

He can't get enough, can he?

You tremble. Just a little. Swallow the internal panic. And murmur:

“Jay.”

That one word undid him more than any crowbar ever could.

“You keep saying that and I’m gonna do something you’ll never forgive me for.”

And that’s when you smirk. Just slightly.

“Try me.”

Chapter Text

Oh you thought things couldn't be any worse the moment you said that forbidden line?

Breaking news: Your family is back.

"Hey guys, I wondered why that poor dude came out with the most pitiful pouts and sighs-" Dick walks in and gets visibly and genuinely scandalized.

"OH MY GOOD LORD!!!? SERIOUSLY, DUDE?" Tim screamed.

You and Jason looks like you two were wrestling or committing homicide with passion as the motive. Specifically, he's recovering from a goddamn exorcism.

"I KNEW IT." Damian goes fully unhinged.

Bruce just stares as if his soul has left his body.

Jason still hovers over you, doesn't even flinch.

"They said 'Jay' in the voice. You know the one."

"I WAS CONFUSED. HE LOOKED ALL SOFT AND FOREHEADY AND MY VOICE DID THE THING-"

The whole room explodes. Metaphorically. Wouldn't want another Red Hood's villain origin arc.

"Nope. You don't get to brush it off. Mine."

Tim's standing by the door like he just watched a donkey give birth.

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN 'MINE'? YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO BE THE EMOTIONALLY DETACHED ONE-"

"Since when? I literally died. Gotta play unpredictable. There's no 'supposed' here."

Damian's already swore in Arabic.

"You have corrupted him. This is treason. The mattress must be burned. The floor is rotting-"

"Shut up, gremlin."

"You're in your twenties. He's SEVENTEEN."

"Technically legal. Ask Bruce. He adopted him."

Bruce just leans on the doorframe and stares into the abyss. He didn't sign up for this madness.

"I trained you. I fed you. I buried you. I gave you a chance to train Cipher properly."

"Aw, old man does care."

Jason mocks him. His weight is still crushing over you like a warm, immobile truck.

"You're banned from entering the manor."

"Fair. I don't promise not to lure your golden kid out, though."

Meanwhile, Dick is experiencing a psychological crisis in real time.

"Hold on… YOU CALLED HIM JAY???"

"I WAS LOSING MY MIND. HE GRABBED ME AND EVERYTHING WENT BLANK"

You deny it like the final hidden ultimate boss. You wicked little thing.

"Baby, I've known you for a year and you've never ever called me "Dickie". NOT EVEN ONCE."

"YOU WERE DATING KORI AND BARBS AT THE SAME TIME?!"

"Still. I deserve the voice."

"YOU DON'T GET THAT."

You finally wriggle out from under Jason and hiss. Jason grumbles and grabs your ankle.

"Don't run now. Say it again. Prove to them that you meant it, coward."

"I DIDN'T MEAN IT I SWEAR-" You lie without blinking.

"That's it. Bullshit. You're mine forever. No takebacks."

Jason groans and buries his face in your neck.

Later on, you're so so so done.

It's just you in the interrogation room, slouching in the world's most uncomfortable chair and dead inside. Across from you sits Bruce, grim-faced, drained, and flipping through a thick parenting book titled:

"What To Expect When Your Kids Date Each Other?"

He doesn't say anything, just turns another page.

"Dad…?"

He raises one finger, signing you to shut up.

"Okay but technically we're not blood-related-"

SLAM. The book closes.

"Technically." He repeats flatly.

You swallow in distress.

"You said love makes us strong."

"I also said don't date your siblings. Especially Jason. He's not the one for you. ANYONE IN OUR FAM COULD DATE WHOEVER THEY LIKE. NOT YOU. You're too unprepared for this, Robin. He will break you. And I won't let that happen to my child."

"Step-siblings." You mumble weakly.

Bruce narrows his eyes.

"Do. I. Look. Like. I. Care. About. The. Prefix?"

You pause. Guilt starts to eat you up. Your legs swing under the chair as you lean forward.

"I didn't mean to call him like that. It just came out. I was uhhhh… possesssed? And then he bit me back."

"HE WHAT?"

"Emotionally. Emotionally. Emotionally." You immediately backpedal.

Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose.

"I trained assassins. I fought gods. I survived everything. But nothing prepared me for this."

He opens the book again, points to a paragraph.

"If your adopted children begin exhibiting mating behaviors, maintain calm and establish safe emotional boundaries. Is mating in the room with us?"

"NO."

"Okay. Good. Do I need to separate you two in the field? Like different cities or different zip codes. Different planets if I could swing it."

"Isn't that a little bit excessive… dad?"

"He said 'mine' in front of your brothers."

You blink innocently.

"That could be anyone."

"Our manor has surveillance."

"Well… that happened, dad."

"No more brothers. No more Jason."

"BUT DADDDD… He called me his comfort crime wife. I was his peace, his downfall and all the bits. He needs me." You whined.

Bruce just stares deadly, slowly reach for another book labeled:

"How To Discipline Grown Children Without Growing To Prison 101."

You lean forward even more with those lovely begging eyes.

"Dad?"

"What."

"You're still gonna love me even when I ruined your legacy, right?"

"Unfortunately yes. I'll just have to… adjust my expectations, son."

You brighten immediately like someone just handed you the ultimate wildcard of breaking the laws of physics.

"So Jason can still come to Thanksgiving?"

"No."

"… Christmas?"

"Absolutely not."

"Valentine?"

"IF HE DARES TO SHOW UP ON VALENTINE, I'M LAUNCHING YOU TO THE MARS."

And there you go, you get voice probation from Bruce. Specifically, you don't get to speak to Jason until further notice. You break the ban sometimes because Jason whines too much about it.

Chapter Text

The night wraps the city with velvety darkness. Two lone vigilantes move in rhythm from rooftops to alleys.

You are raving about the SA(sexual assault)-related articles you read this morning to Nightwing.

You look up to his mindset. A lot. Excluding all the times he makes his “traught, whelmed and feeling the aster” jokes, he’s someone really nice for you to talk matters with comfortably.

You go on expressing how deeply you beef with those sexist and victim-blaming headlines, how concerned and powerless you resonate with the assaulted ones.

“Oh my burger lord. How could they put up with that? Imagine seeing yourself on the headlines the next morning after you were raped with something so bullshit like ‘wOmaN DidN’t tAke SElf-defEnsE CLaSSes, GOt mUgGEd’. and ‘hIS gYmtIMe dIDn’T sAVE hIM, cRIeD tOO hOT, gOT muGGEd’. What the helly? Can you believe that? Gotham is so fucked up.”

Silence.

He averts his eyes.

Not shame.

He looks… uncomfortable.

Normally he should have said something, at least a sigh and some comments like “Gotham is Gotham, baby.”

He adjusts his gloves and fiddles with his escrima sticks.

You can see his jaw tightening and lips pressing together for a second.

Something is wrong.

He’s not this quiet.

Never.

He regains his composure swiftly, as if you were just seeing things. He clears his throat and laughs softly. It’s discreetly shaky.

“Yeah, absolute bullshit. Wanna grab burgers after this, champ?”

You blink in awe.

You’re not letting this go.

Nevertheless, you know better not to push it. Not when you don’t know enough. Not yet.

You will find out later by yourself.

“Sure, brother.” you reply heavily.

Time elapsed slowly. It’s been a week.

A week of extra hard work.

You found out about his therapist notes mentioning assaults Dick never spoke about. It’s vague. You came across them while helping him sort out his files, paperwork and to-do lists. The words just flung to your eyes.

He blinked too fast when you once mentioned “spider”.

He hesitated slightly when passing certain rooftops.

You dived in police files and mission logs.

You connected the dots.

Your incredible insight feels like a curse and a blessing simultaneously right now.

Because you guessed all of it. Pretty much of the ugly truth.

It won’t be an exaggeration that you are getting secondhand traumatized.

You can’t think straight right now.

You read everything again and again.

Nonetheless, sweetheart, reading the same book twice won’t change the ending.

You want to intellectualize this as always.

You want to channel your rage and pain to something more controlled and reasonable.

You take deep breaths, walk around, distract yourself with music and doodles, throw things. Nothing works. Usually it should work.

You are breaking.

You’re too emotional right now. You know it.

Yet you can’t bring yourself to stop.

You find yourself walking to his apartment.

Your tears have already streaming down your face without your permission. God, you’re a crybaby. This is too much for a 17 pup like you.

You can’t see things clearly.

Blurry.

So annoying.

You don’t want to talk to him with emotional vulnerability.

You want him to see you more than a small crying brother who needs cuddles and chips.

Therefore you stop yourself in front of the door, wipe tears and sigh exasperatedly.

It takes a while.

Half an hour or so.

You finally knock.

Dick opens the door in surprise.

“Hey, you’re early for patrolling today, baby.”

He looks too chirpy. That breaks you. Hence, you kinda tear up again.

“Wow wow calm down. I’m here. Did Jason eat your last burger again? Or Bruce was too harsh on you? Come in, birdie. Just tell me and your big bro will give you justice!!! Or juice. Depends on the mood.”

He smiles faintly and coos you in.

You just give him the most crooked smile and sniff, sit on his couch like you own the place. Yeah you... kinda do. He even gave you the keys.

He pats your back smoothly, sighs, tilts his head, waits patiently for you to speak up.

“I knew about it.” Your voice is terribly hoarse.

“About what?”

You can’t find proper words to utter. Thus, you pull out all of the notes you have been taking to him.

He pauses patting your back and reads the notes.

A beat.

His eyebrows furrowed.

“First of all, you’re… too good for your own good. Secondly, something happened I’d rather not to talk about.”

“Did you really blame yourself on that? I feel like that’s a Dick Grayson thing to do.”

You scoff and cross your arms. Your breaths are erratic. You don’t like it.

“Don’t push it.”

“DON’T DISMISS THIS.” You snap.

You’re hurt. You love him too much to know things that he has been through, to see him like this, to feel him.

“It is what it is. It passed. Move on, baby.”

He sighs and ruffles your hair in an attempt to calm your nerves.

“DON’T YOU ‘BABY’ ME. I’M NOT A CHILD. I’M YOUR BROTHER. I DON’T WANT YOU TO-“

He cuts you off.

“I’m fine now. I’m Nightwing, remember? Your brother is strong enough to move on.”

“Why won’t you let me in? Don’t SHUT ME OUT. I CARE. I wanted to be there for you so badly it hurts. And just because you think you’re strong, perfect, the leader who calls the shots, you have the authority to tell me to… stand there and pretend that nothing happened?”

“It won’t change anything. I don’t feel like talking about this. Juice?”

There he goes again. Composed. Acts like you’re just a little kid throwing a tantrum over toys.

“Fine.” You sigh, knowing this won’t lead to anywhere.

Later on, you use resentment strategically in confrontations mid-patrol. You tease Dick about his “perfect coping.” You even mock his calm when he’s frustrated or tired, just to see the tiniest cracks.

“Wow, if self-blame was an Olympic sport, you’d have more gold than Michael Phelps.”

“Should I start a shrine in your honor? For bearing the weight of every bad thing ever?”

“Oh no, it’s all your fault, isn’t it? The sun rose too hard this morning, probably your fault too.”

“Yeah, because obviously, the world revolves around your mistakes.”

“Captain Self-Blame Supreme strikes again.”

“Oh yeah, definitely, it was all you. The stock market crash, the weather, global politics - obviously your doing.”

“I can’t believe how ‘irresponsible’ you are… to yourself, apparently.”

Subsequently for a week.

Every single time he just cracks jokes to laugh it off or rolls his eyes playfully.

He knows that you care enough. You’re a sharp and protective child. He’s proud. He feels deeply loved.

However, he feels so guilty that you’re carrying so much emotional weight for him. He should be the one who protects you, not the other way around.

“If I let him in, I’ll break him or I’ll break down. Bludhaven needs me.”

He repeats bitter reminders to himself every single time he meets your eyes. They captivate him. They make him feel like home. Safe, warm, trustworthy.

He knows your resentment is justified but he can’t spill everything.

He feels trapped.

He feels and he never hates to feel this much.

It’s overwhelming him.

This love isn’t for him. He shouldn’t let himself drop his guard.

“Move on.”

He tells himself that every time.

His mind is ready, but his heart isn’t.

“Don’t defile things. You’re fine.”

He never thought the love coming from his family could ruin him magnificently like this.

He never expected understanding. He never thought of that. All he did was thinking how to cope.

He’s scared of losing everything. He knows that the moment he opens up, he will never be the same anymore.

He took intense late-night training till his body passed out in exhaustion to move past that point desperately.

He patrolled excessively, flashed through alleys and rooftops endlessly, like he’s trying to outrun the flood of memories.

He took breathing exercises, cold showers and ice treatment.

He repeated affirmations silently.

He tried journaling to process things he couldn’t talk about.

He wants to feel controlled. Especially after everything.

He was doing just fine to cope.

But was he doing fine to permit himself to be loved on the worst nights? Just once?

Absolutely not.

It’s excruciatingly cruel.

Sure thing Nightwing never crashes, but what about Dick Grayson? Isn’t it unfair to dismiss Dick Grayson? He’s just as human as anyone else.

Traumas didn’t break him.

Yet genuine care is unraveling him in every conceivable way.

And he doesn’t wish any other way.

You get sick of it. His effortless snickers whenever you bring it up.

He pays great attention, nods and calmly goes:

"You practiced that line for me? Appreciate that, baby."

PURE RAGEBAITING.

You snapped.

Your voice drops hard, basically growling, teetering on the edge of tears:

“Bring me to therapy with you next time. I DARE YOU. I wanna be with you. Fix the damage and all the bullshit. AND EVEN IF YOU DON'T, JUST WAIT AND SEE ME CRAWL INTO YOUR HEART. Once I'm in there, I ain't letting go. I'll turn it into my home. I have got ALL THE TIME in the world JUST. FOR. YOU. You don't need to suffer everything alone. I’m not your baby. I’m your brother. You taught me that family makes our strength. SO ACT LIKE IT. I’ll be resentful for you. I DON'T need you to change. Just… please…"

Dick’s heart clenches. The world feels smaller somehow, the weight of his guilt pressing down. A shaky, soft laugh escapes him - half disbelief, half pain. His eyes glimmer with unshed tears, and for the briefest instant, he’s exposed.

He doesn’t speak much. He can’t.

“I’ll try… for us.” he whispers eventually, barely audible and nods.

He forces himself to blink, to regain composure. His chest is still aching. The tiny cracks in his armor are all the acknowledgment he can give.

And that's all you need.

Chapter Text

"Use your voice for good." Bruce said with the disappointed dad’s sighs after seeing you come back home with a load of numbers notes all over you again.

Your family did get used to your voice change, not your peers, though. Your gravel voice did cause a lot of issues for you at school. You made it to 7 days of continuously walking home like a mummy with love notes. You don’t really… know how to turn down people. Softie. Hence you smiled politely, nodded, enabled mates, which worsened the tragic situation.

So anyways, you attempt to actively weaponize it… with dad-joke-tier pickup lines. Because honestly? You could only flirt selectively. Apparently, it only works smoothly with Jason. If you were asked to flirt with girls, your head would malfunction and perhaps explode.

In a random Tuesday’s morning, Bruce walks in, sipping coffee, only to freeze when he hears:

“Hey… are you French? ‘Cause Eiffel for you.”

Damian (who was halfway through a sandwich) chokes violently.

Tim peeks around the corner, eyes wide.

“What. The. Hell.”

“What? I’m practicing. Bruce said use my powers for good.”

Damian snorts:

“That’s not good, that’s evil. That’s war crime level evil.”

Mission night time!

You corner the target at an abandoned warehouse, stepping into his space.

“Do you have a map? ‘Cause I just got lost… in your eyes.”

You utter awkwardly. But your voice saves the day.

The man drops his gun. His gun.

Damian grumbles over comms:

“Oh my god he’s surrendering to bad flirting. Father, are you hearing this?”

“It’s… effective. Keep going.”

“Keep going?!”

Another night. Probably taking down some criminals with Jason.

“Hey miss, do you believe in love at first sight? Or should I walk by again?”

You gulp, rub your head nervously, hoping this will work on her.

That mugger visibly blushes.

Jason facepalms and huffs:

“That’s it. We’re breaking up. You’re banned. Forever.”

You tilt your head and object defensively:

“We’re not even dating.”

Jason glares at you and opposes fiercely:

“YET.”

He gives you the most annoyed grunt when he grants the mugger a roundhouse kick to the ground, disarms her partner’s guns with his crowbar in just one sling and cuffs them all in 4 seconds.

“Do you even know what you’re doing to people?” He narrows his eyes while bemoaning with you.

“Yeah. It’s called ‘villain pacification.’”

“Pacification my ass, you’re seducing the entire rogue gallery. Next thing we know, Black Mask’s gonna be sending you flowers and I’m killing someone.”

“So… jealous?”

Jason shoots you a dirty look.

“… Say ‘Jay.’ See what happens.”

Exactly 3 days later, Jason is so fed up with your “villain pacification” skill that he hatches the dumbest, most Jason Todd plan ever: go undercover as a Gotham rogue just to “prove” your voice won’t work on him.

You’re sent ahead on reconnaissance. Dark alley. Foggy. So early in the morning. A tall figure in a full combat suit with all fancy gears, extra skull mask steps out of the shadows.

Jason deepens his voice like a bad mob in the final battle:

“Well, well, well. Look who wandered into my turf.”

You blink.

“… Jason?”

“It’s not Jason, kid. I’m RED X. The meanest son of a-”

You interrupt, stepping closer with that warm, sweet, deep tone:

“Mhm. Dangerous. I like that in a man, Jay.”

Jason freezes at the familiar pet name.

“… NO. I’M-”

You lean in casually than this is supposed to be:

“So… Red X. Got a map? ‘Cause I think I’m lost in your eyes.”

Jason physically stumbles back.

Tim shouts over comms:

“Robin, situation report.”

“In position. Hostile spotted.” You reply flatly.

“Stand by. We will be right there soon. Out.” Tim breathes out.

“Roger.” You chuckle darkly.

Jason scoffs, closes the distance in a blink, eating the gap in two strides. He snatches your mask, hooks the mask on just one finger and twirls the mask around idly and carelessly, like he was bored of it already.

“Feeling naked without this? You’re gonna hit me, or just keep pouting and whining to your family? Thought you wanted to be a big hero, kid. Pretty eyes, by the way.”

“Thanks, our children will have these eyes. You could have it as your emotional support souvenir. I don’t need a mask to beat you up anyways.”

With a flick of the wrist, you fling the batarang in Jason’s way. He dodges it just in time and tosses your mask back crooked. You catch it swiftly.

“TAKE THE DAMN MASK OFF BEFORE I LOSE IT, JAY.”

He flinches. God, that name wrecks him so much. Every damn time. No, not that name, you are the one who could make it extremely devastating.

He hurls a smoke bomb at the ground, and the alley is drowned in a choking cloud.

“Don’t try that on me again. I have a reputation to keep, kid. Until next time.”

You cough haphazardly. Your throat burns. Your eyes sting. This is pure evil.

Capsaicin.

You pull out the comms again.

“Visual’s burned. Repeat. Visual’s burned. Fast.”

Basically five minutes later, behind a shipping crate, Jason’s got you pinned against the wall, mask half-off, voice low and rough:

“You… shut up. This was supposed to prove I’m immune. Not-”

“Not what, Red?” You taunt and raise one eyebrow.

“Not make me wanna-” He cuts himself off, groaning into your shoulder “God, stay away from me. I’m allergic to happiness and blessings from heaven.”

You just grin.

“So… I win, brother?”

“… Whatever, sweetheart.”

Chapter Text

It’s so early in the morning. You slump over the counter in the kitchen, hands in your hair, whine to Alfred on a random Tuesday.

“Boss, there’s gotta be a way. I can’t walk to school without getting a phone number. I was just ordering coffee and the barista slipped me her Instagram handle.”

Alfred doesn’t even look up from buttering toast.

“You are, unfortunately, afflicted with The Voice, Master Cipher. There is only one humane solution.”

He pulls open a drawer and shows… the sleekest, black leather muzzle you’ve ever seen. Gold fastenings. Somehow it looks like it was stolen from the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The best part? It could also alter your voice to the usual pre-puberty tone in just one button. High tech. Sure thing you’re in love with it from the first sight.

“This is ridiculous.”

“And yet, sir, you are already wearing it.”

You glance at the toaster reflection.

…

Yeah, you look dangerously good. Too good.

“I really appreciate the personalized gift, Alfred. You made my day.”

“You’re welcome, sweetie.”

Ten minutes later, you are packing your schoolbag when Damian walks in mid-sip of his juice.

“The hell-” chokes “NOPE. Absolutely not. Take that off before someone catches feelings.

You roll your eyes and click your tongue:

“Tch… And by ‘someone’, you mean yourself, brother?”

Ouch.

At that exact moment, Damian snaps and lunges at you while cursing in Arabic. You taunt him back in Vietnamese and try to dodge (and fail miserably). Of course, both of you don’t have the slightest idea of what exactly the other is saying. Yet, you two could guess based on the tone. Probably Damian is cursing about how you’re so full of yourself, insufferable, mouthy when you’re praising him passionately with the sweetest smile ever.

Tim just lays from the couch idly:

“Is it wrong that I kinda want one now? Hey, you’re not wearing that to school, are you?”

“Of course not. I’m not that ready to be mummified, Tim.”

You try your best to shout back while trying to untangle Damian’s death grip on your throat.

Alright, of course your wearing the muzzle outside just… amplifies the chaos.

You step into Gotham’s humid night, leather gleaming under the streetlights.

You’ve suited up already, all neat and nice, ready to find Jason in the usual alley.

The first problem?

Apparently, a mysterious masked figure with a ridiculously nice jawline draws even more attention than your voice.

Three blocks later, two goons in a back alley whistle as you pass.

“Yo, what’s with the Hannibal Lecter drip? You tryna kill us or-”

You turn, tilt your head, and let out a single muffled chuckle.

Both freeze. One drops his cigarette.

“Yeah. Nope. Not worth it.” They run.

Your voice comes out muffled, low, and somehow even hotter.

Jason’s tapping his shoe impatiently against the floor while leaning on the wall. Arms crossed. Scowling.

“WOW? You wore it outside, kid? Do you have any idea how many people will text me asking if I’m dating Gotham’s new ‘Hot Serial Killer’?”

You try to take it off, but his hand shoots out to stop you.

“… Actually. Keep it on.”

“Kinky.” You scoff and sneer at him.

“Guilty as charged. Move your ass. We’re wasting our time on Fashion Week, pup. Gotham still needs some saving tonight.”

He ruffles your hair briefly as he tugs you along affectionately.

EMERGENCY MEETING.

Bruce doesn’t even wait for everyone to sit down. He’s standing at the head of the table, jaw tight, holding his phone like it personally offended his parents with 43 kinds of death jokes.

Bruce: “We have a problem.”

Tim: “Yeah, Dick’s been posting thirst traps again-”

Bruce: “… Not that. Worse. This.”

He projects the photo on the screen.

It’s you.

On some random Gotham news blog.

Full leather. Elegant muzzle. Head turned just enough that the light hits your eyes.

The headlines pop up like a horror movie.

‘The New Dark Prince of Gotham? The newest Robin Stuns Locals.’

“The Bat With the Voice: Who is Gotham’s New ‘Sonic’ Weapon?”

“He said Good evening, Miss. I said my bank account PIN.” – A Local’s Account of Vigilante Encounter”

Dick: “Okay, first of all, WOW”

Damian: “You look like you walked straight out of a fanfiction. Burn it.”

Tim’s just laughing under his breath.

“I told you not to give them ‘dangerous romance novel cover’ energy.”

Bruce just sighs in every possible language.

“This is why I told you: ‘No unsanctioned modifications to your uniform.’”

You whine dramatically and give Bruce the most glassy eyes ever.

“It’s… a safety precaution, daddd. Alfred’s idea.”

Alfred calmly sips tea and utter:

“Indeed, sir. I assumed it might tone down the… effect.”

Bruce facepalms in resignation: “It did the opposite.”

Dick leans forward and points at you like you committed war crimes.

“Here’s the breaking news. Some punk tried to follow them home last night. And not even to rob them, JUST to ‘hear them talk again.’ That’s a real quote.”

You raise your hands defensively.

“I didn’t even say anything! Just… ‘Have a nice night.’”

Damian slaps a file on the table. Inside were seven different candid photos of you in the muzzle, all clearly taken without your knowledge.

Bruce sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose so hard that it could almost merge the mask with his nose.

“Effective immediately. No more wearing the muzzle outside without proper allowances. And no practicing your… voice tricks without supervision.”

Dick smirks too fast:

“Supervision? Yeah. I volunteer.”

Days later are golden.

Dick drags you to a gala as his “partner” for an intel grab.

Your only job? Talk to the target.

“Lovely evening, isn’t it?”

The guy’s already spilling offshore bank account numbers like he’s reading a grocery list.

Dick nearly chokes on his champagne. Yep, he’s already planned to put you in every hostage negotiation.

Jason insists on teaming up with you just to “make sure you’re not abusing your powers.”

Translation: He doesn’t want anyone else hearing that voice. That frequency range is his.

And he’s making sure rogues only talk to you through intermediaries. Also, anyone who enjoys your voice too much will get his dead glares.

Damian has already had your voice lines recorded in six different languages.

It’s Wayne Gala Night. You’re dressed like Bruce’s picture-perfect adopted kid: sharp suit, baby face, polite smile. Nobody suspects anything.

And then… you greet one socialite’s daughter with a casual:

“Glad you could make it tonight.”

The hot voice kicks in. She drops her champagne glass. Her father starts bidding for charity at triple the price. Damian has already been at your side like a bodyguard on a caffeine drip, staring down every rich man in the room.

You try to keep it “polite.” Except when an old lady says she misses the waltz, and you go:

“Then allow me the honor, ma’am.”

She swoons and faints in your arms. Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose for the 12th time of the day.

The next morning Bruce just slides a note across the breakfast table:

“You’re not attending any public Wayne events until you learn to control it.”

You groan and text Jason about it. The worst decision ever. Everything you receive is:

“Good. Now it’s just me who gets to suffer.”

Another Sunday when you’re crouched on a rooftop, just trying to redirect some runaway kids to safety. So you say, all soft and deep:

“Hey buddy, let’s get you out of here. You’re safe now.”

Next thing you know every single kid in a block radius is following you like baby ducks. Some have never even met you before.

You just became the accidental Piper of Gotham.

By the time you get back to the bike, Jason’s crossing his arms and glaring at your entire tiny army.

“You kidnapped them.” He accused.

“No, they followed me??? AND WHAT DO I NEED KIDS FOR? I’M NOT BATMAN.”

“Uh-huh. That’s what every Disney villain says before the news segment airs.”

Later when you report the situation to Bruce, he just goes:

“From now on, you don’t talk to minors unsupervised.”

Damian just smirks and shoves you mockingly.

“Father, that’s a wasted opportunity. We could deploy him as a child recruitment asset.”

Tim just sighs and replies exasperatedly:

“Or a crime magnet.”

Chapter Text

Dick’s scrolling one night, probably supposed to be doing monitor duty, when your profile pops up on his feed. He freezes, squints at the tiny circle icon, and goes:

“… wait. Wait, is that-”

It’s him. Not Nightwing, not Robin. Dick Grayson mid-blink, mouth half open, hair sticking up like he just got electrocuted. And it’s cropped badly.

He zooms in. Zooms out. Blinks. His whole soul leaves his body.

“Are you serious?? THIS? Out of every picture???????????”

He immediately calls you. Doesn’t even text first. And when you pick up laughing, he’s full exasperated big-brother-but-also-flustered energy:

“WHY ARE WE DOING THIS TO ME? That’s not even me, that’s… that’s a crime scene photo!”

He grabs his hair, groans so loud his neighbor hears from down the block and paces like he’s about to give a TED Talk on betrayal.

The more you laugh, the more he spirals. But he can’t stop smiling while you’re wheezing, because deep down, Dick loves that you’re obsessed enough to collect his worst moments.

(He sounds whipped. I know.)

Later, when he sees you updated it again with an even worse picture (maybe him sneezing, or making some unholy patrol face), he’ll drop his head in his hands like:

“I swear, one day I’m going to change your password. You’re evil. Pure evil.”

And of course, he’ll secretly screenshot it so he can groan about it to Alfred.

Oh he thinks that was all? The next morning when he wakes up, every single platform (TikTok, Insta, Twitter, Facebook, even Discord) has different cursed pictures of him as your profile. Specifically?

TikTok: Robin-era Dick mid-cartwheel, eyes half closed, looking like a possessed cheerleader. (You did delve into Bruce’s mission records years ago for this. Dedicated.)

Insta: Nightwing caught mid-sneeze, mask crooked, looking like he’s crying. (You carried a mini camera for the last mission near your chest.)

Twitter: A blurry paparazzi shot of Dick yawning with food in his mouth. (You took this while having a pizza night with him last Saturday.)

Facebook: Him laughing so hard his face looks distorted. (Bribed Tim with the intel you got for this picture.)

Discord: Dick from a circus photo (HOW DID YOU EVEN GET THAT???), over-edited with Comic Sans “Slay XD” on it.

Jason lives for this. He instantly signs up for accounts to follow you all just to see the next drop. He starts DM’ing you suggestions:

“Use the one where he faceplanted off the grappling hook.”

“Oh oh, remember when he tripped over Bitewing? GOLD.”

He even makes burner accounts to spam-like your avatars. Whenever Dick complains, Jason just shrugs:

“Talk to your PR manager. Oh wait, that’s Cipher.”

Damian tries so hard to be neutral but he cannot stop snorting. Like, he’ll be drinking juice, see your avatar update, and choke. He has a whole folder labeled “Cursed Dick Pics – curated by Cipher.”

“Tt. Pathetic. Who wastes their time with such trivial nonsense?” He mumbles and goes back to deadpan mode after 4 minutes of choking on his own juice.

Bruce walks past you scrolling your feed with Dick’s cursed avatar beaming on every app and goes:

“At least you’re… consistent.”

He’s immune to your chaos now. He tries to. Yeah, or he thinks so.

Dick tries to protest and complain to Bruce in text:

“Bruce, mind your kid’s business. I have a reputation to keep. I’m physically succumbing to death.”

“It could be worse. At least they didn’t use any of my photos.” Bruce replies casually.

Dick can’t escape it. Every time he opens an app, it’s his own dumb face staring back at him, distorted, blurry, embarrassing. He swings between “TALK TO MY LAWYER LATER, MURDERER. AND I’M CHANGING YOUR PASSWORDS.” and “You’re obsessed with me. Admit it. I’ll take you to dinner tonight if you apologize and delete them permanently.”

Unfortunately, the more he fights, the worse it gets because you start picking uglier photos every time he complains.

He’s begging and whining to you every single mission:

“Please. Please just one nice one. ONE. I’m literally begging you.”

One Thursday night, he's barely recovering from all of your mischief. Jason just sends him a screenshot:

It’s your Tinder profile with a picture of him in full Nightwing suit looking horrified because one bird just pooped on his fabulous hair in that one mid-patrol chase, one eye’s closed, the other one’s not like he just got hit by a bus in the most dramatic pose.

Caption: “Looking for my partner in crime <3”

Dick nearly faints.

He storms into your room after a 30 minute drive from Bludhaven like a scandalized woman clutching pearls:

“ARE YOU CATFISHING PEOPLE WITH MY FACE??”

“Not catfishing, it’s advertising, Capt. Free promo for the most beautiful man alive.” You reply blatantly, still swinging your feet like it’s just a normal Thursday and don’t even bother to turn around and pay a glance at him.

“THAT’S the picture you chose? Out of ALL the photos of me??? BABY, YOU GOTTA COME UP WITH SOMETHING LIKE ‘I LOVE YOU SO MUCH SO I DID THAT OUT OF LOVE’ OR I’LL NEVER GO ON FOOD RUNS WITH YOU EVER AGAIN.”

“Number one, it’s funny. Number two, you act as if you hadn’t been ragebaiting me for weeks. Last but not least, I do love you, brother.”

He short-circuits. Half exasperated, half pink in the face.

Jason texts you right away:

“Has Grayson arrived yet? Leave it be. Anyone who falls for that deserves to be scammed. I wanna see how many matches you get.”

The worst part is that people actually hype about the profile. You finally turn around and show him 41 matches you got in the previous 2 hours. Dick’s brain explodes. Metaphorically. You’ve known it already.

“… I don’t know whether to be offended or flattered.”

That’s not even the end. Every day he wakes up with a text from you. FIRST.

“Good morning, Capt. I hope you stumble on your toes at 11:47 today mid-lunch and drop all over the food on the floor.”

“Morning, sunshine. I hope your fingers get those weird fiberglass splinters over your toes on next Thursday evening. Specifically 7:31 p.m. And ones on your fingers on Saturday morning when you were trying to make coffee at 9:26 in the morning.”

“Hi. I hope that both your pillow’s sides are uncomfortably warm.”

“Hello. I’m just here to say you’re like Apple. You update every time but nothing changes.”

“Say hi to the only blessing in Bludhaven. Are you Netflix? Because you’re full of dramas and don’t know when to end.”

“I hope your eyebrows wiggle when you lie.”

“I hope you always lose your right sock.”

“I hope that you lose one of your earbuds in your sleep.”

“I hope the seams of your pajamas are itchy. ALL NIGHT.”

“I hope your charger only works at a certain angle.”

“Have the day you deserve, Grayson.”

“I’m so jealous of the people that don’t know you. Another day. Another win for them.”

“I don’t like you. You’re going bald. Again.”

“I hope you walk in a room and forget why you walked in there.”

“Ignore all the positive comments about you.”

“I hope your calendars are all Mondays.”

“I hope your socks will never be dry.”

“I hope your mind will replay all of your cringe memories at 11:34 at night mid-patrol next Monday.”

“I hope every fart of yours lingers and sounds soupy.”

“I hope you step on legos at 4:29 p.m next Tuesday.”

“I hope your popcorn will be stuck in your teeth every time”

“I hope your shoes will have tiny rocks or inexplicable sand.”

“I hope you always forget groceries at the store.”

"I hope the barista always gets your order wrong."

"I hope that there is always a small nail spicule split from your right thumbnail.”

He feels targeted and amused reading all of those. You’re like a “mildly uncomfortable curses” generator every morning.

Worth it.

Anyways, you didn’t just randomly decide to humiliate him across the internet, you had a petty villain origin story.

Dick stole your food.

It was that on one Wednesday when you had to return to Gotham for Bruce’s immediate call. You told him not to eat that last shrimp burger you had specifically saved. He swore. You trusted him.

Wrong move.

You came back two hours later at his apartment and checked for the burger. It’s gone. He swore he wasn’t the perpetrator, then grinned with grease still on his cheek. You swore vengeance.

He left you on read.

Not once, not twice, like five times in a row. And you knew damn well he saw it because you watched him typing in the group chat. He even texted you “k” with no context at midnight.

He tried to give you dating advice.

And his “advice” was basically: “Just be more like me.” BRUTAL. You took that personally.

He wouldn’t let you drive the Batmobile.

You asked once. He laughed. The next day, his ugly (basically bald) haircut when he was Ric was your TikTok icon.

He ditched you mid-mission to flirt.

He swung off to charm someone while you were still fighting 7 goons AT THE SAME TIME.

He roasted your music taste.

Dick made one joke about your playlist being “Eh? Tik Tok music. Bleh. That sucks, kid.” and suddenly every Facebook friend of yours got to see a picture of him mid-sneeze.

He made fun of your height. And your combat stance. And your shrimp burger addiction. And your obsession with rocks. Whatever it was, he smirked while doing it.

He borrowed your charger and “forgot” to give it back. Six times.

He invited you over after a late-night patrol. Yet he hogged the shower. He took two hours to shower, used up all the hot water, and came out singing. You got in the shower at 3:26 in the morning.

He offered to “help” wash your uniform at 4 a.m but it’s wrinkled because he folded it in the worst way possible and he had the nerve to say you’re welcome.

He spoiled your movie at 5 a.m. You were mid-binge, and he casually dropped a spoiler while stretching.

You two ended up dozing off on the couch. And somehow he took ALL the space. Diagonal. Like a cat. You slept with the mattress.

He ate your dinner. Again. He was munching with his puffed cheeks and then went “Man, I don’t see it. Where could it possibly go? Poor kid just wants his dinner.”

He tricked you into doing the most lengthy and boring paperwork.

He told you “it’ll only take five minutes” and vanished for two hours.

He wouldn’t stop saying circus puns.

“High stakes? That’s nothing compared to the trapeze!”

You wanted to scream.

He deliberately sabotaged your order. He went “Don’t worry sugarplum, I’ll go grab it” and came back with black coffee when you explicitly asked for oat milk, 3 pumps of vanilla.

He beat you at Mario Kart. By cheating. He choked you with his arms around your neck at the last second and celebrated like he’d won the Olympics.

He laughed at your sneeze.

He called you over for an “emergency”. You drove at 43 mph and he asked you to get him the milkshake he put in the fridge.

He whispered to you in a gala something like: “Hey kid, the gentleman four tables over us has been watching you the whole time. Maybe you should go there to say hi?”

Except when you did, it’s Bruce.

Game night again. He unplugged your game mid-boss fight and claimed it was an “accident.”

He made you do trust falls then almost dropped you “as a joke.” Now you have trust issues with the most trustworthy leader in Bludhaven.

He wore your favourite hoodie, stretched it out and made it smell like his cologne. You have no idea how he did even get that.

He teased your typing speed and mocked your typos out loud. YOUR SPEED WAS 147 WPM (YOUR BEST SO FAR) AND IT LASTED 10 SECONDS WHEN HE SAID THAT.

Movie night again. He fell asleep after 15 minutes. Clinging all over you subconciously like he owned you. Then woke up to spoil the ending.

He bragged about his fan mail. Twice a day.

“People love me, y’know?”

He said “don’t worry, I’ll carry you” on patrol.

Then did it bridal-style. On purpose.

You died out of embarrassment.

He pranked you with Alfred’s voice. Perfect impression. You fell for it.

He made fun of your handwriting. Again. He read your notes out loud in a mocking tone.

He winked mid-fight, made you miss a punch, then laughed.

The worst? He went “Okay. Fine. Maybe I did fall for you a little bit? Happy now?” while mid-punching a thug.

You blinked.

“WHAT???”

“Oh never mind. Must have been the wind.”

You spiralled that night. Hard.

Patrol again. It’s Gotham rooftop. Two idiots in the cold.

Dick is stretching like he’s about to perform on Broadway. You’re pretending that you’re not starving even though your stomach has been growling loud enough to attract B-list villains.

Dick goes all casual:

“So… I found this little street stall downtown.”

Your ears have already perked up like a cat hearing a treat bag:

“Yeah?”

Dick dramatically rolls a shoulder like he’s telling a tragic war tale.

“They had this shrimp burger. Listen, perfect brioche bun, toasted just enough so it’s warm but not crunchy. And the shrimp? Fresh. Like, actually fresh. Not Gotham ‘fresh.’ The patty was packed tight, but when you bit in? Tender. Sweet. Garlic butter dripping just a little-”

“Yeah?” Your tone raises up one note. And your eyes turn suspiciously shiny.

Dick side-eyes you with a smirk because he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

Dick keeps going in a cruel and merciless way:

“They layered it with that creamy sauce, y’know. That tangy, citrusy kick? And they added just the tiniest bit of chili oil so you get that warm burn right as the sweetness fades and-”

“Yeah?” Oh my, your voice comes out even higher with excitement now. You’re trying to look normal, yet you’re practically vibrating.

Dick is absolutely enjoying himself now. He leans forward like he’s whispering a confession:

“And then… oh man, the onions? Caramelized. Like gold. And the lettuce was cool so you get that crunch against the warm bun and it’s just… perfect.”

“…Yeah?” You’re so gone. You’re salivating. You’re one “mmm” away from dropping to your knees on a rooftop.

“Babe, you’re drooling.”

“I’m not.” You deny everything, acting like you didn’t just get food-described into arousal.

So anyways, Dick - your shiny big brother, finishes with a bright, sunny smile:

“So I ate it.”

…

Your soul exits Gotham and floats toward whatever heaven serves unlimited shrimp burgers. Your face drops past the floor, past the sewer, past the crust of the earth.

Dick shrugs with all innocence:

“You weren’t there.”

You legitimately have to crouch down and put your hands on your knees like someone just shot you in the feelings. And you struggle. You struggle to find his audacity. Like where it came from???

It’s how Dick flirts.

He is a menace. Half of the time his teasing is just him saying: “Notice me. PLEASE notice me.” He wants attention 24/7. If you’re grumbling at him? You’re looking at him. Mission accomplished. It reminds him that you care enough to build an empire of petty revenge.

And he enjoys your payback. He lives for drama. You are not angry-angry but feral, funny, loud, never boring when you’re truly pissed. He discovered how petty you are when you casted a curse on that one thug who made you drop your shrimp burger. You were like “May your pen ink run out when you need it the most” to that thug. That intrigued him.

He’s messed up. That’s his love language. He also adores winning. Last but not least, he wants to see if his golden retriever would ever break for only him. You did. He sought for this twisted pleasure.

Chapter Text

You didn’t even try to be manipulative.

You were just REALLY HUNGRY.

Not like Bruce doesn’t spoil your whims.

You just… really love shrimp burgers?

So here you are, voice-mailing everyone in your DMs. Yeah, with that siren voice you have, it’s illegal.

Bruce is dealing with a mid-board meeting. His phone lights up and he arches one eyebrow. You barely text him. The times you text him were either you calling for backups or Batcow’s disappearance. Therefore, curiosity got the better of him and he played the voice text.

“Dad… shrimp burgers please?”

A pause. He left the room with a straight face.

“Excuse me, I need to… acquire something.”

Next thing you know, Wayne Enterprises orders 80 shrimp burgers for “charity outreach.”

The next time you moan about shrimp burgers, Bruce just pulls out a book titled:

"How To Say No To Your Whiny Kids?"

Bad news: It's not working. He's sweating.

Dick is on patrol. Probably stopping petty crimes.

“Don’t move. I’ll bring you three. Just stay right there. You’re not allowed to sound like that and then disappear.”

Another day, another burger win.

"Jayyy… shrimp burgers please?" You whine while disarming 3 thieves. You don't even turn off the muzzle's auto tone. Still your pre - puberty voice.

“You're doing this on purpose” Jason grinds his teeth, tosses you 2 muggers he tied up and stomps off toward the closest diner. He returns half an hour later with six and refuses to meet your eyes.

Mid duel with Damian when you whine. Again. Pathetically like a messy man who got abandoned and left starving to death by his cold wife.

“Tch. Weak. This is why father won't let you drive Batmobile.”

Yet he secretly leaves one on your bed like a cat dropping off a dead bird. Home-made one. He's gotta make sure that you won't whimper how takeaway burgers ruin your shape. For the sake of his sanity, it must be properly served with whole-grain (something that's not processed garbage) buns, thinly cut onions, crisp lettuce, fresh tomato slices, a fried egg on top because he knows you loves it, and also a homemade herb sauce (Yogurt with mint. Ketchup is "saccharine trash".) Oh yeah, shrimp balls as well.

You have no idea what kind of spells he casted on that holy burger. You just asked for more and thought it was some new random divine products from Wayne company. He glares at you like you're the most ungrateful brat ever.

“I don’t understand your obsession. I simply respect the consistency.”

You hum, raid the fridge and freeze.

“Did you smuggle this from Dad's gala, brother?”

“I was bored.”

It’s entirely full of shrimp burgers. Towering. Glowing. Your name on every one.

You whisper, tremble and glance back at him with teary eyes.

“I love you.”

He kicks you in the shin, just to get tightly squeezed by you.

DEAD SILENCE.

Damian doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

“You’re plotting something.”

“Nope.”

“You're buttering me up. Like a coward.”

“Shhh, baby shrimp. You’ve always been my little Robin nugget.”

You ruffle his hair. He immediately punches your ribs. But it’s soft. Hesitant.

“If you die, I’ll bury you alive and resurrect you just to kill you again.”

“So you do love me, baby bat. Mutual feelings.”

“No. I said I would kill you.”

“Love. Got it.”

You press a kiss to his cheek. He screams like you just release every pet of his to distinctive nations for fun, smacks you to the ground and flees.

Alfred remains unfazed and brings you sparkling water.

“Your manipulation techniques are improving, Master Cipher. Would you like something to drink as well?”

You sip your drink and shrug your shoulders like it's light work.

“I was just hungry…”

Damian Post-Hug Symptoms:

Wears three shirts to avoid “accidental hugs”

Tries to poison your shrimp burger (but he fails, you call it seasoning)

Refers to you only as “Emotional Terrorist”

Still packs you a fresh shrimp burger every night without saying a word

(They’re labeled “for the shrimp idiot.”)

The usual rooftop. 3:12 AM. You’re somehow holding a box of shrimp burgers.

Dick sees you first.

Wind blowing. Moonlight haloing him like he planned it.

He smiles. Hands on hips. Voice soft.

“Couldn’t sleep either?”

“Nope.”

You raise a shrimp burger like it's the last Kryptonite piece Bruce ever has to stop Superman.

“One of Damian’s?”

“He’s the shrimp landlord now.”

“That’s so weirdly sweet.”

He steps closer.

Eyes shining like you’re his whole world.

You take a deep breath.

And hug him.

Warm. Casual. Easy.

He pauses.

Like a man hit by a train. Emotionally.

His arms don’t move at first. Then they wrap around you too tightly.

“Wait… Do you really mean it?”

You blink. Confused. All kind.

He pulls back, stares at you with full earnest.

“Is this your way of choosing me?” He whispers.

“What?? No! It’s just a hug! The shrimp burgers were too heavy so I placed them on your shoulders?!”

“Oh.”

He nods slowly, looks away as if he was just ordered to stop his circus puns.

“Okay. Okay, got it. Just shrimp.”

His voice breaks slightly. He looks at the moon like it's rejecting him personally.

“Wait… Did you want it to mean more??? BROTHER. I WAS JUST HOLDING SHRIMPS.”

Dick's pacing around the rooftop now. Monologuing. Holding a half-eaten shrimp burger.

“See, this is why I don’t do rooftop hugs. Every time I think someone chooses me they end up choosing shrimp.”

“That is not what’s happening.”

“Is it? Because I knew the second you hugged me it felt different. There was heat.”

“It’s 95°F out!”

“And yet. I felt something.”

He turns dramatically. Hair glowing. Eyes soft. "A prince with a rose on his lips riding his white horses" vibe.

“Just… tell me this.”

“Yeah?”

“If I got you shrimp burgers for the rest of your life… would you stay?”

“Stay where?”

“With me.”

He says it like it’s a proposal. He’s dead serious.

Jason texts you 2 seconds later with a screenshot of rooftop security footage and a wheezing voice text: “TOLD YOU NIGHTWING WOULD CRACK FIRST. He’s out there confessing his shrimp vows right now.”

Mood breaker. Dick groans in heartbreak and despair.

And that’s when-

CLANK.

Metal vent grates fall.

Little scowl appears.

Damian. He was holding a bag of shrimp burgers. Frozen mid-delivery.

He stares at you two. Specifically,he's staring at the sheer betrayal radiating off both of you.

“Traitor.” He scolds flatly and coldly.

He turns, tugs his cape over his face like Dracula, and VANISHES INTO THE VENTS.

Jason sends another video with the footage of Damian breathes heavily after speed-crawling through air vents while muttering “I should have never smuggled the shrimp” after 2 minutes. He's basically spluttering right now:

“yo. Y’ALL ARE BREAKING the family. I’m so proud right now, champ.”

The next few days in your shrimp craving era, you do what any responsible Wayne would do:

Weaponize your voice to emotional villains into buying you shrimp burgers.

Rooftop. 1:42 in the morning. Scarecrow has you cornered.

He’s ranting. Mask fogging. Probably talking about how he would gas you with fear toxin.

"What will this do to you? It will be the little scene where your brothers have to die one by one until you admit you're the weakest liability? Or you were just some kid Batman took pity on? Or tell me little bird, will you struggle with self-identity horror? Oh… wait… how about 'This is all your fault. You weren't enough.'"

You don’t flinch.

You just drop your voice three octaves lower and say:

“Jonathan… baby. You’ve been working all night. I appreciate that. You’re tired. You’re lonely. What you need… is a shrimp burger.”

“A what.”

“Hot. Fried. Crisp. Just like your emotional damage. Let’s go. Your treat.”

“Unless you’re scared.”

He twitches.

15 minutes later.

You’re sitting in the passenger seat of his sedan.

He’s going through the drive-through at a suspiciously high-end burger joint.

Scarecrow orders calmly:

"Extra shrimp on this one. He's very exhausted. Patrol’s been rough."

Back at the cave, Bruce is reviewing footage. He zooms in on your smirk. He zooms again and again. Alfred peers over his shoulder.

“Should we be concerned, sir?”

“They’re flirting for fast food.”

“Efficient.”

“I will take time to reconsider my adoption choices. And that's a breach of moral protocol.”

“In this economy, if he can get Scarecrow to buy him dinner and put down the fear gas, I have to say that it's not unethical. That’s innovation, Master Bruce. He's just like you.”

Bruce sighs into his hand.

"This is why Gotham never heals."

You’re standing on top of a crate, mid-negotiation with Penguin’s thugs.

Jason’s watching from a distance with binoculars and muttering:

“If they charm one more freak into shrimp giving away... I swear-"

But abruptly someone comes into view. He rigs the deck with tiny explosives, tossing them like firecrackers. The cards ignite in colorful sparks. From the smoke, Joker waltzes out, twirling a single unburnt card and grinning like the chaos was just an opening act.

“Well hellooo, my little shrimp thief. Heard you’ve been playing my side of the chessboard. Thought I’d drop in and make it... romantic.”

You pause and stare at him like he’s something sticky you stepped on.

“Romantic? You smell like Ace Chemicals and delusion.”

“I’m serious, darling. Why waste your talents on Batboys when you could be my shrimp-scented Harley?”

You take a long, soul-draining breath, take off the muzzle and lower your voice to its deepest, calmest, villain-breaking register.

“You flirt like a divorce lawyer. And the only thing I’d ever let you touch is the bottom of the Gotham river.”

He blinks.

You walk closer, voice honey-smooth but full of venom:

“Your jokes haven’t evolved since 1960.

Your trauma’s not hot, it’s unresolved.

And the reason Batman doesn’t laugh at you isn’t because he’s broody.

It’s because you’re boring.”

“Well well well aren’t you just a spicy little-”

“No. I’m the person who made Scarecrow pay $150 USD for 5 burgers and Nightwing cry over shrimps on a rooftop. You want chaos? Get in line. You want shrimp? Bring better cologne.”

Joker mumbles about how he’s late for a better breakdown anyways, can't tell if he wants to kidnap you or cry in a corner. He hurls smoke bomb cards at you, retreats and threats for a better comeback.

Jason is cackling into the comms:

“Did you just roast him into therapy?”

Congratulations. You have made it. You're now officially "Joker's new arch nemesis." Who knows what will happen next?

Chapter Text

The alley is quiet. You two managed to take down a gang of 11 skilled assassins. All bloody, bruised and hellish. You are crouched beside Dick, breathing for life, feeling like your body is giving up for the 4th time at midnight. Your hair is disheveled horribly, you sweat like you just ran a 10-kilometer marathon and Batarangs are scattered everywhere. You start to question whether backing him up every time while he's literally taunting your strikes and toying with you emotionally like he's your greatest nemesis in battlefield, not your mentor or your teammate was a wise choice.

That's when he suddenly tilts his chin and gives you a small, subtle hand gesture - two fingers flick in a quick signal.

Your brain, fried from adrenaline and way too many rough nights of him whining for feral overstimulating cheek smooches after everything like a proud parental figure, misfires spectacularly. You drop your guard and give in without second thought. No snarky comebacks, no shoves, no "Stop treating me like your son, Capt.".

Yep, you did really think "Oh, he wants a kiss. Again."

Before you could think any further, you lean in instinctively like a loyal puppy expecting to get affectionate head rubs.

It happens so fast. The world narrows to the warmth of his breath, the faint salt of sweat, the stand of his hair. You were one inch away from his mouth. Dick tilts his head and-

His eyes go wide, his lips part in pure shock. Your nose nearly brush and he freezes there. The silence was unbearable until he finally manages to drag his hoarse voice through clenched teeth:

"That… was a signal"

His throat bobbed.

"Not that…"

Patrol dies right there. Neither of you moves an inch, too caught in that dizzying mix of… something both of you don't want to name or admit.

"Guess that's one way to signal me." You whisper and tug a small bitter smile. You have no idea how you and a whimpering neglected puppy look alike right now.

Dick drags a gloved hand to your cheek and groans desperately like you're the only villain who's left here:

"You weren't… I wasn't… GOD, you weren't supposed to lean in like THAT!"

"You gestured!" You protest profusely.

"It's not a kiss gesture." He claims and narrows his eyes.

"Sure looked like one."

You give him the most "It's all your fault. Now pay for it." eyes and he's utterly ruined.

"You wish so." He huffs and leans in more to give your cheek a kiss like normal, to end this madness already. How brotherly.

"Wait- no…" You wiggle and tilt your head to the other side so that his kiss won't land on your slightly bloody left cheek.

That's also when you made a mistake. Or not. Depends on how you view this.

Dick's lips slips to the corner of your lips. You two explode. No, just kidding.

His expressions turn to a hybrid of shame and swoon.

Dick grabs your wrist instantly, orders "We're calling it early." and drags you off the roof like if you stayed out here any longer, he'd do something even dumber than just kissing you so intimately like that.

So you're back in his apartment, resting on the couch. The spiral hits him brutally like how Batman hits Jason. He paces around the living room like a caged animal, hair a mess from running his hands through it many times.

"DO YOU GET IT?" His voice cracks sharp.

"I SHOULDN'T HAVE DONE THAT."

"You're… You're younger, you're Bruce's kid, I'm your mentor. THAT'S EVERY POSSIBLE RED FLAG ROLLED IN ONE. I KISSED YOU LIKE I'VE BEEN-"

He cuts himself off, turning his back so you won't see the way his shoulders hunch.

"Like you've been waiting for it." You finish softly.

The silence could break anyone who walks in the room right now.

Dick couldn't bring himself to deny it. That's what kills him.

He finally turns, tugs off his mask and kneels down beside you, eyes spark blue with glassy with something too raw. His hands find yours, cupping them like he's praying for something sacred will anchor him.

"I disgust myself. You don't get it, do you? I liked it. I liked it too much I didn't want to stop."

You stare at him and lean closer, so close to the point that he could headbutt you to push away if wanted. But he doesn't. You tilt your head, nuzzle against his forehead and whisper against his mouth:

"You think I'd let someone kiss me that way without delivering them to the worst graveyard? I just want you to know… you're special to me, brother. So stop spiraling. We're still brothers, no matter what. That was accidental, which means nothing."

That wrecks him. You could see the relief and disbelief collide in his face. His hand comes up to your waist, gripping like he's afraid you will vanish into oblivion.

"Please… don't do this to me. Don't say that unless you really mean it this time."

He chokes. His voice is so fragile that it barely sounds like him.

You smile and caress his nape affectionately.

"Then what do you think this is?"

Your voice rolls out smooth, comforting and cooing him.

And this time, he kisses you with tears rolling down his cheeks and quivering shoulders. It's not reckless, messy or sloppy. It's not romantic or lusty. It's affectionate and brotherly. It's tender and deliberate, the kind of kiss that promises eternal bonding and unspoken understanding.

You gasp against his mouth, tugging him closer until his weight presses into you completely. He shatters, his hands fumble to rub your hair and jaw like he's starved to feel you. You wrap around his figure and pat his back slowly. You take your time and hold him like he's your newborn child. And when he finally breaks for air, his breath is ragged and his forehead rests against yours. He mutters, half a laugh, half a groan:

"Let's just pretend nothing happened. I will jump off from a Wayne building and blame everything on you if you dare to milk this emotional character side of me."

"So much for pretending." You smirk and peck his forehead anyways.

Chapter Text

You never meant to time-travel.

You meant to prevent it.

Working under the shadow of Batman and alongside Nightwing, you had developed a bad habit over time: preparing for disasters that hadn’t happened yet.

Gotham had already seen enough reality-bending nonsense. Chronal weapons, villains stealing minutes from people’s lives, artifacts that could rewind entire city blocks. Eventually you decided that reacting wasn’t good enough anymore.

So you started building contingencies.

Quiet ones. Hidden deep in the Cave’s whatever lab.

A chronal stabilization framework. Partially detector, partially countermeasure, partially theoretical time-anchor designed to lock Gotham’s timeline in place if anyone tried to tamper with it.

It was the kind of project that made Bruce raise an eyebrow and Dick comment “You’ve been hanging around me too long. You’re paranoid now.”

You had only shrugged.

“Prepared.”

It was supposed to stay theoretical.

Until the day you tried to test it.

Just a small activation. A localized calibration. A harmless proof to make sure the system could actually interact with temporal distortion if it ever happened.

Instead, the machine screamed. (Not metaphorically)

Every alarm in the lab detonated at once as the chronal ground destabilized, numbers cascading across the monitors faster than you could shut them down.

The anchor tried to stabilize. The prototype tried to compensate. The entire device folded in on its own calculations like a collapsing galaxy.

You had just enough time to mutter: “This is bad.” before your vision ripped sideways.

Light crushing. Pressure suffocating. Gravity forgetting what axis does.

And then…

Silence.

When you opened his eyes, Gotham looked… wrong.

Not destroyed. Not altered. Just incomplete. Like something slight off chart.

Gotham spreads out around you.

At first glance?

Normal.

Same cold air. Same skyline. Same distant sirens. Same city that never really sleeps.

You exhale slowly and push yourself upright. You tap your gauntlet interface to pull up local network diagnostics. It connects instantly to Gotham’s public infrastructure grid. And the first thing you see is the software version. Outdated. By years.

You frown.

“That’s odd.”

You assume the signal is bouncing through an old server node somewhere. Gotham has plenty of those. So you cross-check.

Another node.

Another.

Another.

All of them older.

Your brow furrows.

Then you look up at the skyline again. That’s when the second detail hits. The skyline was missing a few towers. Just… not there. A narrow glass tower that should sit three blocks east of Wayne Tower simply doesn’t exist.

“… Huh.”

You drop down to a lower rooftop and try the Bat-network relay. The encrypted handshake answers immediately. But the security protocol is wrong. You stare at the login screen. Three encryption generations behind. The password structure is something Bruce abandoned almost a decade ago.

“That’s not good…” You mumble slowly.

You access the logs. The last update timestamp was like twelve years ago from your time. Your stomach drops.

Unconvinced, you pull up Gotham news archives. The top headline on the local feed freeze you in place. A charity gala announcement hosted by Bruce Wayne. Staring in disbelief is your honest reaction by now. Bruce looks younger. A lot.

You exhale slowly through your nose.

“No.”

You didn’t jump sideways into another timeline. You went back. Back to a Gotham where Nightwing doesn’t exist yet. Where Dick Grayson is still Robin. Where you technically hasn’t even entered the story.

You stare out at the city lights. Somewhere out there, a fifteen-year-old acrobat is sprinting across rooftops in colors bright enough to give Bruce migraines. You sigh.

“Okay.”

You pull your hood up.

“Step one: don’t interact with anyone important.”

Stay unnoticed.
Avoid altering anything important.
Repair the device and return to your proper timeline.

Simple. Clean. Responsible.

A grappling hook fires somewhere across the skyline. You don't turn. You already know who it is.

It lasted exactly three hours before Robin cornered you on a rooftop. Behind you, Robin, arms crossed, mask tilted suspiciously, eyes bright with curiosity.

“Hey! You fight like someone I know.” The boy said.

Robin stepped closer, studying you with shameless intensity.

“Wait…” He said slowly.

Then his grin spread like sunrise over Gotham.

“Oh my god.”

You close your eyes and curse internally. Robin snapped his fingers excitedly and immediately circles you like a proud older brother who found a really cool stray cat.

“You fight like me.” Dick repeats, hands on hips. “But… moodier.”

“I’m not moody.” You sigh.

“You just sighed like you pay taxes.”

And just like that, the mission to quietly fix a time anomaly became something much, much more complicated.

And then it hits Dick.

“Either I hit my head or… You’re from the future, aren’t you? Oh my god. I raised you.”

“You didn’t.”

Dick gasps like he’s been stabbed emotionally.

“I absolutely did. Look at you. Brooding. Acrobatic. Emotionally constipated. That’s my legacy.”

And the worst part? You cannot even argue convincingly because you do move like Dick. Same footwork. Same spin when landing. Same instinct to protect civilians first. Dick beams like someone just handed him a gold medal.

Dick at 15 is absolutely not asking normal future questions. He’s not like “Do I become successful?”. He’s like:

“Okay but like… do I stay this tall?”

You, leaning against a gargoyle, reply: “You get taller.”

Dick squints. “How tall.”

“Enough.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s funnier this way.”

He keeps trying to reverse-engineer the future without asking directly.

“Do I still like… acrobatics?”

“Yes.”

“Am I still Robin?”

You pause just long enough for Dick’s stomach to drop.

“… You’re still you.”

Dick hates that answer because it’s comforting and ominous at the same time.

At some point Dick blurts:

“Do I mess up? Like. Bad.”

“… Yeah.”

Dick also absolutely tries to fish for ego boosts.

“Be honest. Am I cool in the future?”

You look him up and down like you're evaluating a stray pup.

“You’re unbearable.”

Dick gasps.

“But…” You add. “in a way that makes people follow you into burning buildings.”

Dick tries so hard not to look pleased. Fails instantly.

“Do I stay… happy?”

You don’t answer right away.

“You fight for it.”

Dick nods slowly.

“Okay. I can do that.”

Because that’s the thing about 15-year-old Dick. He’s not scared of pain. He’s scared of losing light. You see that. And you don't joke about it.

“You don’t lose it.” You reassure quietly. “You just learn how to carry it differently.”

Dick looks at you like you just handed him the world. Then ruins the moment immediately.

“Do I get a cool suit upgrade though.”

“You are unbearable.”

Dick grins. “So that’s a yes.”

You’re both technically kids, but only one of you still believes the future is something shiny and guaranteed. And you, unfortunately, is the proof that it’s not. Which is why you never let Dick see too much. Just enough to make him brave. Just enough to make him stay hopeful.

Future is not a straight line. It's a maze. But Dick still believes he can run it.

And you? You watch him and think "Don’t lose that. Please don’t lose that."

You’re both bright. Just in different ways. One is sunlight. The other is the way your eyes adjust in the dark.

But then, because the SECOND Robin Dick second-realizes you are “his future protégé,” he unlocks a brand new personality trait: "Insufferably Proud Older Brother"

Dick immediately grabs your wrist.

“C’mon. We’re showing Bruce.”

“That is unnecessary.”

“It is EXTREMELY necessary.”

You two barge into the Cave where Bruce Wayne is brooding over seven monitors like usual. Dick doesn’t even say hello.

“Bruce. Guess what I did.”

Bruce, without looking up: “If it involves explosives-”

“I RAISED A ROBIN.”

Bruce slowly turns. You are standing there in future suit tech, posture sharp, aura farming, looking like you haven't smiled in six fiscal years.

Dick gestures at him like he’s unveiling a trophy.

“Future. Mine.”

Bruce studies you for a long second. He notices the discipline. The controlled breathing. The weight behind your eyes.

“You trained him.” Bruce states evenly.

Dick lights up like someone handed him the Batmobile keys.

“I KNOW.”

"I am going to evaporate." You think to yourself.

Dick starts circling you while explaining him like he’s presenting a science fair project.

“See the stance? That’s me. The aerial redirection? Me. The dramatic pause before speaking? Okay that might be you.”

Bruce folds his arms.

“He’s restrained.” Bruce notes.

Dick grins. “Yeah. I clearly taught him emotional regulation.”

You choke on air. Bruce raises an eyebrow.

Dick doubles down immediately. “Look at him, Bruce. He’s calm. He’s collected. He’s only slightly judging us.”

“I am not-”

“He’s judging you.” Bruce corrects him.

Dick gasps like this is betrayal. Then Dick really commits to the bit. He throws an arm around your shoulders and pulls you in.

“This is what peak Robin mentorship looks like.”

You look stiff as a plank. Bruce’s gaze softens just barely, because this future Robin is steady. Not shattered. Not reckless.

“You did well.” Bruce says quietly to Dick.

And that’s it. That’s the moment that changes everything. Because Dick goes completely still. He wanted Bruce to see that he could build something good. You notice. Of course you do.

So you mutter, just loud enough:

“He doesn’t mess it up.”

Bruce looks at you. Dick looks at you. You look away.

Dick recovers first. Obviously. He squeezes your shoulder.

“See? I produce emotionally repressed excellence.”

“Grayson.”

“Kidding! Mostly.”

Later on, while you're reconstructing your time machine in the Batcave, Dick absolutely will not stop patronizing you.

“Oh, careful, that’s advanced tech-”

“I know.”

“Eat something.”

“I did.”

“Hydrate.”

“You don’t.”

Dick gasps like he’s been outplayed. Bruce is watching this whole thing like: This is my life now.

Moments later, Dick is still mid–“LOOK WHAT I BUILT, BRUCE” speech when Bruce steps closer to you. Not interrogating. Not intimidating. Assessing.

You stand straighter automatically. Old instinct. Respect. Bruce notices the micro-adjustment.

“You were trained well.” Bruce repeats.

“Yes, sir.”

Dick beams. “SEE?”

But Bruce isn’t looking at Dick anymore. He’s looking at the way you favor your left shoulder just slightly. The way you scan exits without meaning to. Bruce’s voice lowers.

“How old were you when you started?”

"17." You answer firmly.

Dick opens his mouth to joke. Bruce cuts him off with a look. Bruce nods once. Not approval. Not pride. But understanding.

And then it happens. Bruce reaches out. Just adjusts your gauntlet strap because it’s sitting wrong. The gesture is so domestic it almost feels illegal. You freeze. Dick goes silent. Bruce steps back like nothing happened.

Dick immediately recovers because he cannot handle this level of emotion.

“Wow. Bruce. You didn’t even glower at him.”

“He doesn’t require it.”

Dick squints. “You like him.”

Bruce does not answer. Which is answer enough.

Later, during patrol prep, Bruce hands you a thermos. It’s warm. Exactly the way Alfred would make it. Your throat tightens for half a second before you school it. Dick notices.

He nudges your side.

“See? Grandpa mode activated.”

“Do not call him that.”

Dick grins. “Oh, he absolutely is. Look at the way he’s hovering.”

Bruce, from across the Cave: “I can hear you.”

Dick shouts back. “I know. I’m proud.”

Bruce treats you like something already chosen. He asks about your training schedule. He asks if you sleep. He asks if Dick eats in the future.

You, deadpan, answer: “He forgets.”

Bruce nods. “… Of course he does.”

Dick grunts. “HEY.”

And suddenly it’s less interrogation and more family argument. And Bruce glances at you once more and says quietly:

“You turn out steady.”

You meet his eyes and nod.

Dick looks between you two like: “HELLO I’M STILL THE STAR OF THIS EPISODE.”

It happens on accident. Dick isn’t even trying to dig. He’s just talking, because that’s what he does when he trusts someone. He fills silence so it doesn’t swallow people. You’re perched on a water tower. Wind loud. Gotham doing its usual “is that a siren or just vibes” thing.

Dick’s rambling about Bruce.

“He gets like that, you know? Quiet. Like he’s thinking too hard. But he always comes around.”

You go still. Dick doesn’t notice at first.

“I mean, he’s not perfect or anything. But he doesn’t quit on us. On me.”

You say nothing. And Dick finally clocks it.

“… Right?”

There’s a beat too long. You shrug. Casual. Too casual.

“People change.”

Dick frowns. “Bruce doesn’t.”

You look at him then. And that’s the mistake. Because there’s something in your eyes. Not anger. Not even resentment. Grief. Dick feels it like a punch.

“What happened?”

“Nothing happened.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

It’s soft. Not accusing. Just… hurt. And that’s what cracks it.

You exhale through your nose. “You’re fifteen.”

“And?”

“And you still think love fixes everything.”

Dick stiffens. “It does if you don’t give up.”

Oh. Oh, that one lands. You look away. Because that’s the part that burns, not that Dick is wrong ,it’s that he sounds so sure.

“So tell me…” Dick presses, voice smaller now like he's hoping. “does he give up?”

“He tries…” You phrase it carefully. “He fails. He tries again. He’s… human.”

Dick swallows. That wasn’t the reassurance he wanted.

“Do I leave?”

Silence. That’s the answer.

Dick laughs, but it’s thin. “Wow. Okay. That’s dramatic.”

“You don’t disappear.” You say quickly. Too quickly. “You don’t lose them.”

“But I lose something.”

You finally look at him fully.

“Yeah.”

Dick’s eyes shine, but he refuses to let them spill. He’s Robin. He’s not going to cry about something that hasn’t even happened yet.

“Am I still me?”

Your voice softens. “You fight harder to be.”

That does it. Not tears. But the tremble before them. Dick stares out over Gotham, jaw set.

“Good.” Dick says. “Then I’ll just make sure it’s worth it.”

You almost laugh. Almost break. Because that’s the tragedy. Fifteen-year-old Dick isn’t naive. He’s brave. And you know that no matter what you say, Dick is still going to run straight into the future with his heart first. You can’t protect him from that. You can only sit beside him while he believes.

Dick still smiles at you when you wo jump down. Like nothing in the world could make him doubt the people he loves. Dick keeps asking little questions in between the jokes.

“Do I… stay?”
“Do I mess you up?”
“Are you okay?”

You go quiet. Because yeah. Future Dick becomes Nightwing. He becomes steady. He becomes someone you trust enough to follow.

“You don’t mess me up.” You finally find your voice. “You make it survivable.”

Dick freezes. Immediate soft mode activated. Then he throws an arm over your shoulder anyway because he cannot resist patronizing.

“See? I knew I’d be an incredible mentor. Look at you. Terrifying. Emotionally stunted. Perfect.”

“I am not emotionally-”

Dick ruffles your hair.

“You absolutely are. Don’t worry. I’ll fix that before you get back.”

And now you are standing there being gently bullied by a younger version of your own future leader and it’s humiliating and weirdly comforting. Also? Dick 100% starts giving you advice about himself.

“Future me probably forgets to eat. Make sure he eats.”

“He does.”

“Tell him he’s awesome.”

“He knows.”

“Tell him again.”

And that’s when your expression softens just slightly. Because for once, Dick isn’t trying to be impressive. He’s trying to make sure his future self turns out okay.

Then Dick asks it casually. Too casually. Still Gotham wind, city lights, dramatic teenage Robin silhouette moment.

“So. Future me. How do I treat you?”

“Professionally.”

Dick pauses.

“… Professionally.”

“Yes.”

“You sound like you’re filing taxes.”

Your posture is perfect. Arms folded. Expression neutral. Voice steady. But you won’t quite look at Dick for more than a second at a time.

Dick tilts his head.

“Okay. Let’s try again. Do I yell at you?”

“No.”

“Overwork you?”

“No.”

“Make you cry?”

You hesitate.

Just a beat.

Dick’s eyes sharpen.

“I don’t cry.” You utter, more like to yourself.

“That wasn’t the question.”

Silence.

You swallow heavily. Your jaw clenches just slightly.

Dick leans in, grin slowly forming curiously.

“Do I care about you?”

“Yes.”

Immediate. Firm.

That one didn’t shake.

Dick’s smile softens.

“And do you care about me?”

You don’t answer right away. Your shoulders drop half an inch.

“Yes...”

Dick’s heart absolutely does a somersault. But he can feel it now. There’s something under the surface. Not fear exactly. But something heavier. Charged.

So what does Dick do?

He flirts.

Because that’s his coping mechanism for literally everything. He invades your personal space more.

“Future me sounds pretty great.” Dick murmurs. “Calm. Professional. Caring.”

Dick leans in even more.

“Is he handsome?”

“Yes.”

“Oh? That was fast.”

Your ears go slightly red. Betrayal. Dick’s grin widens like he just found buried treasure.

“Does he ever…” Dick tilts his head, lowering his voice… “… stay this close?”

Your breathing changes. Barely. But it does.

“That would be unprofessional.”

Dick laughs softly.

“So you’ve thought about it.”

“No.”

“You absolutely have.”

He lifts a hand like he’s going to adjust your collar, echoing Bruce’s earlier gesture, but slower. Intentional. You go still. Just waiting. And that waiting?

That’s what gives you away.

Dick’s voice drops from teasing to something softer.

“… Future me doesn’t treat you just professionally, does he?”

You finally look at him. Really look at him. And for half a second, there’s something raw there. Something almost fond. Almost aching.

“He tries not to.”

Dick inhales.

Oh.

Oh that’s interesting.

Now Dick is fully invested in this probable future angst sitcom.

“So there’s history.”

“Yes.”

“Complicated?”

“Yes.”

“Mutual?”

You hesitate.

Dick actually laughs under his breath.

“You’re terrible at hiding it.”

“I am not hiding anything.”

“You look like you’re defusing a bomb.”

Dick adds. “If future me is stupid enough to hesitate-” Dick whispers intimately. “I’m not.”

Your composure cracks just a little.

“You’re fifteen.”

“And?”

“And this is inappropriate.”

Dick beams.

“So it is something.”

You close your eyes for a second like you regret every life choice that led here. Dick leans in near your ear, whispering just to watch you react:

“Do I kiss you?”

Silence.

Long.

Tense.

Your voice comes out lower than usual.

“… Yes.”

Dick pulls back just enough to see your face.

And oh.

That expression is not professional.

That’s not subordinate.

That’s not just mentorship.

That’s devotion with history.

Dick’s teasing melts into something almost awed.

“I knew I had good taste.” He says softly.

Then, because he cannot resist pushing just a little further:

“Does he look at you like this?”

No answer. But not stepping away either. And that’s answer enough.

You are standing there trying to maintain his calm, emotionally-trained-by-Nightwing composure… and Dick just tilts his head like he’s discovered a cheat code.

“So let me get this straight one more time.” Dick says, hands on his hips. “Future me hesitates.”

“It’s complicated.”

Dick grins. “I’m fifteen. I don’t do complicated.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “That is not the flex you think it is.”

“Oh it absolutely is.”

And then Dick steps closer again, very aware of the effect he’s having.

“If my future self has issues…” Dick says lightly. “I don’t. I’m fifteen, actually. Prime confidence. Zero baggage.”

Your eye twitches.

“You have so much baggage.”

“Not about you.”

And that lands harder than it should. Because Dick says it casually. But he means it.

“You’re being irresponsible.”

Dick beams. “You’re flustered.”

“I am not flustered.”

“You look like you’re buffering.”

You turn away like he's the most persistence inconvenience ever. Dick circles you like he’s mid-performance at the circus again.

“So future me likes you. You like him. And instead of kissing you, he overthinks it.”

“It’s not that simple.”

Dick leans in, voice dropping just slightly.

“It is for me.”

Dick continues.

“Hey. Does he hurt you?”

You answer instantly. “No.”

No hesitation. No doubt.

Dick relaxes.

“Does he protect you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you protect him?”

“… Yes.”

Dick smiles slowly.

“Then what’s the problem?”

You look at him. And this time it’s not cool, composed Robin you. It’s someone who knows how things get messy. How missions go wrong. How feelings complicate hierarchy. How loving someone in this line of work can feel like tempting fate.

“You grow up. You start thinking about consequences.”

Dick’s expression shifts.

“Yeah… But I’m not grown up yet.”

And then, because he’s Dick Grayson and subtlety has never been his brand, he leans in just enough that your foreheads almost touch.

“So I don’t have his fear.”

“You are literally a child.”

“I am literally winning.”

“You are impossible.”

“And you still like me.”

Silence.

You lose that round.

Dick grins, triumphant but softer now.

“I’m not trying to steal future me’s moment. I just want to know something.”

He brushes his thumb lightly against your mask.

“Does he look at you like you’re his partner… or like you’re his?"

“Both...”

Dick’s eyes warm.

“Good.”

And then, because he cannot resist one final menace move:

“Okay but hypothetically! if I kissed you right now, would the future explode?”

Your voice drops coldly.

“Possibly.”

Dick beams.

“Worth it.”

“Okay.” Dick goes on, gesturing dramatically. “Future me is… what, 27?”

“Stop calculating.”

“That’s a twelve-year gap.”

“Dick.”

“But I’m fifteen.” Dick continues brightly. “Which means I’m only two years younger than you."

You shut your eyes. Gotham wind. Regret. Existence is pain.

“That is not how ethics work.”

Dick points at him like he’s just won a debate trophy.

“Actually it kind of is.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“You are a minor.”

“So are you.”

Your brain audibly blue-screens.

Dick leans in with that stupidly confident grin.

“See? No scandal. No weird power dynamic. No ‘oh no I’m your mentor.’ I’m just fifteen. Flirting.”

You take a step back. Dick follows.

“You’re abusing loopholes.”

“I’m innovating.”

“You are not kissing me because of technicalities.”

Dick tilts his head.

“Why? Because future me would hesitate?”

“Because you don’t understand what it turns into.”

Dick softens slightly at that.

“Then tell me.”

You look at him. And for a second, there’s weight there. Shared missions. Blood. Almost-losses. The kind of history that makes love feel like a liability.

“You get protective, You get reckless. You get scared.”

Dick’s grin fades.

“About you?”

“Yes.”

Dick exhales slowly.

And then, because he is still fifteen and incapable of backing down from emotional intensity, he steps in again.

“I’m already protective. That’s not new.”

“It gets worse.”

“Or better.” He redirects. “You look at me like I’m breakable.” Dick murmurs.

“You are.”

Dick huffs. “Rude.”

“You’re still becoming.”

“And you’re already there.”

That lands.

Dick’s eyes flick down to your mouth. Then back up.

“Okay." Dick says lightly, but there’s a thread of sincerity now. “If I kiss you, it’s not because I’m fifteen.”

Your heart absolutely spikes.

“It’s because I want to.”

Silence. The air changes. No more loopholes. No more math jokes. Just intent.

“You’re going to grow into him.” Your voice cracks just a hair.

Dick smiles, softer this time.

“And he grows into me.”

And then he leans in slowly. Just enough to give you time to stop him.

Just a brief, careful press of lips that feels like a promise that hasn’t happened yet.

When Dick pulls back, Dick looks entirely too pleased with himself.

But you?

Absolutely stunned.

Eyes wide. Brain gone. Cheeks flushed so hard it’s criminal. You look like someone just unplugged your operating system.

And Dick? Dick goes still.

Because that is not the reaction of “professional mentorship.”

That is the reaction of “we have history.”

Dick’s grin spreads slowly.

“… Oh.”

Dick leans forward slightly, eyes sparkling.

“Ohhhhh.”

You try to recover. You straighten. You clear your throat.

“That was a mistake.”

Dick laughs softly. “No it wasn’t.”

“It was unnecessary.”

“You look like you just saw God.”

Your face goes redder. Dick point at you triumphantly. “There it is.”

“There is nothing.”

“You kissed me like you’ve done it before.”

Silence.

"Future me kisses you a lot, doesn’t he?”

Still no answer.

Dick’s expression shifts. Almost… reverent.

“Is he gentle?” He asks quietly.

Your jaw tightens.

“Yes.”

“Is he stupid about you?”

A pause.

“…Yes.”

Dick exhales, like something just clicked into place. He steps into your space again — but this time it’s not to provoke. It’s to understand.

“You didn’t react like this because I’m fifteen. You reacted like you miss him.”

That hits. Dick softens completely now.

“So it’s real. With him.”

You nod once. Barely.

Dick smiles. No longer cocky, flirty. Just warm.

“Good.”

“… Good?”

“Yeah. Means I don’t screw it up.”

And there it is.

That’s what he needed to know.

Not whether he wins.

Not whether he gets the kiss.

Whether he becomes someone worthy of that reaction.

Dick bumps his shoulder lightly against yours.

“Don’t look so doomed.” Dick teases gently. "You’re acting like I just confirmed a prophecy.”

“You did.”

Dick grins.

“So future me and you, huh?”

Dick beams like he just unlocked endgame content.

“I have phenomenal taste.”

“You’re insufferable.”

Dick exhales slowly, something warm settling in his chest.

“Okay. I’ll grow into him properly.”

And then, because he cannot resist one last menace move, he leans in and whispers:

“Just so you know, I’m going to be way worse at twenty-seven.”

You look absolutely doomed. Dick looks victorious across timelines.

Days later, Dick?

Act normal.
Train.
Do patrol.
Be suspiciously well-behaved.

It’s like three nights later. Rooftop. Quiet. Post-mission calm.

You are adjusting your glove, minding his business, thinking maybe the 15-year-old menace phase has passed. Dick drops down beside you like a cat who has been plotting.

“So,” Dick says casually.

You don’t look up. “No.”

“I didn’t even say anything.”

“You’re about to.”

Dick grins.

“I’ve been thinking.”

“That’s concerning.”

“You said future me hesitates sometimes.”

You freeze internally. Not again? Outwardly? Calm. Too calm.

“Yes.”

“And that he overthinks.”

“Yes.”

Dick nods slowly, like he’s analyzing a tactical weakness.

“Okay.”

Your shoulders tense.

“Okay what.”

Dick turns to you fully now, bright eyes but voice surprisingly steady.

“If twenty-seven-year-old me didn’t get to do something because he hesitated…”

Your breath stalls.

“… I’ll make it up for you.”

Silence.

Actual Gotham wind-through-the-void silence. You stare at him like he just detonated a time paradox.

“That is not how this works.”

Dick shrugs. “Why not? I’m proactive.”

“You are fifteen.”

“And efficient.”

“You cannot compensate for your future self.”

Dick leans closer.

“Why? Because you’d like that?”

Your composure cracks visibly

“Dick. You don’t understand what he’s afraid of.”

“Losing you?”

The way you goes quiet confirms it.

Dick’s grin fades into something more serious.

“He doesn’t get you because it’s dangerous.” Dick murmurs. “… Then I won’t waste the time I have.”

That’s when it stops being a joke.

“You are not some trial version of him.”

Dick’s lips curve faintly.

“No. But I’m the start of him.”

And menace returns, because he cannot hold sincerity for more than 20 seconds.

“So if he didn’t kiss you enough?”

“Dick.”

Dick leans in just enough to make you stop breathing again.

“I’ll make up the deficit.”

“You are insufferable.”

“And you love it.”

“… I love him.”

Dick smiles gently.

“Same person.”

That hits harder than any tease.

And then he does it, not dramatic, not greedy, just a soft kiss at the corner of your mouth.

Brief. Intentional. Just promising.

When he pulls back, he whispers with a grin:

“Consider that interest.”

You look like someone who just realized the universe is unfairly consistent.

After all the teasing, all the smug little “I’ll make it up for him” nonsense… Dick just flops down beside you like he always does.

No seduction lab energy.
No weaponized age math.
Just warmth.

He bumps your shoulders together.

“Cold.” Dick mutters, even though he’s not.

You hesitate. And then, instinct. You let Dick lean into you. Dick doesn’t make a big deal out of it. He just shifts closer, rests his head against your shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And that’s when it hits.

The weight.

The familiarity.

The exact same angle.

The exact same quiet exhale against his collarbone.

It’s identical.

Not similar.

Identical.

Your breath stutters.

Because this is how twenty-seven-year-old Dick settles in after patrol. This is how he goes quiet when he’s tired. This is how he pretends he’s not seeking comfort.

Same hand curling lightly in fabric.

Same knee nudging against his thigh.

Same subtle clinginess disguised as casual contact.

Your chest is doing that thing when everything feels too full again.

Dick notices the shift immediately.

“Hey.”

Silence again. You are staring at nothing. Somewhere else. Somewhere years ahead. Blood on gloves. Late-night rooftops. Twenty-seven-year-old Nightwing murmuring something soft into your shoulder when he thinks you are asleep.

Dick tilts his head up slightly.

“Flashback?” He asks, quieter now.

You nod once. Dick doesn’t tease. He just shifts closer. Wraps an arm around your waist carefully.

“Is it bad?”

“No.”

“… Does he hold you like this?”

A pause.

“… Yes.”

Dick smiles faintly against his shoulder.

“Good. Means I don’t change.”

That’s what undoes you. Really undoes you. Not the flirting. Not the kisses. The consistency.

He exhales shakily and, without thinking, his hand comes up to rest against Dick’s back. It's protective, familiar and automatic.

Dick goes still for half a second. Then softer.

“Oh.” Dick murmurs.

Because that touch wasn’t experimental. That was practiced.

Dick presses closer, voice barely above the wind.

“Do you miss him?”

Your answer is almost too quiet.

“Yes.”

Dick nods slowly.

And instead of jealousy, insecurity, he just nestles in deeper.

“Then pretend I’m him for a minute.”

“That’s not fair.”

“I know.” Dick whispers. “But I’m going to be him.”

And he tucks his face into the curve of your neck exactly the way his older self does.

Exactly.

Your eyes sting.

Because it’s the same heartbeat. The same warmth. The same stubborn gravity pulling you in.

Different years.

Same person.

Dick’s voice is softer now. No bravado.

“I’m not trying to replace him. I just don’t want you to feel alone while you’re stuck here.”

And Dick smiles quietly against your collarbone.

Because now he knows.

No matter what happens.

No matter how complicated it gets.

He grows into someone who stays.

And that’s enough.

Weeks later, you go back to the future. Before that, Bruce just says:

“Take care of him.”

And he means Dick. You nod like it’s a vow.

Dick and you just exchange embraces that feel less than a goodbye, more like a "See you soon."

And you snap back to your timeline. Disoriented, heart still warm from rooftop cuddles, brain still echoing with fifteen-year-old laughter. Immediately run into Dick Grayson at twenty-seven.

Leaning against the Cave railing. Arms crossed. Smiling like a man who has already seen the blooper reel.

“Had your fun?”

You freeze.

Because that tone?

That is not a question.

That is a man remembering.

Dick pushes off the railing slowly.

“You look nostalgic.” He adds lightly.

“It was a temporal anomaly.”

Dick hums. “Mm.”

He steps closer. Calm. Confident. Not fifteen anymore, no nervous curiosity, no experimental boldness.

Just someone who knows exactly what happened.

“You cuddled.” Dick says casually.

Your eye twitches.

“You tucked your face into my neck.” Dick continues, almost fond. “You did that thing where your hand rests between my shoulder blades like you’re grounding yourself.”

Your composure fractures.

“You remember that?”

Dick’s smile softens.

“I experienced it.”

Oh that’s unfair.

You swallow.

“You weaponized your age.” You state weakly.

Dick laughs under his breath.

“God, I did, didn’t I?”

“You were insufferable.”

“I still am.”

He steps into your space now. Certain.

“You looked at me like you missed me.” Dick murmurs.

“I did.”

Dick’s smugness softens into something warmer.

“I know.”

Then, because he absolutely cannot resist, he leans down slightly, voice dropping.

“I also know you didn’t stop me.”

Dick grins.

“I remember how stunned you were.”

“You were fifteen.”

“And you were doomed.”

That earns him a glare. Dick just laughs softly and reaches up to brush his thumb along your mask, the exact same way he did years ago on that rooftop.

“You think I didn’t notice?” He murmurs. “You reacted the same way then.”

Your voice drops. “You planned this.”

Dick tilts his head innocently.

“Technically I already did.”

Oh. Oh that’s evil.

“You’re smug.” You exhale sharply.

“Undeniably.”

He leans in just enough that your foreheads almost touch. Older now, steadier, but the same heartbeat.

“You missed me.” Dick says softly.

“Yes.”

“And I got to hold you twice.”

Dick smiles, victorious but gentle.

“Time travel perk.”

Then, quieter:

“I remember promising I’d grow into someone who stays.”

Your throat tightens.

“You did.”

Dick kisses you this time without hesitation on the exact corner of your mouth, no math loopholes, no teasing bravado. Just sure.

When he pulls back, he grins again.

“So...” Dick whispers, eyes sparkling. “did I make up the deficit?”

You immediately shove him against the Batcomputer just to wipe that smug look off his face.

Chapter Text

Bludhaven is under siege by a threat bigger than your Batfam could handle alone. Crime syndicate. Tarantula resurfaces after you getting her an early parole anonymously. She's hardened, morally gray, but with the crucial intel (hidden caches, mob contacts and corruption lists) and connections you need. The last thing you want to do is working with her. Despite the history, you get saddled with her anyways because you know you're the only one ruthless enough to tolerate her. Or you thought so. You glanced at your refined muzzle one last time then left it at home. You aren't playing games with her. So you find yourself striding to her when she first emerges out of imprisonment with proper persuasion.

Your voice rolls out gravel-edged, compelling and resonant:

"Miss Taran, I believe that we have something worth discussing and co-working."

"Make it interesting, pretty. I'm all ears."

She cocks her eyebrow and smirks.

Tarantula wants protection and redemption. Both of you two know that you're using each other. Thus the partnership is always brittle.

Every time you work with her, it feels like you two were dancing in psychological warfare prom. She leans in mid-mission and smirks:

"Funny. Your brother never could say no to me properly. Why should you be any different, bombón?"

"Do. I. Look. Like. Nightwing. To. You? He didn't put a bullet through your skull but I might. Keep running your mouth and you will see the things I do for family."

You snark while knocking out the threats. Your jabs are a little bit too personal.

"You glare just like him, mi vida. That little crease by the brow? Cute. He always thought it made him look serious. I made him look a lot less serious that night~"

You drop the target and growl:

"Talk about him again and I'll feed you to the syndicate myself. Don't push me to break the Batcode."

"For someone who surely despises me, you keep me close. What would big brother say, hm?" She rolls her eyes and wipes the sweat off your face.

You dodge, grunt and squint at her.

"Cold icy eyes. Just like him. I remember when those eyes broke and begged instead."

"Beg me again and I'll show you how I break till you beg for death instead."

She brushes your arm deliberately and leans on you like she owns you.

"Mmm I don't doubt it, mi carino. Strong like he was. Must run in the bloodline."

You don't bother to correct her. Your hand clamps on her wrist, hard enough to bruise:

"Leave me be and have some self-respect, shuckface. Let's get going."

Later, she saves your life in a fight, drags you to cover:

"See? I can still be useful. Maybe I'm not the monster you paint me as."

You shove her off and hiss:

"Useful tools get used. Monsters get neutralized. Guess which you are."

She tilts her head and studies your scowl:

"You wear his anger better, though. On him it was tragic. On you? Divine."

You huff and resume wiping out criminals. She laughs when you're both bloody.

"You even fight like him. Graceful. Precious. But you hit harder. He always head back… he thought mercy made him stronger."

You spit blood and grin ferally:

"Mercy is death. And if you keep digging like a hoe, you will buried next to it."

She doesn't back off. If anything she whispers closely, as if daring you to snap:

"You are breathing heavily, mi bebé. You sound just like him after all. Vulnerable. Almost sweet."

You don't even look at her.

"You have no idea I crave sweet silence right now."

An hour later or so, you're both drunk on adrenaline and damaged harshly. She starts with the comparison but softer, intimate and almost pitying.

"You know what's funny? You try so hard to be the opposite of him. Colder, crueler, untouchable. But every time you call to check on your brothers, I see the same soft eyes. Admit it. You're afraid of letting me break you. You can be soft. No. I mean, you are soft. You despise me because I remind you of what I did to him. But me? You remind me of him. And you can't escape it, mi chiquito."

You snarl back, grip her collar, voice cracking with rage:

"DON'T YOU DARE SAY HIS NAME WITH MY FACE IN THE SAME BREATH-"

She doesn't flinch. She smiles through the blood and leans into your grip and places her lips against yours.

“There it is. That’s what I wanted. You’re not his protector. You’re not his avenger. You’re his shadow. Everything you are begins and ends with him. You don’t have your own blood. You just bleed his.”

You unravel and your hands tremble. You shove her off in disgust and horror as you spit on her face then wipe your lips with the back of your hand.

Her voice is silk wrapped around glass shards:

“You really thought you could hold me together with your leash? You think you’re stronger than him just because you bite harder? Let me tell you the hard truth, sweetheart. You’re no different. Same eyes. Same hands. Same trembling voice when I push you far enough.”

She steps in close again, violating your space, so close you can feel her breath brushing your ear:

“Do you know what he sounded like when I had him under me? He tried to choke back the sounds. Oh, he was so ashamed. But I pulled them out anyway. Just like I’ve been pulling them out of you, inch by inch. Every growl, every twitch, every time your breath catches? It’s his ghost singing through you.”

Your throat goes tight, rage and nausea tangling until you can’t separate them. Her words have already sunk like hooks. You are drowned and breathless. You cannot think straight. Her voice shatters you in the cruelest way.

She presses harder, pushes you down to the ground and crawls onto your top, almost trembling with the force of her obsession:

“You think you’ve got me on a chain. No. I let you tug me along, because I like watching you unravel. You’re not my warden, you’re my experiment. How many reminders of him will it take before you finally crack? You want to be stronger than him? Then prove it. Or admit you’re just his shadow, living in my mouth, in my memory, in my bed.”

Her laugh cuts sharp, full of venom, echoing off the walls:

“Do you hate me for saying it? Or do you hate that part of you believes it?”

Your fists clenched so hard your nails bite skin, chest heaving, the leash you swore you had wrapped around her slipping out of your grip. Because for the first time, she's making you question if you’ll ever be anything but his reflection, twisted into a shape she can toy with. She forces you into his ghost, until you can’t tell whether you’re fighting her or fighting yourself. Your tears are soaking your mask uncontrollably when she goes on:

"Oh? Not enough to break you yet? Then let me tell you what will happen next." She grinds on your hips through the talk and caresses your ears in a velvety way.

"Just like what I did to him. He tried so hard to stay the golden boy. Thought if he kept his jaw tight, if he clenched his teeth, he swallowed it, it would all just pass. He wanted to disappear, but I wouldn't let him. I wanted him to feel every second of being mine. But oh my, he couldn't keep it in. He whimpered under me. Do you know what it's like to hear Bludhaven's golden acrobat whimper? To have him claw at the floor because he hates how his own body betrayed him? That made it sweeter, honey. He gave me every reaction I wanted. I never heard such music like that. And the best part? He hated me for it. But nothing comes close to how he hates himself for it. I bet every time he looked the mirror after that, I was there. My hands. My mouth. My voice. My body. He will never wash me out."

She smirks as she toys with your buttons. Her rhythm doesn't stop, it gets progressively worse, aiming to undo you.

"And now, I'm making you choke on it too. So tell me, mi amor. Who are you?"

Pause. Silence. Dead silence.

"Knew it. But you don't gotta tell me, churri. Because I know you."

She leans down, presses her forehead to yours, planning to kiss you again.

Chapter Text

Memory blurs.

You blink.

The physical damage finally hits you like a tornado.

Your hands are blood-soaked, stiff and throbbing in pain.

Your veins stand out sharply.

Your body feels like it's burning from adrenaline.

Your hands fall down to the sides when you look down at the body.

You gasp for breaths as shock, guilt, and anger hit you all at once.

The corpse is nothing but a canvas of brutality.

Flesh was split open in jagged tears.

Bruises blooms in violent shades of purple and black.

The skin is mottled.

Swelling distorts her features beyond human recognition.

Bones juts at unnatural angles beneath the skin.

Smashed, shredded, pulverized.

It feels like you carved humanity out of yourself and her with nothing but bare hands.

Your stomach twists at the testimony of what happened.

You killed Tarantula.

Hollow.

You stand there like time just freezes.

It's never about being Batman. He genuinely has a savior complex and believes that everyone deserves a second chance. You don't.

You view killing as the ultimate power: absolute, irreversible, and too easy. You don’t want to shoulder that responsibility unless the situation is truly existential. You want outcomes, not the moral ownership of death.

After what felt like a century, you fumble your phone and press a call to anyone.

Anyone.

Your vision is blurry as your brain decided to malfunction to save you from aftershock.

"Hi sweetheart, what's wrong? You never called this late. Ya know, Gotham has been a hellhole recently. I mean, it's always has been. It's just worse this time. Been busy putting these muggers to trash bins. I've been waiting to hear from you again. Miss me, honey?"

He responds swiftly with his cheerful tone while the background noises just happen to be guns and screams.

A beat.

"What's the matter? Lost for words? I expected more. I'm hurt."

He whines as he waits for your voice.

"I killed her." You breathe out.

His voice dropped, no trace of play left in it. The warmth drained from his tone, leaving it flat and heavy with weight.

"No... I killed her. Repeat after me. Redhood killed her. You hear me, sweetheart? Redhood killed her. Come on, baby, repeat after me. Redhood killed her." Jason blurts out desperately.

"You killed her."

"Good. That's my boy. Gimme 15 minutes. I'll be there."

When he arrives, you're not even in the right state of mind to register him. Your senses are just are almost blocked out.

He catches the glimpse of you just standing there dazed as if your soul just got sucked out of your body. He walks towards you as he tilt your chin up with his gloved finger.

Your eyes meet his.

You look lifeless.

The usual spark in your eyes are gone.

He winces as he sees how wrecked and empty you are.

You have no idea how badly he wants to make you feel okay. But all you do is looking the other way.

He knows you can't handle being seen this flawed, tainted and vulnerable.

Jason grips the edge of the mask and tilts it up. He slowly lead one of your blood stained hands to his cheek. He cups it like it's holy and delicate. You finally... really look at him this time. His eyes speak volume. He gives you the look like he's whispering "I'm here for you." - the look that mirrors your physical pain and internal struggles.

"Just trust me. You will be fine."

He mumbles as his arm finds your back, wrapping you closer than ever as if he's trying to imprint himself into you just to feel your heartbeat. His thumb trace small circles onto your shoulder as he sighs.

Your tears slip free in betrayal, misting over your vision before you could even notice.

"Oh you fool. Come away with me. I'll never let you fall, my dear birdie... my sweet idiot."

He leans down and smooches your tears away delicately and smoothly.

Three days later.

Jason hasn't asked you anything about it.

He has been 'kidnapping' you for recovery. He somehow managed to persuade Batfam not to check on you. He did all the cleaning, hiding, and erasing the incident. That's his field. No doubt.

He attempts to comfort you countless times. Absolutely not his field.

He isn't the best comforter. But he learned it from the best. You.

He calls your bluff gently. He knows that your calm facade is bullshit. The way you talk and reassure him that you're coping with it well? It enrages and shatters him. He knows damn well how you feel about yourself.

"Look, kid. You're not failing anyone, at least not me. I know you better. You hear me? You still care and fight for Gotham. You're still you. You're still a hero. A flawed human. One incident doesn't take it away from you."

"Come on, sweetheart. Look at me. Cut that bullshit. Honestly I don't give a fuck about that Batcode, but since you care so much about that shit... Begrudgingly, I'll say that it is not a death sentence. It only guides."

"Pup, you taught me how to believe, accept, reflect and protect. Even when you forget that, I'll be the one who remind you. I'm not letting you go. I'm not losing you. Not like this. Not on my guard."

You just give him a half glare, half plea:

"Nice try, Todd. Thanks for practicing those lines for me 3 hours ago."

Jason freezes.

Right, wrong tone. Too emotional. You were intellectualizing things and brooding. Not that vulnerable anymore.

He fidgets as he sits near you.

"You're safe… I mean… I got you?"

You snort a little.

"You're horrible at this."

Jason's face flushes.

"WELL LISTEN YOU LITTLE-"

He cuts himself off and groans to his hands.

"I know… I'm trying. I try to remember how you did it for me."

He awkwardly shifts closer.

"So… anyways, you don't have to talk. You can just breathe. I'll… stay?"

You glance at him incredulously then slowly… you curl a small smile. Jason notices and his heart's pounding like he just won life.

Later, he storms into the kitchen with his clenching fists. He's determined to win your heart if he can't soothe you with words.

So he decides to grabs eggs and breads.

"Come on Jason. You got this. You fought Batman. You can win this little bastard's heart. It's just cooking. Bread. Pan. Bread. Eggs. Just sunny side up. His favorite. What could possibly go wrong?"

He thinks to himself.

As expected, the eggs slip from his grip and hit the floor with a loud splat 8 times. The breads are overcooked. Smoke alarms scream. He yells and waves a towel frantically.

You are watching from the doorway and crouched in your burrito blanket. You sigh. This is absolutely not the first time.

"Jason. Maybe… don't?"

Jason freezes. He's BLUSHING CRIMSON FROM EMBARRASSMENT.

"Okay… it's the thought that counts?"

You snicker a little and mutter:

"Just don't touch the eggs."

Next attempt. He boils the water for your lemon tea.

AND SOMEHOW HE MANAGES TO FLOOD THE COUNTER.

At the end, you have your cup of tea.

However, he's too excited to see your puppy grin, he crashes onto you. The tea spills over both of you. Yep, you're lucky that Jason's terrible at making tea or you two would have been burned. His tea is cold as hell. (He forgot your tea. He got distracted. He was consumed by his literature books midway.)

You two are drenched. He utters apologetically:

"You can drink… the air version. It's herbal… aroma-only therapy."

You lean over him, softly laugh and sniffle:

"You're the worst."

Jason wraps around your shoulders, rests his chin over your head and shuts his eyes:

"And the best at trying?"

"Mhm." You hum.

His chest has already tightened. He's trying to breathe. His heart is blooming frantically and warming up fiercely. Your smile just sucker-punched him in the best way. He's grinning like a fool before he could realize that. He feels overwhelmingly dizzy, relieved and proud. It's a miracle.

Finally, you're back.

…

You dislike this phase. You resent the 'leftovers'. They linger longer than you'd like. There are days that make you feel unfair. Your nerves tense at any noise that bring you back to that past figure in your own house - a place that should be neutral, safe. You don't do panic. Not even fear spirals. Just hyper-readiness. And there is disgust. The flicker of irritation when something reminds you of her… That’s not obsession or unresolved longing. She is a chapter, not a character. Like swatting a fly. Brief. Automatic. Protective. It's not even the intensity. It’s the unfairness keeps aching. You did your part. You left. You healed. You’re functioning. You’re calm. And yet your body still pays a tax the mistake you survived doesn’t. That part feels violating like that situation got to leave fingerprints on a system that wasn’t hers to mark. But an imprint is not ownership. It’s residue. Residue fades with repetition of safety. Slowly. Unevenly. Sometimes annoyingly late. But it will get better. Things do get better. You recognize what's happening. You show gentleness to yourself, not hyper intellectualization. This is survival instinct, which means your brain has already re-filed the event as “past threat,” not “current danger.” The nerves are just… lagging behind the update. That person who didn't get to stay didn’t change who you are. She triggered a defense you already had the capacity to build. And defenses can be lowered again selectively. And you keep telling yourself that until the day you can truly breathe again.

Chapter Text

You’re kneeling over him, hands shaking as you tie off the bandage around his side.

Blood stains your palms, the cloth, everything.

Jason, pale and half-conscious, still has the audacity to grin through clenched teeth, that maddening little smirk.

“First of all-” you snap, voice cracking as your hands press harder against the wound.

“You’re not dying, so stop whining.”

He groans at the pressure but chuckles anyway, like he enjoys watching you fume.

His mask is half off, sweat dampening his hairline, lips ghosting a smile.

“Kinda feels like I am. You're acting crazy over this little stunt, sweetheart.”

You glare at him, almost in tears, anger boiling over.

“Secondly, I’m acting crazy??? Brother, I’m not acting. This is me losing my mind because you won’t stop throwing yourself at bullets like you’re invincible or disposable. Who asked you to take hits for me? Stop treating me like a child. You obviously know that I could handle it. Your nose is so huge that you gotta poke at my business all the time."

Your words come out harsher than you mean, but your voice trembles with fear more than rage.

He blinks at you slowly.

His chest rises unevenly with every shaky breath, yet he’s biting back a laugh at your fury.

You tie the last knot in the bandage.

You hover over him, face flushed with tears and fury, and then spit out the last thing in a loud, sharp, unfiltered way.

“Last but not least, I’m not letting you die again. You promised. You promised to be my brother. You locked your pinky back. You made me believe in something real. Don't ever leave…”

That shuts him up.

His eyes widen, smirk faltering, lips parting like he forgot how to breathe.

For once, Jason Peter Todd, who always has a quip, always has something to rile you up with, is speechless.

Minutes later, he croaks out, voice hoarse.

“Did you just vow to me, kid?”

You instantaneously grab his collar, eyes burning with unshed tears, and snarl through your teeth.

“Shut up, Todd.”

Jason comes to hours later, groggy but alive.

You’re slumped against the wall beside him, arms folded, trying to pretend you haven’t been watching his chest rise and fall like you're an anxious husband waiting for his wife outside the operating room.

He stirs, groans, and lifts his head.

His mask is off now. His hair is a mess.

His lips shift into that blatant smirk, weaker this time.

His voice is gravel, ragged, rough but laced with mischief and amusement.

“So… I nearly bleed out on this floor, and the thing keeping me tethered to life is the fact you’re not ready to cry brotherlessly?”

Heat rushes to your face instantly.

You want to dig a hole and bury yourself right now.

“Shut up. I said that because you weren’t listening-”

“Oh, I was listening. Loud and clear.”

You scoff, looking anywhere but him.

“You were half-conscious. I doubt you even remember-”

Jason cuts you off confidently.

“I remember everything.”

Silence stretches. He struggles to sit up, leans forward, winces hard but refuses to stop until his face is just inches from yours.

He studies you like he’s memorizing every flicker in your eyes, every tremor in your lip.

“Say it again. I dare you.”

He whispers, heat burning behind his words.

He looks at you expectantly. It works every time. You don't know how to turn him down every time he weaponizes his stubborn pleading eyes.

“You promised to be my brother. Don't ever leave me, please.”

And bloody, bandaged, reckless Jason laughs victoriously.

A broken sound that melts into a groan.

Then cups your face with a shaking, bloodstained hand.

He kisses your face all over like he’s been waiting for centuries.

You flinch and try to shove him away gently.

"Come on, you're so sloppy. I can't believe Redhood will do something like this."

You're worried for the stitches tugging at his side, yet his grip on your jaw is firm, thumb brushing your cheeks to steady himself. Jason snarls as he pecks all over your hair, forehead, ears, and cheeks.

“Don’t you dare.” He hisses when pain hits him successively like warnings.

“You’re a lunatic freak.”

You whisper too softly.

Your hands have already been cupping his face carefully.

His skin is hot beneath your palms.

“Says the one who confessed mid-surgery like a sick idiot who is madly in love with me.”

He shoots back, half breathless, half mocking.

Finally, you manage to pull away, panting.

“Jay, you’re hurt.”

“I’ve been hurt worse,”

Jason growls as his forehead presses against yours. His breath is scorching over your lips.

“This? This is the only thing that feels alive. Don’t you get it?”

His hands slide down.

One grips your waist like he's trying to get you in a choke hold, the other one grasps at your nape.

He kisses your forehead achingly tender this time.

“I almost died thinking I’d never get this.”

A deep blush creep up your neck.

You shove him. Again. Deliberately press his wounds so that perhaps he will stop being cheesy.

Jason lets out this guttural laugh that’s way too smug for a man literally bleeding under bandages.

He hisses, clutching his side, but his grin stretches wider like a wicked fox.

“So you like it rough.”

“Shut your mouth, Red.” You retort.

He groans dramatically and clutches his head like you just stabbed him with the use of "Red".

“God, babe, keep manhandling me like this and I’ll never heal. Not that I'd complain.”

His eyes flick open, that blue gleam sharp even through exhaustion. He taunts you again and again with that smug.

“Go on, push me one more time. Maybe I’ll start thinking you’re trying to climb me.”

You freeze, face burning, and his smirk widens into something wicked.

“Jason. Peter. Todd.” you warn.

“Yes, darling?” he mocks, batting his lashes with infuriating sweetness.

And you shove him again, gentler this time, palms lingering against his chest.

He bites back a mocking laugh, grimaces from the pressure, then exhales.

“God, you’re killing me. At least I die wanting you anyways.” He rasps.

The moment you probably shove him down for the fourth time, he groans louder than necessary, throwing his head back like he’s on death’s door. Plus, he also tugs you along. He literally drags you onto top of his hips.

“Ahhhhhhhhh… oh god, my ribs, kid, you tryna finish the job?”

His voice is so pitiful, dramatic and whiny like you're the one who caused all of these puncture wounds and lacerations.

“You’re not dying. Stop being a baby.”

“Not dying, huh? Then why’s my killer straddling me right now?”

“Jason-”

You start, but he cuts you off with another exaggerated wail.

“No, no… don’t move, stay right there. If you let go, I’ll probably stop breathing.”

Then he skillfully and deliberately gives you the saddest puppy eyes.

You gape at him.

“Are you serious?”

“Dead serious. Better kiss me to keep me alive.”

You want to scream.

“You’re such an asshole.” You sigh in resignation.

Jason hums, smug and unbothered, fingers sneaking up to your wrist to keep you pressed against him.

“Yeah, but I’m your asshole. Now come on, make out with your patient before I flatline.”

And when you glare daggers into him, refusing, he suddenly drops the act and softens just enough to whisper.

“C’mon, baby. You’re the only thing that keeps me breathing anyway.”

You choke him.

He catches your hands before they could land on his neck then smoothly interlaces yours with his.

“Oh nooo… my pup is violent, I knew it. I should’ve written my will. Who gets my leather jacket, huh? Who-” He whines for the show with his tongue sticking out and closes his eyes.

“Jason.”

His voice drops mockingly low as he peeks at you with one eye.

“Guess I should be honored to die under the hands of someone so… mhm… clingy.”

“Clingy?” You bark, furious.

“Yeah. Look at you, sitting on me, all worked up, shaking like you’re flustered to straddle your boyfriend for the very first time.”

He licks his lips slowly, milking your reaction.

“Except… wait. I’m not your boyfriend, am I? Just the reckless dumbass you’re shoving around. Tragic. I think we need to fix that, don't we?”

Your ears turn crimson, and he lives for this very moment.

He releases your hands then clutches his chest and groans again and again.

“Oh no, my heart’s giving out… Quick! Somebody needs a hero. Come and save me. Emergency mouth-to-mouth.”

“Jason Todd, I swear to-”

“Say you love me and maybe I’ll survive. Otherwise? Flatline.”

He even gives you the world’s fakest death rattle.

You throw the roll of gauze at his face. He catches it with his good hand and laughs at your face.

“See? You do care. Told ya, you’re already halfway in love with me.”

But then, Jason abruptly slumps flat, arms falling limp at his sides. His head rolls dramatically to the side, and he goes perfectly still. Not a blink, not a twitch, he’s too committed.

“Jason.”

Nothing.

“Jason, cut it out.”

Dead silence.

You lean closer in annoyance, trying to check if he’s even breathing.

The bastard’s chest is rising deliberately slow, like he’s trying to fake the world’s most convincing corpse. He's a master at this trick.

“Jason Todd, if you don’t-”

And then you’re so close, hovering just over his lips to make sure, when suddenly his eyes snap open, wicked blue gleam catching yours. He surges up, hand cupping the back of your neck, crashing his mouth against yours. It’s messy, it’s desperate, it’s so Jason. He kisses you like he’s been waiting for this exact opening. You shove at his chest in outrage, but his legs somehow manages to tangle yours and pins you down against him. He only breaks the kiss to grin. He looks so smug and breathless.

“Ha. Knew it. You were gonna kiss me to save me.”

“You manipulative-”

“Sexy genius? Say it. Admit I’m your patient, your responsibility, your boyfriend. You already kissed me once, sugar, don’t half-ass the CPR now.”

And before you can bark back, he’s kissing you again, sloppier, hungrier, milking every sound and shove you give him, like he’s proving a point with his mouth.

The second you finally bite his lips to cut the kiss, you haul him up.

One arm over your shoulder, the other under his legs.

He immediately goes slack on purpose, like he’s dead weight just to make you struggle.

He sighs, all soft and pathetic just to ridicule you.

“Oh, my strong savior… what would I do without you?”

“Shut the hell up, Jason.”

“Careful if you carry me like this any longer, people are gonna think we just got married and you’re taking me across the threshold.”

You tighten your grip and stomp harder toward the safehouse.

Your whole body is going scarlet.

He notices, of course, as always.

His grin stretches wider.

“You’re blushing.”

His lips brush your ears as he lowers his voice.

“What’s the matter, baby? Never fantasized about carrying your man home before, brother?”

“You’re not my-”

He suddenly yelps dramatically, clutching his side.

“Ohhh! The wound, the wound! Don’t argue with me, it makes me bleed faster. You'd better just say yes to everything I tell you.”

You shove his ass up higher in your arms so he doesn’t slip.

He melts for a second when he feels how careful your hands are, how tight your hold is, like no matter how much he pushes, you won’t drop him.

“Y’know, you scare the shit outta me when you look that mad. Not ‘cause I think you’ll hit me. But ‘cause… it means you care too much. And I don’t deserve that.”

Before you could say anything with that mess he just dropped, he sneers and scoffs:

"But God, I love it when you're mad. It turns me on as well."

You shoot him with a dead glare after that.

You don’t even let him wiggle smugly once you cross the safehouse threshold, you slam him down onto the couch, hard enough that the cushions bounce under him. Passive aggressive. Classic.

Jason lets out a “theatrical” groan, clutching his bandaged side.

“Ouch. Rough with me already? Didn’t know we were skipping foreplay.”

His grin is razor sharp, but it falters when he sees your face. You're fuming, your jaw is tight, and your eyes are glassy.

“Shut. The hell. Up.”

You regret tossing him that hard immediately.

You kneel over him, ripping his ruined shirt away to check his wounds again.

His chest rises and falls quickly, not all from pain.

Jason tilts his head.

“This is basically fanfic fuel.”

You press the gauze hard to his wound, making him hiss through his teeth.

“Keep talking, Todd, and I’ll shove this roll of tape down your throat.”

“Threatening me is definitely someone’s kink. Admit it, you’d miss me if I actually went down tonight.”

Your hands freeze midway. You don’t look at him.

“Don’t you dare joke about that. Explain why you acted like that this night, brother.”

Jason suddenly goes quiet. No quips. No smug grin. His breathing is uneven like something inside him finally ran out of fuel.

“You wanna know why I did it? Because it’s easier. Easier to go in guns blazing, fists first, like I don’t give a damn. If I die fast, I don’t have to sit here and remember every single fucking time I wasn’t enough. Not for Bruce, not for Gotham… not even for you. I wasn't there to stop you, to protect you, to… When I saw your broken figure after her death-”

“Jason-”

“No. Let me finish.” He snaps.

“I… I saw you with Grayson, with the others. I thought 'Hell, maybe you don’t need me the way I need you. Maybe they take care of you better. Maybe I'm too broken to be with you. Maybe I'll drown you. Why do they look so good with you? You look like you belong to them. Another Golden Boy. So if I go out swinging?' At least it makes sense. At least it’s a choice.”

He finally looks at you, eyes glassy, and it’s the first time you’ve seen Jason Todd look young and vulnerable.

Your hand hovers, before you press your palm to his jaw.

“Idiot. You think I’d patch you up, drag your ass home, fight you tooth and nail if I didn’t need you?”

Jason’s lip trembles, and then he does something he never lets himself do.

He breaks.

His chest heaves, shoulders shaking, and he leans into your hand in a wordless plea to keep him from sinking like he finally succumbs to the weight he's been holding.

Like you're holding his heart there too. On your palm.

The unspoken weight, the guilt, the loneliness finally catch up with him in every ragged breath.

His eyes glistened, his lashes are dripping then his tears streamed down his cheeks rapidly. Thin tiny red veins are webbing across his whites slowly.

His ears and the tip of his nose flush pink.

His breathing is shallow and erratic.

He murmurs things you can barely make out. Half curses, half prayers.

When you tilt his chin up, he looks wrecked.

His hands start roaming. Tentative at first, then desperate, like he’s terrified you’ll fade if he doesn’t anchor himself to every inch of your skin.

He slides your shirt up clumsily, fingertips trembling against your ribs, tracing your heartbeat like it’s holy. He tries to feel you desperately, ensuring that this isn't just a fever dream.

When you arch into him, guiding his hand higher, he groans - a deep, broken sound that feels like confession.

“You don’t know what it does to me. Hearing you, feeling you… fuck, I’d crawl out of my grave a thousand times if it meant this.”

He mutters, his forehead presses against yours.

His touch is reverent now, tracing along your chest, pausing like he’s asking permission without speaking. You guide his hand higher, over your heart, pressing his palm flat.

“This is yours too. Always.” Your lips curl up and you whisper.

"Please?" He chokes on your words. His eyes drop to your lips and he murmurs, begging for another kiss.

"You never have to ask."

And then he kisses you again, but it’s different now. Slower. Deeper. More tender. Not just hunger, but devotion and worship.

Chapter Text

You've been pushing yourself around a lot lately. Of course Dick's worried even though he had no idea why on earth you act like a maniac gym rat out of nowhere. Absolutely not because you still feel guilty about that murder incident.

He’s always fussing, nagging you about eating, sleeping, staying safe.

You are utterly fed up. Yes, you do appreciate him being sweet and loving. BUT THIS IS SO BOSSY. And you have already known he's adept at rage baiting.

Therefore, you decide to take it to the next level.

One Sunday midnight, you text him:

“Fine. Capt, I’m pregnant. What now? Going to swaddle me too?”

Dick goes completely still.

He reads it once.

Twice.

Then his eyes widen in the way that only Dick Grayson can manage, like someone just told him the Justice League got replaced by evil clones again.

He doesn’t even text back right away.

He CALLS.

Immediate Face Time attempt.

You decline.

He calls again.

You decline again.

That only makes him panic harder.

Finally, he spams a flood of texts.

“Wait wait wait?! ARE YOU OKAY???”

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU’RE PREGNANT”

“OH MY GOD.”

“Oh my god oh my god oh my god.”

“Okay okay. First. I’m here for you. Don’t freak out. We’re in this together.”

“How. Just… how.”

He’s pacing his Bludhaven apartment, running both hands through his hair until it messes up.

He pulls out his phone to google “can men get pregnant” like an actual idiot.

He searches for five different verified articles before he texts again.

“Okay. Don’t freak out. It might be like… Kryptonian magic? Or multiverse science?”

“I’ll support you no matter what. Just tell me what you need.”

He’s literally ready to co-parent a baby because you sent one chaotic text.

He leaves voice messages now.

Breathless, panicked, soft and pleading ones.

“Hey babyyy… uh, it’s me. Just… I need you to answer. I don’t care if you’re scared. I’m not going anywhere, okay? We’ll figure this out. Together. Always. I'll book a consultation, okay?”

“Relax, brother. It’s yours.” You finally text back.

Dick freezes. He stares at the screen as if he just saw Bruce doing pole dancing in a pink dress.

He lets out this strangled half-laugh, half-groan. He replies in seconds:

"WE ARE NOT EVEN???"

"WE ONLY KISSED ONCE OR TWO."

“I’M GOING TO KILL YOU.”

“No. I’m going to marry you first. THEN kill you.”

You blatantly send back a text: "Don't raise your voice at me. I'm fragile in my condition."

He spirals that night and starts thinking about baby names.

The day later, when Dick asks about Alfred's experience of taking care of babies, he just blinks, sighs, mutters something about “young masters and their nonsense.”

Bruce overhears that.

He just rubs his temples, looking ten years older, and whispers to himself:

“I lost control of this family a long time ago.”

The next mission when you get hit in the stomach badly, he’s patching you up and scolding you about it.

“Careful, Nightwing… you’ll hurt the baby.”

He chokes.

An hour later when you’re pulling your suit off when Dick stomps around his apartment like you made dead jokes about his parents. His hair’s a sweaty mess from swinging rooftops, mask shoved halfway up like he forgot it was there. His eyes are blazing that righteous jealous blue.

“Were you flirting with her, baby?”

His voice cracks halfway through the accusation. Classic.

You blink.

“With who?”

“The one who called you ‘sweetheart’ three times. You smiled.”

He flings his gloves down like they offended him silently.

“Ohhh, you mean when she was giving me intel on a bomb threat? Right, sorry, next time I’ll scowl the whole time so you don’t think I’m trying to impregnate her with eye contact.”

“That's not- You grinned, sugarplum. That's my smile.”

You tilt your head innocently. Your voice rolls out perfectly calm:

“Relax. I’m not out there making babies with anyone else. You already knocked me up. Spiritually or whatever.”

He freezes.

“You’re… serious about this?” He groans.

Your lips twitch. And you keep taunting him, just to watch the color fade from his face.

“You want me to be serious.”

“Oh my god. I do.”

Now you’re the one frozen as he surges forward, wrapping his arms around your waist like you’re some fragile clay dolls, burying his face in your stomach with a shaky laugh.

“We will be the best parents.”

And that’s when you realize you’ve just emotionally detonated him.

Absolutely feral over a fake baby.

The next morning, you wake up to the smell of… toast, which is weird. Because Dick doesn’t cook before noon unless someone’s bleeding. You two always sleep like dead ass.

You sit up groggily, only for him to swoop in creepily.

“Don’t sit up too fast!”

He presses you back down with both hands.

“You could get dizzy.”

“I got out of bed.” You state flatly.

“Exactly.”

He sets a tray on a table across your lap. There are toasts, fruits, and lemon tea like you’re convalescing.

“You have to stay hydrated. For the baby.”

You narrow your eyes and go: “The baby?”

“Our baby.”

You watch in slow horror as he kneels beside the bed and starts tying your boots for you.

“Dick. I’m going on patrol tonight.”

“Absolutely not. You’re not leaving this safehouse until I know it’s safe for you. No jumping rooftops. No disarming bombs. No stress. I'll tell Bruce about this.”

“I always disarm bombs.”

“NOT WHILE YOU’RE PREGNANT.”

The word hits the air like a gunshot. But then he softens instantly. He cups your face with both hands then stroke your cheeks like you might cry.

“I’ll handle the city. You handle… growing our little acrobat.”

You choke on your own spit.

“… Our what?”

“Acrobat. They’ll be so tiny. Maybe they’ll have your expressive eyes. They should grow up looking just like you. I want a mini you running around and asking me to take them to the park.” He says dreamily.

You try to get up. He physically herds you back into bed with the strength of a man possessed.

By noon, he calls Bruce to say that you’re “taking a leave from patrol for… personal reasons.”

You choke on your juice and blurt out:

"I'M NOT PREGNANT."

He tilts his head and just ruffles your hair like you're throwing a petty tantrum.

"Denial is a common first stage."

And later he returns, holds things like trophies.

"Look. Baby monitor with night vision."

"Organic cotton clothes. So their skin won't get irritated."

"Tiny earmuffs for when you insist on bringing them to the rooftops."

"And the smallest blue mask."

Your soul just leaves your body while his eyes are wet.

"A bit early. But it's so symbolic. Their first mission." He sniffles while going on.

Your phone rings.

It's Bruce.

You pick up and grunt.

"I was not informed about your plans to have a child, son." Bruce says flatly.

"Because we're not having-"

"You are. Dick said so."

"DAD?! YOU CAN'T JUST… IS THIS EVEN BRUCE WAYNE???"

"I heard him crying on the phone with Alfred about tiny boots. He has never cried about anything that wasn't you this freely. So, yes, I believe him."

You clutch your head in pain.

"Oh. My. God."

"You are very young. This will be very difficult. But you will not be alone. I forgive you for violating my 'No dating your siblings' rule. At least you're not dating Jason. You will be fine. You will have support. Financially. Emotionally. I will help raise this child if you need."

"THERE IS NO CHILD, DAD." You whine while glaring at Dick.

"There will be. Dick will make certain of it."

And he shuts off the call.

You sigh and turn back at Dick.

"Brother, please. Listen. Just once. There is no baby."

"Yet. And they are already so loved." Dick kisses your forehead to settle it. Then he hums happily about a wall for a growth chart.

You spiral internally. God, he wants a family. Badly. You should have known it better.

47 minutes later, you're escorted into a clinic like a hostage, Dick's hand on your lower back like you're going into labor.

“I made an appointment! First prenatal checkup.” he beams at the receptionist.

You want to die. You want to dissolve into mist. You want to go back in time and slap your past self before you even think that joking about pregnancy is a good idea to payback.

They call your name.

You hiss.

“We can still leave-”

He’s already gently helping you onto the exam table like you’re about to lay a magical egg or something.

The doctor walks in, looking very tired and gives off 'I'm so done with this life' vibe. She glances at the chart. Then at you. Then at Dick.

“… So. Pregnant.” She sighs.

“YES. ISN'T IT AMAZING?” Dick answers too fast, smiling like sunshine.

You make a strangled noise.

“Actually-”

She lifts a brow. “Symptoms?”

“He’s been tired.” Dick says.

“And a little moody, but I love him more every day.” He adds, dead serious.

You bury your face in your hands.

The doctor sighs, picks up a handheld scanner, and goes:

“Alright. Let’s confirm.”

She presses the cold device to your abdomen.

A long pause.

Then she slowly lowers it and sets it down like she’s disarming a bomb.

“Sir, there’s nothing in there.”

“Excuse me?” Dick says faintly.

“Not pregnant. Zero. No fetus. No embryo. No signs.”

Your heart restarts. You are saved. The nightmare is ending.

And then you look at him. And he looks like someone just told him the sun exploded.

You get dragged back to the apartment in 26 minutes.

He throws you on his shoulder and spins around in resentment.

“Never text me like that again. My heart stopped. I saw my life flash before my eyes. It was all diapers.”

"You will pay for your crime, kid. We will have a baby. Adopted."

You're trying so hard not to throw up and clutch on his back tightly.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO-"

Chapter Text

It's supposed to be a standard undercover mission. You and Dick investigated thoroughly beforehand. Temptation operation. You went through her digital footprint. Dick inspected the databases about her ex-partners and behavioral patterns.

All match the same aesthetic: looking young and short, dark hair, brown eyes, Greek nose, fashionable and sarcastic.

You hummed and exchanged a knowing look with Dick.

So here you are, entering the gala with a charming smile and a sleek tailored navy suit. All formal and conservative. You blend in, casually socialize with others first so you're not perceived as laser-focused on anyone at all. You coordinate with Dick with a knowing glance. Dick's in charge of covering exits and monitoring surroundings. Half an hour later, when you subtly drift into the aim's proximity, you bump into her "by accident" while mid-conversing with another guess. You freeze, laugh awkwardly and crookedly at your own mistake and rub your hair in "guilt", acting like you're overwhelmed by the event.

She blinks. Once. Twice. Utterly caught off guard.

THIS IS HER FAVORITE-

As she looks up, probably about to scold you or kick you out of the event, she holds her breath instantly.

God, up close, you're pretty. Ridiculously beautiful.

You have that baby cheeks and those widen lovely sheepish chocolate eyes. Your hair is tousled from all of those scratches you're doing out of embarrassment. Your navy suit hugs you perfectly and the dark mysterious mask features your long lashes. You look like a walking devastating combination of sun beams and gloomy clouds. You look like you are a wolf-dog hybrid, pettable with canine teeth that could break anyone in this room.

"Oh… my. Sorry, that was your champagne, wasn't it? I'll make it up for you, ma'am." Your voice drops low, warm and velvety.

She cocks an eyebrow, thinking you are probably scatterbrained. But still pretty with that unholy voice. She finally breathes out and laughs softly, dazed.

"You… are fine. Really. No need to."

"Am I?" You look "genuinely" relieved.

"Wow, first, I got lost, then I knocked over this masterpiece of art… I should be banned from nice things." You give her a soft gaze while beaming, soothing her with your calm tone.

"Keep talking. Didn't know your mouth could run that way."

She rolls her eyes but moments later her attention lands on you like gravity.

Few minutes later, you two go on talking about this social event but your eyes keep following that one guy in the corner. She catches up and raises one eyebrow. Probably a spike of jealousy.

"You've been distracted."

"Uhm… sorry, ma'am. Is it just me? Or does Henry-" You tilt your glass slightly toward that tall man. "look like he still believes hair gel is a personality trait?"

Her giggle slips out before she could stop it.

You look so earnest about it, like gossiping is against your manners but you can't help yourself.

"I knew someone else noticed that." She said, drifting a half-step closer, her shoulder brushing yours.

"Purely observational." You mumble, all faux-innocent.

But internally? You could scream in victory. IT WAS TACTICAL TRACKING. You've been paying great attention to every understated frown from her to each attendants in the gala. You obviously know who she doesn't have a good impression with.

Then as if it were an accident, your eyes flick to the woman near the fountain.

"And Marina has been mentioning her Paris apartment so often tonight, I almost started applauding."

"Oh GOD. If she says ‘Champs-Élysées’ one more time, I’m throwing myself into the champagne fountain." She grins and leans even closer to you. You could now catch the faint trace of her perfume. A bit too much for your liking.

You're so sarcastic. She's so in love with you.

"Then I'll have to dive in… and rescue you, ma'am." You look so horrified at the thought, like the idea of ruining your suit is catastrophic, yet you'd do it anyways.

She circles half-around you, slow and graceful.

"You're trouble, you know that?"

"Me? I'm just here trying not to trip over the desert table, ma'am."

"Uh-huh? Then why… are you making me want to stand even closer?"

"I… genuinely don't know. Maybe I'm defective." Your fingers tighten slightly on the steam of your glass, flexing for the show, making her think that you're refraining yourself from touching her.

She smiles. A sharp, wicked, delightful one. And she corners you deliberately.

"Or maybe you're just… very very good at pretending, sweetie."

Your breath hitches, loud enough for her to catch. For the show, of course. You slowly rub the back of your neck and give her the quietest tone as if your armor went broken.

"You shouldn't stand that close. People might think you like me." However, your eyes just plead her not to stop.

"Maybe I do." She tugs your collar closer and her smile deepens.

She's too close, her gaze locks like she's already undressing your soul.

Sultry.

And then she drops it.

A flash of silver arcs from her clutch. A compact sphere clinks against the marble floor.

A hiss of chemical smoke blooms around them in an instant, swallowing the chandeliers, the champagne bubbles, the stunned gasps.

You cough once. Then your hand's immediately darting toward your concealed earpiece and freezes when a blade presses under your jaw. Sharp pain hits you. You've already bleeding. Badly.

Her voice curls like siren against his ear.

“Did you think you could charm your way past me, sweetie?”

The smoke thickens, stinging his eyes. You can’t see the guests, can’t see the exits. Only her silhouette framed by the firelight glow of the chandeliers, eyes glittering.

A shadow steps out of the smoke behind her.

Long purple coat.

Joker.

His laugh spirals through the chaos, piercing and giddy.

“Ohhhhh, this is rich! Long time no see, Robin? Surprised that I greet you this way?”

Before Dick can move closer to assist you, she wrenches your arm behind your back, locking cold steel cuffs around your wrists with an audible click.

“Don’t worry.” she purrs as Joker approaches.

“We’ll take very good care of our new plaything.”

Then the gala floor drops away as the trapdoor hidden beneath your feet springs open, the pair of them yanking you down into the dark, leaving the gala with an explosive bomb while Joker’s cackle echoes above like shattered glass.

Chapter Text

Cold stone bites at your cheek first. Then the metallic taste of blood.

You blink, vision sinking into strange shapes. Red curtains, purple shadows, a flickering bulb swinging overhead.

Metal cuffs anchor your wrists behind the chair. Your tux jacket is gone. So is your tie. Your shirt is half-open, collarbone bared to the cold.

“Well helloooo, Sleeping Beauty.”

The voice slithers out of the dark - Joker's voice.

A gloved finger slides along your jawline, down to your throat.

“I was hoping you’d open those pretty eyes before I got bored… Darling, you wound me last time. Adorable. You thought you could provoke me and get away with it-”

He leans nose-to-nose with you.

“And you almost did, didn’t you, lover boy?”

The "suppposed to be your target but now the hunter"’s laugh comes out behind your ears. She perches on the arm of your chair, swinging one long leg across your lap, caging you in as her lips graze your ears.

“You should’ve seen him. All clumsy smiles and flirty compliments. Thought he was cute enough to trick me.” She tilts her head to tell Joker.

“Almost worked.” And she turns back to you just to whisper.

“Aww, look at his glare.” Joker croons, clapping his hands.

“I’ll keep him. At least until he breaks.” He adds.

A trapdoor slams shut above them and the carousel bulb sways harder. The woman rises, trailing a nail down your chest, then walks toward the far wall where Joker’s toys glimmer. All blades, crowbars, cards, and gleaming restraints.

She glances back at you once, over her shoulder.

“Try not to scream too early. I like it better when you last.” She utters softly then leaves the room.

And then the play starts.

Hours.

Days.

You lose track of time.

Light never match. Clocks are never right. Meals come randomly. Sleeps are interrupted.

The third time you escape, you almost believe it.

Your cuffs are gone, you manage to pick the lock.

You sprint, blood slick in your shoe from the last chase, lungs tearing.

The door swings open to… not the Gotham skyline.

Just another room.

A replica of the gala ballroom, warped and off-color like a nightmare painting.

Joker lounges on the stage and applauds with both hands.

“Fast learner! Took you half the time this round. Next lap you might even make it to the fake parking lot!” He laughs and appears behind your back in seconds later.

“You ran cuter this time. More desperate. It suits you.” He whispers.

By the eleventh time, you stop believing.

Your feet run because they have to, but your eyes scan corners for the trap before they move forward.

And when the lights snap on again, when the laughter tunnels down the walls, when Joker’s voice oozes out of the intercom:

“Ohhhh, you almost escaped…”

You don't even flinch.

He steps from the shadows and catches your wrist mid-swing. His smile is slow, triumphant, soft like pity. Then he leads you back inside.

"Where would you even go without me? Where are your family when you need them the most? But here I am. I won't let you go. Never."

He praises you every time you stop running and wait for him to catch you out of exhaustion.

He hugs you after you sob or panic, pets your hair, even kisses your temple and whispers things.

"There… there. I like you broken. You're not any Golden Boy. You're my special toy."

"You ran so far. You made it so exciting. I'm so proud of you, little one."

"You know what? There's no way Batman could come and save you. We're on a gigantic submarine, darling. We're changing destinations every second."

He gives you a safe word to tell him when to stop. But he ignores it half the time. He makes you hope and be grateful whenever he does.

He lets you sink onto his lap. You don't want to. You just collapse to the ground and lose consciousness every time and Joker catches you, pulls you onto him while rocking you slowly.

The city feels wrong.

Sirens are wailing and neon is reflecting in puddles of rain.

Rain is pouring hard on Gotham.

Dick runs. His heart is hammering. His lungs are screaming.

He did what a tactical leader will do. He called backup.

But his guilt-driven Dick Grayson side isn't waiting for backup.

Because backup couldn’t undo this.

He shut down his comms when Bruce orders him to stay put and wait.

He’d lost you.

Cipher. The kid he promised- no, swore that he’d protect. And now… gone.

Each corner he turned made him feel smaller, like the night was folding in on him.

The rain is relentless, drumming against the rooftops and slick streets, each drop like a small, cold reminder of his failure. Gotham is gray, heavy, and suffocating. Water runs down the jagged edges of the buildings like the city’s own tears.

Rain lashes against his face, stinging his eyes, washing away the sweat and grime of the chase, but not the guilt. He can feel it in every fiber: the city itself seems to punish him.

Each distant scream feels like a chorus of accusation. Gotham’s cold wind bites through him, and in the rhythm of the storm, he imagines the city whispering: “You failed again. You’re too late.”

The rain isn’t just water; it’s final judgment. It soaks him, weighs him down and mirrors the fury inside his chest. He sees your terrified face in every reflection, every puddle, every distorted shadow. The city is a cage, a mirror of his guilt, and he is trapped inside it.

With every step, rain-soaked boots slapping against wet concrete, he moves forward, heart hammering not for himself, not for pride but for the boy he failed. Gotham doesn’t forgive him. Gotham doesn’t care. And in the storm, he doesn’t either. He just runs, desperate, punishing himself even when the city punishes him mercilessly. He curses himself under his breath.

“I should’ve… I should’ve-”

His hands clenched into fists. His jaw tightens so much it hurts yet he doesn't care. His mind keeps replaying every Joker's word and Jason's traumas. He can't lose another brother. Not to Joker.

“I’ll find you.” He growled, his voice is barely human. “I swear… I’ll find you. And I’ll-”

And his tears burst out when his head is flooded by the memory of your laughs and the times you called him "brother", leaned over him like he's your world, trusted him even when you'd known that he'd fail.

"Damn it Grayson. Act like his brother. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I can't breathe. I can't think. Not like this. Not like I lost Jason. Please please please."

Chapter Text

Joker has been sending tape records. Your voice comes first fragile, terrified, and trembling with every syllable. Whimpers echo through the speakers, punctuated by the sharp, gleeful laughter from Joker.

"Nightwing… look at what happens when you’re too slow. How tough, he never called out anyone's name at all. Maybe… maybe big brother can’t save him after all. You can't save them all, can you? Your little bird or Gotham?"

Across the Batcave, Barbara presses a hand to her mouth, blinking rapidly. Tim’s jaw is clenched so tight it hurts; he’s already mentally calculating Joker’s possible locations, alternate escape routes, contingencies but nothing fits. Every tape record gives nothing away or mixed signals about the locations. Damian has already smacked every crime offender more brutally than normal and every single line coming from his mouth is "This is for my brother.". Bruce clenches his fists and feels the weight of every life in Gotham and the life of his son. Jason is in the dark. He's been struggling to stop Penguin’s gangs from blocking streets and Riddler from hacking infrastructure. Every villain in Gotham is working together to break the city. And no one is going to inform him about you being captured after all. They all know what will happen if anyone slips a second away from Batfam's coordination. It will cost lives. The only person they couldn't stop was Dick. He has been shutting down every contact with Batfam the moment Dick was told to wait. He doesn't need to know anything else.

Finally, Dick manages to find you. Joker is there, crouched on a steel beam above, grinning like this is the best show he has ever seen.

"Ah, the mighty Nightwing finally shows up! Took your sweet time, didn’t you? Only 6 days, 21 hours and 25 minutes." Joker’s voice echoes like a cruel melody.

Dick doesn’t answer with words. He moves like lightning, launching into a brutal, deadly and calculated assault. His strikes are precise, lethal, honed over years of training but mixed with guilt, fear, and the raw need to undo what he failed to prevent. Joker tries to evade, to toy with him, but Dick’s focus is absolute.

In the chaos, Dick reaches the chains and yanks you free. You use all your strength and body to hold Dick back shakily, all blood-soaked and broken through from the torment.

"Please… brother. Stop… this is not you. I don't want you like this…" You mumble desperately and weakly.

Dick freezes mid-strike, one second before destroying Joker's skull. Joker, who is wrecked, frustrated and disoriented, retreats into the shadows with a parting cackle, leaving Dick and you in a blink. Dick scoops you up tenderly like you're his long-lost wife 30 years ago. His eyes finally meet yours. You gaze at him with wide eyes and pure panic like you are half-terrified that this is another fever dream and half-stunned that someone is now here to save you. His eyes are undeniably soft, longing, watery and filled with guilt and relief like he's vowing to you silently. You bury your face in his chest and the tears spill silently.

Dick whispers, almost to himself:

“I’ll fix this. I’ll make it right. You’re not alone. Not ever. I've got you, little one. Sleep, baby brother. I'll handle the rest.”

And just like that, you close your eyes for the very first time in days in hope again.

Chapter Text

Gotham crisis is solved, finally. But things aren't the same.

Dick has been overcompensating recently. He starts shadowing you like a ghost, always behind your back, making sure you never disappear from his sight again. He's been treating you like glass, talking in that baby tone even when he's frustrated at you like he's afraid you might break if he raises his voice. Every scrape, every bruise, every cut is examined over and over again after each mission. He kneels down with a med kit while murmuring so inaudibly that almost only him could hear.

"I've got you. I've got you. You're okay. Just stay with me, baby. Alright?"

He kisses every scar on your body so reverently and gently like he's a sinner trying to pray for forgiveness. He won't let you go anywhere alone. Even when you're studying, somehow he manages to take a daytime job in Gotham next to your school. He always picks you up now, insists on being there with a grin like it's a joke, but his grip on your shoulder won't take a no from you. And he gives you those eyes - the ones that are too bright, too warm, too obsessed and too desperate, like he's trying to memorize your face every second.

"If you ever try to leave me, I'll find you, beloved."

He taunts you when you whine about it. But you know he's not joking about it.

You get frustrated and try to shake him off, Dick doesn't get furious. He gets quiet. That's worse. Because you know how heavy this is, he's blaming himself all over again.

"Urgh, stop shielding me. I could handle this. Fine fine fine. I forgive you even when you did NOTHING wrong, Capt. Does that satisfy you?"

"You're not ready, sunshine. I'll be here for you."

He embraces you closely while peppering your temple with small pecks. His eyes are different now. They used to be full of light. They are still blue, yet it's a different kind of blue. They are frantic and deep, clouded with fear and desperation. He gets more touchy. He always presses a hand lightly behind your back. His fingertips often ghost on your head. He hooks his arm around your shoulders every time he could. Whenever you lean forward at the computer, Dick drags himself behind your back like a living blanket. His chin rests on your head while his fingers trace your facial features silently. Whenever you talk, he settles his hand on your nape like he's grounding you. But it feels more like he's grounding himself. He always find excuses to check your pulse. His thumb slides over your wrist and he sighs in relief every time.

"I just need to feel you a bit. Just for a second. I won't survive without it."

Everything just to convince that you're really here, really breathing, not another ghost Joker left behind to haunt him. He doesn't want another hallucination like Jason. No…

Jason's passing by the manor to pick you up. It's been a while. He has no idea why you have been dodging him recently. All stupid reasons. You have no rights to say no.

Then he catches Damian. He kneels down in front of you and checks your bandages carefully and silently while Alfred hovers nearby with a tray of trembling tea. Bruce stands behind like a statue carved from guilt.

Then Jason's eyes drop to your skin.

Those purple and black bruises, too methodical, too cruel. The deep, cruel welts run across your body. The hauntingly familiar spiral pattern burned into your shoulder. Joker’s favorite, his signature, of course Jason knows. He's been through it.

“You knew, Cipher Wayne.”

His voice drops an octave. For the very first time, he calls out your government name.

“All of you knew.”

“Tell me this isn’t him. Tell me this isn’t Joker.”

The betrayal hits harder than the news itself. Because Jason loves you fiercely. You're his brother. He's your family too. And the idea that you went through that. You're alone, bleeding, screaming and nobody told him? Nobody gave him the chance to be there?

It rips him apart.

“He NEEDED ME. And you all locked me out like I was some goddamn liability.”

“I could’ve gotten to him. I would’ve gotten to him.”

"Is this what y'all thought about? Just because y'all know that I will choose him over Gotham. So y'all took the chance to save him away from me? JUST BECAUSE I WANT TO BE HIS BROTHER."

He throws something. His own helmet, chair, anything just to break something, because if he doesn’t, it’ll be him breaking instead. His breathing turns into growls. His eyes are wet, hurt and furious.

No one says anything. He stops and strides in front of you.

"I'm hurt, you know that right? You really played along with this fucked up family. You really left me in the dark after every fucking thing. You didn't bother to show up or say a damn thing about Joker. Do you ever see me as your family? Do I ever mean something to you?"

"You really see yourself that way. You really think Gotham is worth-saving than yourself. Cool. A classic selfless hero. It's so disgustingly you. I should have known it better."

“God. You must’ve thought nobody was coming.”

"I TRUSTED YOU. I THOUGHT YOU WOULD BE ANYONE DIFFERENT FROM THIS FAMILY. YOU MADE ME TRUST AGAIN THEN SHATTERED ME ALL OVER AGAIN."

His voice goes hoarse from all the screaming.

“You're just a kid…”

You finally find your voice. It's breaking and you've already teared up.

"Jay…"

"You don't get to call me that. Never again."

He mumbles quietly then storms out before you could say another word.

Chapter Text

You have already trained under the best Bat boys. Everyone thinks you're the prodigy, golden boy. Yet you feel defined by other people's shadows.

You don't want protection. You know that no one could save you every single time you fall. You had severe trust issues since Joker incident but it's valid.

You just want to be enough. Enough for Gotham. Enough for your family.

You crave independence. You want to be the one who protects your loved ones and your city.

You don't want to live with Dick's guilt. You know he's trying to make it up. You know he meant good for you. It's not like you cannot take his suffocating side, it's just… you want to grow big and make a change. Dick will never have to blame himself every time you fail again.

You cannot undo the betrayal. You shattered Jason. And for the very first time, your brilliant and emotionally attuned brain cannot come up with a way to face Jason.

Therefore you flee. Far and far away from Gotham. From your family.

Traveling abroad allows you train isolation, where you aren't "Bruce's kid", "Batman's sidekick" or "Nightwing's little brother", but just yourself. For the first time, your victories and failures are purely your own. This is liberating and terrifying.

You don't hug or say goodbye in person. You know you won't have the guts to leave if you see your beloved ones.

Hence, you leave notes.

One for Bruce.

"Gotta level up, Dad. Don't miss me too much.

Your dearest son,

Cipher."

One for Alfred.

"I'll miss you. Take care, boss. You're always the best.

Your beloved,

Cipher."

One for Damian.

"Don't cry. You will always be my favorite baby bat.

Your dummy,

C."

One for Tim.

"You're messed up. As always. Hope the next time we see each other, you are still you.

Your mess,

C."

One for Dick.

"Dear Capt,

Don't find me. Just trust me, we will be fine. I don't make promises that I cannot keep. But if I could, I will come back to you someday. Just wait. Or don't wait at all. You are enough to me. You will look after everything for me, promise?

Yours,

C."

And many letters for Jason.

One when it's the first letter. One when he is sick. One when he can't sleep. One when he feels insecure. One when he's sad. One when he's annoyed. One when he's bored. One when he's crying. One when he's mad. One when he needs motivation. One when he's happy. One when he needs to know why he matters so much to you. One when it's his birthday. One when he gets a new friend. One when he feels insecure. One when he's tired. One when he's overthinking. One when he feels lonely. One when it's the last letter.

Not just words, you leave sweets, small interactive games, doodles, pictures, stickers and origami in them.

Well we know who's the real favorite boy here-

Ahem.

Anyways, Bruce goes completely silent at first. He rewatches old mission footage of you over and over. He keeps your room untouched, lights off, just… waiting. And his stare lingers at the kids looking slightly like you for too long, but none of them have the depth and complex of your eyes. He also secretly leaves comms open on your frequency every night. He buys a star and names it after the day you left. He catches himself looking for reports and records instinctively, hoping to find your news. But he stops himself mid-way every time. He wants to respect your choice.

Alfred simply begins to move slower, pausing at doorways as if half-expecting you to appear, shoulders sagging just slightly more each day. He’s seen the Bat family fracture before, but it doesn't make it any easier. He still sets your place at the table every morning. No one tells him to stop, and he never comments on it. He still washes and folds your clothes, leaving them neatly in your dresser, as if you’re just… running late. At night, when the others are out patrolling, he wanders the halls alone, checking the windows you used to sneak out of, the steps you used to skip on the grand staircase. Sometimes he pauses at the grandfather clock and whispers:

“Just come home, my dear.”

He sits at the kitchen table in the dim light and talks softly as if you’re still there. Asking how training went. If you’ve been eating enough. If you’re warm. Then he quietly collects your untouched lemon tea, washes it, and sets it back on the shelf for tomorrow.

Dick blames himself instantly and thinks he pushed you too hard or didn’t protect you enough. He smiles and jokes through patrol, forces everyone in the cave to eat together and insists that you're probably fine but cries in the shower afterward. He keeps turning corners expecting you to be there. He keeps writing texts he never sends: “Please just tell me you’re okay. I'm sorry I didn't make you feel enough to stay." He talks to you mid-mission every time because he keeps forgetting that he's going solo now… or he's just hoping that somehow you will return and bite back in your signature petty talk as always. He starts overworking to the point of immediate collapse after coming back to his apartment in the hope that exhaustion will dull the ache. He chuckles bitterly to himself when he reads your note.

"Just trust me, we will be fine? I don't want to be fine without you. But I'll handle the rest for us. You could fly high, baby bird. I'll always behind your back."

Damian slips in your room daily, sits on the floor with his knees up and head down, just staring at the bed and beefs about you being idiotic but moments later he goes: "You might change your name. You changed your mind and left this fucked up place behind but I know... I know you will come back. I'm not giving up on you. You won't leave me. Not like that. You're different." He leaves little gifts in your room weekly so that when you come back, you will be reminded that you're stupidly loved not just by words. He holds your hoodies for comfort while sniffling. No one sees that. He doesn't allow anyone to see that. He starts training harder like if he's strong enough he could drag you back home by force if he has to. But he won't. He respects you enough even when you're just pathetically dumb. He draws you like he's afraid he will forget you. You're living in his art pieces. Every small corner of his artworks, there will be a silhouette of you. He snaps every time anyone talks like you have already gone. He whispers to himself every single time anyone genuinely disturbs his soul: "It's okay, Damian. Cipher would never."

Jason is the worst.

He literally forgets he was resentful at you (Not like he doesn't understand why you kept him in the dark)

It's just his grief beats his resentment.

He saved a child the other day and saw some qualities of you in her. She has that pouty cheeks and mouthy talks. From that day on, he kept imagining what it would feel like to have a kid with you.

He's not a man of family.

Never. Ever.

You two couldn't keep a golden fish without making it a criminal empire around it.

He wouldn't make any sense in a marriage.

He even lies in his journal. He kills in daytime and he lies about it at night.

You'd choke on the smoke the day you come home to him.

Yet the vivid image kept running through his mind.

He did.

Want a child.

With you.

Just like you.

He has already thought about which school the kids are attending and how he will tell them about your legacy with him.

He imagines how you would argue and name the kid "Burger Todd" while he's trying so hard to name the baby properly for the sake of their future. Maybe Marlowe… He reads a lot. Old poetry, plays, stuffs to keep his head straight. Marlowe was written like every line was a fistfight with God. It'll be nice to pass that kind of fire down. Or his dad's name. He knows he wasn't exactly father of the year but he wants to give him a second chance through someone else.

The kid will probably say something stupid just like you do.

"Keep your fries close and your enemies closer."

He even bets you will name the child "Bruce Wayne II" as well.

He will probably be half sobbing half growling when the kids actually like "Burger Todd" name better.

He came back from dead for this. He fought Batman for this. He terrorized Gotham and that will be his legacy? A goddamn Burger Todd cult?!

He can't believe he let himself fall in love with you. And you will probably doom your child to lifelong bullying after he bled for you, ripped his soul open, gave you his dead dad's name, his books, his hell and his heart.

Yeah he's literally imagining a "what-if" fight with you in his head.

Pets could work too if you don't want kids.

How absurd.

But he enjoyed the thought that one day you will come home, come back to him.

That kept him alive, believe, going.

If you ever come back home to him, he'll kill you for making him yearn for too long.

Missing you feels like having to be patient or the coffee will burn his tongue.

Waiting means protecting himself and you from the pain.

He doesn't want to chase you. He wants to see you shine.

But if he waits too long, it'll get too cold.

But sometimes he can't help but wander if stopping you from leaving will help the burn stays for a bit.

He refuses to delete your contact and still mutters to your old voicemails.

He holds the teddy you joking gifted him on Father's day. He sees that bear as a child of divorce and rants about you.

"You know what? Your dad is really a heartless heartbreaker. He will need to pay for child support when he comes back later."

He hates how he still cares.

He hates how he still tries to find news about you.

He hates when there's no "us" anymore.

He hates when you don't blabber until his ears explode.

He hates that he misses you.

He hates your stupid letters. (He secures them like they are blessings from God.)

He hates that he doesn't resent you for leaving without a proper goodbye. A hug. A kiss. Maybe so?

He hates that he doesn't know when you will come back.

He hates that he is willing to wait anyways.

He hates that he believes you will bounce back someday.

He hates that this feeling won't disappear.

He will be much better. He will be the home you could run back to. He will try harder so that you won't have to run and be scared that you will die alone ever again.

He closes his eyes and all he sees is you.

All the small things you do.

In the room of full people he has ever met from the day he was born, he will find you first.

He catches the glimpse of couples on the street. He wants to be happy for them, but all he could feel is bitter.

Not moving on hurts, but it means you staying longer in his memory.

He sometimes destroys himself just for you, just to see if you would come back. You didn't. That broke him. Not the blood or bruises.

He scribbles your name first to test a pen. He still does. Every single time.

The cupboards are full of unopened food. He doesn't have much of an appetite lately. But his hands automatically reach for the exact mug you always used. The chipped navy one, way too small for his hands and he fills it with herbal tea even though he hated it that way.

He doesn't add sugar. You never did.

He laughs bitterly and faintly. He leans against the counter, takes a sip and grimaces at the bitter taste. Fuck. You have a sweet tooth just like him. But why do you have a spot for this shit? So fucking bland. But he doesn't stop drinking.

He goes back to the couch, tosses his jacket aside then… folds it into a neat square before it hits the cushions. He freezes.

You used to do that. Every time.

Military shit. He despises that.

He starts humming, tuneless little tones you used to make while waiting for him to come and sit near you.

"You are still here…"

He reaches for his comms and places it on the table facing your side, exactly where you always put yours after patrol. He waits for a moment, his eyes linger on the empty space near it… Just in case you come back.

And he even tilts his head when he thinks like you do, stretches his arms overhead exactly like you did after a long mission. BUT THAT'S SO SILLY??? He does it anyways.

He is mimicking your small habits. Instinctively and deliberately simultaneously.

He starts having flings again the other day.

He scribbles in his "supposed to be journal".

Mostly it's about his lamest notes and jokes.

There it is.

The page about his "current partner".

Three words.

Three.

"She's okay."

"Present, I guess."

"Breathes air well."

"Functions. Good. Cool."

"Okay human being."

"She tries… sometimes."

"Smile? Works sometimes."

"Not wow enough."

"Not that laugh."

"Wrong eyes. Again."

Those are… so dry… complete detachment… like he's trying to finish some academic assignments.

And he turns the page, it's like stepping into another world entirely. TWENTY-ONE WHOLE ASS PAGES DEDICATED TO SOLELY YOU. It's about how your laugh hits him in the chest like a shockwave, how your eyes spark up when you're plotting against him, how your fresh scent lingers on his jacket even when you stopped hugging him, or the ache when you're near, the panic when you give him those glassy eyes.

He rereads the pages all over again and tries to burn it. EMBARRASSING. But it's his soul. He can't…

He almost passes out when he catches himself writing the "You're my religion and your love is the only faith that I cling to." HELLO??? THIS IS NOT EVEN HIM, THAT'S HIM BEING POSSESSED BY-

He doesn't know anymore. He can't name one creature that's equivalently insane.

Then he dreams. He dreams about some mysterious forces rip you and him apart. When you two are cornered, you blurt out in tears with desperation.

"Will we ever meet each other again in afterlife?"

"Will we ever be happily together again?"

"Will we still love each other the same way we did?"

He cries and repeats the answers brokenly.

"YES. YES. YES."

"Why does this sound like goodbye forever?"

"Because it is."

"I can't do this alone."

"Yes you can."

"Well I don't want to, please..."

Then he wakes up with tears still streaming down onto the pillow. It's just a dream. But why does he feel like you just left him yesterday… He doesn't have the slightest idea. He just knows that… in his subconscious mind, he still craves you that much.

Chapter Text

Tough is a poor word to describe your first training day.

It's either you who bounce back invincible or never get to see the sunrise tomorrow.

You barely survive by the end of the first hour when your new mentor makes the final judgment in his head: you weren’t just another student. You are the one. The favorite. The one whose limits were meant to be pushed the hardest, because he sees something in you that could not only survive but excel under the harshest conditions.

Then he tugs off his peridot bracelet, slides it into your hand like it's destiny or some rituals.

Other mentees notice too. Everyone, trainees and seniors, now all glare at you like your mentor just declared war. No one in years has ever got that treatment, not even his own son. It's both punishment and favoritism.

The next hour when you step into the training hall again, your mentor rips off and breaks your muzzle in a stern and calculated way. No autotone tech, no filters, no protection. Just you and your own raw voice, sharp and deep.

“Weak. You will need your voice more than this piece of trash. Control it or it will control you."

You shallow hard, and your voice has already breaking. It's Alfred's gift. And yet, you obey. You have to obey.

You get trained like a living instrument. You have to match specific frequencies on command and every student's tones. Fail? Anyone is allowed to strike a pressure point and reset you. Fear, anger, calm, seduction while physical exertion occurs around you. Other trainees are allowed to destabilize you, requiring you to stay precise and controlled regardless of mental state.

Then comes your uniform: Stark white with a slight touch of gold, signaling to every peer exactly where you are. No hiding in shadows. Every movement is visible, every misstep is obvious, a beacon of attention. Your mentor’s cold gaze never leaves you as the seniors circles, watching, waiting for the right moment to pounce at you. You've already favored with the greenish bracelet, now even your costume gets refined and personalized. You get outnumbered in 2 minutes and a quarter.

Every move you made was analyzed, corrected, punished if even slightly off. You are pushed harder than the seniors, harder than anyone, because your mentor knows that you are adaptable. Quick. Sharp. Dangerous if untamed.

By mid-afternoon, your mentor blindfolds you. Every small sound, every vibration, every subtle movement in the room becomes your guide. The first strike isn't gentle, not even a tap on your shoulder, it is a blow to your ribs. Weeks passes, the blindfold sticking to your sweat-soaked face, and slowly and painfully, you adapt. You could anticipate attacks without looking, countering with precision that no one could compete.

Your mentor doesn’t pause. The challenge only escalates: mute magicians are specifically hired to counter you. You fail and get beaten down to the hell. You can't trust your eyes, you can't rely on your hearing fully anymore. You can't match the creep they fling at you.

Your mentor tugs you up like you're some broken disobedient mutts.

"I know you can't hear me but you can see me. So watch me. WATCH. ME."

Months. You learn the art of mirroring movements, reading body language and predicting possibilities.

The restraints are introduced briefly later. Your hands were cuffed. Your wrists are tight, forcing you to fight using your body’s momentum, kicks, strikes, slams and flips. You have to master your strength in unexpected ways, compensating for what you couldn't grip. Every failure means starting over.

You barely have time to breathe before the next escalation: restricted legs. No leaping, no sweeping kicks. You have to fight with half his mobility, learning balance and momentum in ways you had never needed before. The air burns your lungs, his muscles scream, sweats sting your eyes but you adapt. Again and again.

Then almost all at once. Blindfolded, cuffed hands, chained legs, facing multiple opponents, some attacking silently, some visibly, some coordinating as a team, you have to operate on instinct, on memory, on calculation. Pain, exhaustion, frustration, humiliation are all collided in a whirlwind of chaos. And in the most inconceivable way, you don't just survive, you beat every single one down.

And Kael, your mentor's only son, who is leaning on the tree nearby, couldn’t hide the smirk tugging at his lips.

"This 'out-of-where' kid got old man's approval from the first day huh? I guess the taste is genetic. He picks up a good one this time." He murmurs to himself.

When you finally glance back, meeting his gaze, Kael immediately feels the raw and intense pull. Your eyes flick over them, calculating, unreadable, and Kael’s heart or whatever he thought he had left for rationality stuttered. He could see the tiniest twitch in your jaw, the subtle narrowing of your eyes in just a tiny second, and it's perfect. You're sharp, dangerous, alive and Kael wants every inch of you.

Kael.

A cocky and manipulative strategist, hacker loves riddles, puzzles, and schemes more than emotions. He is totally unpredictable, morally opposite to you, playful, mischievous and chaotic. He has just got back to his father recently for poking fun at the old man after years of traveling abroad to escape his father's expectations. His relationship with his family isn't the best around here. He wasn't exactly expecting anything else. However, he caught you from your early training days. He got half intrigued, half frustrated because he couldn't read you easily.

His sharp eyes are amber. His dirty hair is always messy because he doesn't care but he does look good like that. He always carries gadgets for combat. He's lean but deceptively strong build, moves like a ghost. And there are piercings. A small nose ring that sharpens his profile, another below-eyebrow piercing that catches the light when he looks up. His ears are the real statement, like multiple silver hoops and studs, heavier on the left side, giving him a deliberate asymmetry. It feels intentional, unbalanced in a way that makes him more dangerous than decorative. And the scars... they are all over his arms and neck hinting at a history you will probably not want to know.

He laughs softly when people take things too seriously and often disappears for days without explanation. A weird creep.

“You’re not from around here.” Kael says with his smooth and teasing voice as if challenging you to prove yourself.

“Define ‘around here’” You bristle.

Kael laughs softly, a sound rare and fleeting, but it carries warm, disarming, almost dangerous effects. He strides to you and tilts his head. His eyes lock at yours.

"I like you. Let's be friends." He says casually while throwing an arm around your shoulders and randomly flinging at you a little trinket from Vietnam. You're one second before flipping him into the ground for being so touchy. That's also when you catch a glimpse of his souvenir.

A tiny conical hat attached to a mantis-colored keychain.

You miss your mom. Well, the biological one. You miss your hometown, too. It's been a while.

And you freeze. Just two seconds before grabbing the keychain with a small thank you. And an additional glare. He grins like he won life.

However, your walls are still steel, your trust fractured from the Joker incident, and attachment feels like a trap. Kael, on the other hand, is completely captivated already. So yeah he's been orbiting around you like you're his new Sun recently.

“You're following me around like a damn stray.”

“I’m not following. I’m… observing. Learning. Call it curiosity.” He replies blatantly with a wink while tilting his head.

“I don’t do attachments. Not anymore.”

“Funny. Because I don’t think you’re the type to just walk away from someone that sparks your attention.”

“You could get those ideas in your dreams instead.”

“Oh I'll make them real then.” He rolls his eyes and utters in that mocking tone.

Without warning, Kael brushes a strand of your hair. It's light and teasing.

"Stop before your father gives me the sonless stare." You dodge rapidly.

Kael grins, leans even closer. His chest almost brushes yours.

“I’m not stopping. He could cry about it. You react so well. It’s cute. Adorable. Definitely a love language.”

“YOU READ TOO MUCH SMU-”

Kael presses a finger against your mouth.

“Shhh… just feel it. You hate it, but you’re reacting. That’s communication. That’s intimacy.”

"Oh my goodness, I think your father will kill me if he sees this." You grunt and shove him down to the ground in a brief second.

"Kinky. I could like tha-"

"SHUT."

Days later you've been dodging him like he's some buzzing bees in your ear. But he knows how to get your attention. Specifically? Beat you to hell. Kael somehow outdoes you all over again in every field with a smug while brushing hands along your shoulders and arms. Chest even.

“Seriously? How do you always-”

You're fine with being beaten. You're used to it. But THE TOUCHY FREELY PART.

“Always what? Outdo you? Oh… is that frustrating? I like the look on your face. Keep this up and I might start to think that you enjoy being underneath me.” He purrs with his soft tone but it's dripping with plotting.

"NOT THAT."

"It's the proof that you care. Come on, I need to get at least something from ya. And don’t think I care about your mentor or even him noticing. So don't go with the 'Oh I'm gonna kill you and your dad isn't going to be happy about it' crap."

"I'll leave next week. Go cry with your parental figure about it. No more haunting games."

"Then I’ll leave him in a heartbeat for you.”

That shuts your mouth.

So yeah, you two are traveling around the world to train together. You begrudgingly tolerate him because you cannot shove him off. And… maybe he's trust worthy than your estimation. He follows you around and beams excitedly whenever you two come across his favorite countries. To be honest, he's an excellent tour guide with stupid sunglasses. You two bond. He jokes about being "the best duo" from time to time, you just laugh softly and go "Don't get that go to your head, Kael."

So anyways, Kael's been going full-on ultra Vietnamese husband mode the second he senses your half-Viet roots and nostalgia for home. Like he’s just… absorbing all the Vietnamese shit and immediately deploying them to win your heart. Yes, he's so ready to be a Viet husband for you.

Kael starts randomly ordering bánh bèo at 4 AM like “I KNOW YOU MISS THIS, I GOT YOU” while making that smug grin because he knows it’s one of your favorite dishes. He even pulls out his impossibly tiny conical hat just to look cute while making extra sweet chè bưởi from scratch. Now he's also secretly learning all the Vietnamese curse words so he can sass other people in your dialect. You startle when he slips out "đụ mẹ mi" mid combat with others with a fast rough north-central regional accent. What? That's actually quite impressive. It's well known in Vietnam for its hard imitation.

That's not even the end of it. Kael decorates everything with peach blossoms, kumquat trees and bánh chưng in Tết holiday, insisting “This is tradition now, it’s our tradition.” You let out the sweetest scoff and nudge him. Moreover, he starts dropping nuclear bombs - Vietnamese pet names like “cục cưng,” “bé con”, "bé cưng", "vợ yêu", “mèo con”, "bé yêu", "yêu dấu", "yêu thương", "bạn bé", "ông xã" every 3 words even when you try to be serious. You almost choke on your own spit.

Furthermore, Kael hijacks every conversation with local idioms he barely understands but swears are weirdly accurate and authentic, making you laugh and roll your eyes simultaneously. Additionally, he insists singing Vietnamese love songs in late night karaoke breaks, just to woo you over. Yeah, that somehow causes you to half cringe half melt because he's a bad singer.

"Yes, yes. Thank you. I'm currently culturally competent now, thanks for noticing." He bows dramatically as if he didn't hit all the notes off-key.

In addtion to all the mischief, Kael currently smells like some pungent herbal remedies, ew. That's a bit too much. He rolls his eyes whenever you mention it and goes:

"What? You smell like cao sao vàng all the time too."

You instantaneously brags offensively and obnoxiously about it.

"It's different and practical. You’ve never experienced the pinnacle of Vietnamese herbal craftsmanship. Only the finest long não, beeswax, essential oils… a treasure worth hundreds on eBay if you’re lucky. Basically a high-end product in Russia, Japan, Korea, and China. That strong-smelling aroma is tradition, legacy, power, idiot. Only amateurs would not cherish this. Real connoisseurs recognize the symphony of menthol, peppermint, clove, camphor… You’re smelling history, Kael. Headache? Gone. Cold? Consider it history. Mosquito bite? Pfft, laughable. Back pain? Mere mortal discomfort."

"Fine, everyone has their own taste." He cocks an eyebrow in an unimpressed way but the next day he subtly smells like cao sao vàng. (Must have stolen a bit from yours midnight)

And there is one beautiful Sunday when he just tries to rizz you mid-combat in Vietnamese:

"Are you banh mi? Because I'm trying to get mi and you together"

"WHAT???" You literally miss the blow and get pinched two seconds later.

"This ain't smooth but I'm pretty sure my lips are."

And the best part? Every little thing comes with this glowing, prideful, chaotic Kael energy: “I AM SO READY TO BE VIET FOR YOU” like he’s basically declaring he’s adopted your heritage as his life mission overnight. And that's it. He found his ultimate way to do for love. He becomes your home when you're away from home.

One day, you are huddled in corner of the cabin, knees drawn up, journal open on your lap. The flickering lantern casts soft shadows across the pages, illuminating careful notes and scattered doodles. Your pencil is moving quickly, sketching patterns, writing observations, jotting down memories. It's just something to keep your mind occupied.

Kael enters and slumps down beside you. His voice rolls out uncharacteristically soft.

“Your fam again?”

"Yeah." You whisper almost inaudibly.

“You… doodle them a lot. Or at least write about them. That’s… cute.” He says gently and teasingly.

Color blooms across the tips of your ears, and you try to shut the pages. Kael reaches out, his thumb brushes lightly over the corner of the page, not to touch the drawings, just to hover carefully.

"It's nice. I'm almost envious about how you could love your family like that. You must have your reasons to leave huh?"

"Love alone is never enough." You sigh.

"Well… it's still something. Something precious enough to appreciate." Kael tugs your hood and plays with it idly.

"And who's Jay? And here I thought I was your favorite partner in crime. Guess I've been beaten by Mister Broody Jawline. You even shade his cheekbones. HIS CHEEKBONES, darling. You sketch like you're in love." He switches back to his whiny tone.

"I'm not-" You bite back weakly.

Kael laughs you off, then abruptly stops. He closes the gap as he tilts your chin to face him. Your lips are one inch apart when his eyes gleam with mischief.

"You know… you shouldn't moon over dead legends. I'm your perfect alive guy right in front of you. And I'm not going to pretend that I'm not madly jealous over the fact that he lives rent free in your mind."

Your ears burn scarlet. Kael closes your journal with a crooked smile and leans back against the cabin wall.

"Anyways, if you ever wanna draw me, at least give me cooler cheekbones than him."

The final fight isn’t supposed to feel this hollow.

The world around you was still ringing. Your body is aching, your knuckles are split, your lungs are struggling. Six years of pushing past the edge. Different mentors, different opponents, different friends. Kael is on his knees and breathes heavily. His hair sticks to his forehead from sweat.

“… So what’s now? You finally beat me, champ. Congrats.” His voice comes half curious, half velvety.

“I’m… going home.” Your chest clenches and you mumble.

His gaze flickers sharply. It's laced with grief. And then the smirk comes back, too smooth, too easy, like a mask snapping back into place.

“Well, I could be your home anytime if you change your mind.” He teases you as usual.

“What about you? Still with me?”

“Nah… I’ll crawl back to the old man. Your family love sickens me. Gonna vomit if I come along.” Kael rolls his eyes.

He gives you a crooked grin, then lets it falter. His eyes drift toward the far wall like he's talking to the air.

“I… think I miss my… father too. Gotta solve problems eventually, ya know? Can’t run forever.” He confesses.

The word father comes out like it doesn't belong in his mouth, but he says it anyway. It sounds soft, careful, like confessing something that has been buried for decades.

“You inspire me to love differently. I suppose. I don't even remember caring about emotions before.” He mumbles.

“You were a wonderful soulmate.”

Kael huffs out a laugh. It's bitter, cracking at the edges as he pushes himself to his feet and turns his back to you.

“And you were my everything. Pay me later for gate keeping you from 14 people trying to hit on you these 6 years.”

And this time, he doesn’t look back.

Chapter Text

Dick just finished his patrol. He's leaning casually against a gargoyle when a blur of white and gold slams into him hard enough to crack the stone.

Stealth. He couldn't detect any sound or shadow incoming.

He hits the ground rolling, groaning, and swiftly flipping himself up.

Only to be met with a fist like a lightning. The hit strikes across the jaw and sends him skidding across the tiles.

“Wha- okay- ouch.” Dick coughs and spits blood. His eyes narrow as he tries to focus on the figure stepping closer to him. White clothing from the top to the ground, lined in subtle gold. The plain white face mask glistens in the moonlight, making him unable to see any feature from that person. Not even revealing a tiny bit of skin.

Colossal. Must at least be 6 feet 2 inches or something.

Utterly unfamiliar.

“Alright… big new guy in the town.” Dick breathes out and tries his usual grin but it trembles slightly.

“Most people buy me dinner before they-”

Another smack, faster than he could track. It cracks his sternum slightly.

“FUC- Okay, okay… Talking first, fighting later, yeah?” He stumbles back, instantaneously struggles to breathe, and tries to circle, but the man mirrors him flawlessly.

“You’ve got the whole ‘vengeful ghost’ thing going, I respect that. Seriously, love the color scheme but-”

A kick sweeps his legs out. He crashes down.

He's about to catch himself before a boot comes down to crush his chest. He sweats and his grin slips away.

Whoever this is… isn’t playing.

And he has no idea why.

Dick grabs the man's leg and spins him and himself the other side.

The man falls off-balance to the ground and-

Dick’s shoulder nearly dislocates when the man instantly slams him with the other leg using Dick's clutch as his own support.

Dick releases immediately and spins around, rises himself up, gaining distance.

“Okay. That's personal. Definitely not a fan.” He pants, spinning his escrima sticks out with a sharp snap.

“At least tell me your name before-”

The man blurs forward.

The sticks clashes against a golden vambrace, but the man twists like a serpent and slips inside Dick's defense. He drives a knee up into his ribs. The air was choked out of him.

Dick quickly slides back to maintain distance again.

“You’re quiet. Mysterious. Broody. I’m guessing… assassin? Ninja cult? Oh, don’t tell me. Hm, YOU MUST BE ONE OF BRUCE'S EXES-”

The man lands another lethal hit, he dodges this time.

He laughs, but it’s hollow and painful.

“Heh… Guess it’s ‘beat up Nightwing’ night. Should’ve checked the calendar.”

The man approaches him again. Slow. Steady. Not even breathing hard.

Dick’s grin faltered for real this time.

He lunges. Spins, feints, lightning strikes but the man parries every movements with extreme precision. Then one perfect strike comes across Dick’s chest, another across his jaw, then Dick gets kicked off the rooftop.

Every. Single. Move. Fails.

The man fights like he has known Dick for centuries, living in his walls, gnawing at his shadow.

Dick twitches and rolls away instinctively but he can't make it far. A hand shoots down and slams him back to the rooftop. The impact rattled Dick's bones and he bites back a cry.

The man crouches over Dick in a smooth, predator’s motion, knees bracketing sides, weight crushing down on his sternum.

A flash golden gauntlet grips Dick's throat, pinning him flat.

"Grayson."

Dick blinks up at him, dazed, blood dripping from his mouth. He still manages a crooked smile.

“Thought you were mute. Or brooding for the aesthetic.”

“Six years and you laugh.”

Six years?

He doesn't know this man. He's so sure he doesn't. He remembers no ones who despises him to hell like this. Beating him like he just assassinated the man's entire bloodline.

“Sorry, you’ll have to be more specific. I have a lot of enemies. Can I get a hint?” Dick rasps.

“I crossed oceans for this. Every mile… for you.”

“What?”

The man’s grip tightens once more before releasing. Dick chokes for air as the man stands up and towers over him.

“Get up, Grayson. I’m not finished.”

The fight escalates. The two figures trade blows on rooftops like it’s life or death. Each hit sharper, dirtier, more personal than the last.

Dick’s panting hard. All bruises and blood. He still keeps his words light even when his body screams.

“Y’know, if this is about me forgetting your birthday, I promise I’ll make it up to you. Cake, balloons, the fireworks.”

“Come on… say something. Anything. You don’t have to do this.”

Neither of them yield until exhaustion finally weighs heavier than rage. The man staggers back, heaving for breath, fists still up for more punishment.

"You last longer than I expected."

“Who the hell are you?”

The man tilts his head, drops his shoulders into a mocking stance, and switches back to his normal deep, velvety and warm tone with a bit of mocking. It rolls out like a melody.

“Miss me, Capt?”

Dick's entire world stops. His hands drop, his breath stutters, eyes wide in shock and horror.

“… No. No. NO. It can’t be you.” His voice breaks.

And suddenly he’s not Nightwing anymore. He’s just Dick Grayson, staring at the ghost of his little brother who left him with nothing but a note.

But when he reaches for you with one trembling, bloodied hand, you don’t take it. You hit him again.

And this time, he doesn’t fight back. He just lets you.

Dick stares up at you through swollen eyes, lip split, chest heaving. And when you laugh with that sharp, cruel sound, it shatters him harder than any hit you landed tonight.

You hook your fingers under the edge of the mask slowly and deliberately. You tear it down, and the night air hits your face.

It’s not the boy Dick remembers. Not the sweet, playful kid with mesmerizing eyes who used to chase him through Wayne Manor hallways. No. A wolfcut mess of layered hair falls into your face. A mustache, harsher jawline, older, like time carved cruelty into your features. Everything about you screams ruin. Contrast to the baby brother who left him.

Everything changes, except for your eyes.

Because when Dick’s gaze locks onto yours, it's the same. Same shape. Same depth. Same captivation. Same soul he swore he’d recognize anywhere.

His hands twitch like he wants to reach up, to cup your face, to prove you’re real. But he doesn’t. He’s too scared you’ll vanish.

He looks at you like you’re both a miracle and a curse.

But then against everything, he lifts one shaking, slow, hesitant palm to cup your cheek. Calloused fingers ghost over the unfamiliar lines.

“It’s really you… God, it’s really you…”

For two seconds, you let him have it. You even lean into his palm. For two seconds, you let him believe he’s got you back.

And then your smirk curls. Your eyes harden.

You shove him down with brutal force, his body slamming back into the ground. His hand falls away from your cheek, scraping across the rooftop as he coughs blood.

You chuckle. It's low, bitter, almost cruel. You roll your eyes like his raw, broken whisper was the dumbest thing you’ve ever heard.

“God, you’re still so soft. No wonder you couldn't keep up with me.”

However, your voice falters gently.

“I’ll buy you dinner. Don’t whine on me.”

Dick blinks up at you, disbelief flickering across his battered face. He lets out this broken laugh, wet and shaky, like he doesn’t know if he should cry or grab you and never let go.

“You could beat me half to death and you still think I’d say no to dinner with you…”

His hand twitches like he wants to reach for you again, but he doesn’t dare. He knows you’ll shove him down if he tries. So instead, he just looks at you with eyes so full of unbearable love and ache.

You two are back to his apartment. You finished patching him up a while ago. Both of you look like hell. Bruised faces, split lips, fractured bones.

Dick stirs his coffee with unnecessary force, glaring at you across the table.

“You actually cracked one of my ribs. Do you have any idea how bad that hurts when I breathe? Or laugh? Or exist?” He whines.

“Shouldn’t… have left your… guard… open, Capt.” You smirk while munching too many fries simultaneously.

He throws his head back dramatically and groans.

“Oh my god, you’re insufferable. I was trying to talk to you. Normal brothers have reunions with hugs. We? We have rooftop homicide attempts. You were the sweetest son I have ever birthed. Now look at you, brat.”

You giggle and lean back. Your arms fold instantly.

“A hug? After years? You’d cry all over my shoulder. I saved us both the embarrassment.”

Dick points at you with his fork and pouts like an injured golden retriever. (He is, in fact, a golden retriever.)

“Don’t act tough. You leaned into my hand. For, like, two whole seconds. You missed me.”

“You imagined it. Eat your fries.”

“You owe me so many dinners after that beatdown. Like… a year’s worth. Bare minimum.”

You’re biting into your burger and rolling your gaze when Dick's eyes are narrowing at you.

“Do you even know what it was like when you left? Huh? You vanished like poof, gone. Left me a note. A NOTE!? I tore Gotham, Bludhaven, even Metropolis apart looking for you, every alley, every rooftop. Do you know what that does to a guy?! You left me thinking you were dead. I had to sit Bruce down. Bruce, the man who never talks about his feelings and I whined to him that my little sibling just… left me. Do you know how hard it is to be the responsible one in this family?”

You choke. Like, literally choke on your burger. A wheeze bursts out of you, followed by a violent cough. The napkin crumples in your fist as you grab your water, pounding your chest.

“Good. Choke on it. That’s karma.”

You finally swallow, glaring through watery eyes. Your voice comes out rapsy.

“You’re such a drama queen.”

Dick leans forward now and he whispers in a hurt and whiny tone again.

“I’m allowed. You’re my biological son. You don’t just get to disappear on me and come back years later with scars, a giant body build, and a wolfcut, acting like you don’t care. That’s not fair.”

“I did buy you dinner. Stop whining.”

“Not enough. I want… like lifelong forced marriage.”

You shoot him the coldest glare.

“But I’ll settle for you not leaving again.” He grins softly.

Then he collapses all over you like a drama queen he is.

You freeze, mid-sip of your soda.

“What? You want me to carry you to bed, princess? Thought Nightwing could walk on his own.”

He presses up more against you. His arm hangs over your shoulders like muscle memory. Except from the part he struggles for a bit because your size are larger than him now. You stiffen instantly.

“You’re still you. I knew it. I knew you’d come back.”

You should shove him off. You should laugh. And you do. Kind of. A sharp chuckle, bitter at the edges, rolling your eyes so hard it hurts.

But your hand betrays you. It twitches, then grabs at his sleeve, holding him there just one second too long. Just long enough to feel his warmth press into your shoulder. Just long enough to remember what it was like to belong.

Your throat burns.

But then you resume biting into your burger like you don’t care that Dick’s still looking at you like a kicked puppy.

“God, you’re so emotional. What happened to Gotham’s golden boy? Did I break him in five punches or what?”

“Says the guy choking on his burger so he doesn’t cry. Real tough act you’ve got going on.”

“Please. Don’t flatter yourself. I’m just hungry. Didn’t exactly come back here for a Hallmark reunion.”

But your knee shakes under the table. Your fingers tighten around the burger so hard you even almost squish it into mush.

And Dick sees it. Of course he does.

He grins, soft but wicked. He leans close enough to whisper in your ears.

“You’re emotional as fuck too. You just hide worse than me.”

“Tch. Guess we’re both pathetic, then.”

“… My baby blue.” He presses one tender kiss to your ears and sighs.

Rage and heartbreak are entwined to twist your heart.

He just called your old pet name. The one he whispered to you when you woke up after having nightmares.

You just scoop him up bridal style out of pure spite and growl.

“Say it again and I’ll drop you off the highest damn roof in Gotham.”

“You won’t. You still love me.” He leans ever closer comfortably.

"Stop being so romantic about homicide."

“Can’t. My little brother finally carried me… I’m touched. Y’know, for someone who just beat me into the pavement, you’re surprisingly gentle.”

You shoot him a dagger glare and shift him like you’re about to dump him into a dumpster, but he just clings harder. He presses his forehead against your collarbone, deliberately too close.

“Get off me, Grayson.”

“Grayson? Not Captain? Not even brother? Cold.” He gasps in mock.

You finally drop him onto the couch. Surprisingly gentle and you dust your hands like you’re done with him. But he doesn’t let go. His fingers are still curled in your clothing, knuckles white, and when you try to step back, he tugs you closer.

"Kiddo."

The sound of it is a punch to your heart. You flinch. Like he ripped the mask off without touching it.

“Don’t call me that. That kid’s dead.”

But he just shakes his head.

“No. He’s right here. My little brother.”

“That kid isn't yours anymore. You’re so damn emotional. What do you want, a hug?” You brittle and shove him away.

But he just stares at you, voice wrecked but steady and grabs your hand back.

“I just want you back, sugarplum.”

"Go by Ghostflare now. Your pet names sicken me." You let out an exasperated sigh and sprawl across the couch with him.

"It's fine. Robins are meant to fly." He gives you those sick puppy eyes again.

You groan and squish his face. You smother him. Fingers in his hairline. Your fingers brush dangerously close to his eye and your palm's flattening against his mouth like you’re molding him out of clay.

Dick blinks once. Twice. And instead of swatting you away like any sane person, he just… sighs through his nose, eyes slipping half-shut, lips curving under your palm.

“Mhmmm. Yeah. That’s good. Don’t stop, baby.”

He leans into it. Actually leans. You’re squishing his face into weird angles like he's your own stress ball, and he looks like a blessed cat kneading in sunshine.

You squish his lips together so that he will look ridiculous. But he laughs into it, muffled, then presses a lazy kiss against the heel of your hand while nuzzling at your warm hand.

When you try to pull away, he chases your hand like a toddler demanding attention.

His eyelashes are fluttering. He even lets out a soft hum like it’s genuinely soothing.

Internally? Inside his brain is a circus parade:

“His hand’s so warm. Why is it so warm? Oh god. Don’t moan, don’t moan, Grayson-"

“He could squish my face into a pancake and I’d still die happy right here.”

“He LOVES me. He’s showing it. This is proof. Undeniable scientific proof. He wouldn’t be rubbing my face if he didn’t like me.”

“He’s pretty. Yay. He’s so cute. Yay. Different. But still very mine. Yay. Oh my god, oh my god”

"I accept this gift from the universe. I love my life. I won life. I'm involved. He picked me. He chose me."

Chapter Text

Dick, being Dick, doesn’t even mean to snitch at first. He’s all high off the emotional whiplash of seeing you again, so while you’re busy looking away.

Your mask was tugged half off. Your long lushly hair fell down. Your eyes were burning but soft.

He snapped a picture. Just one. He did that in record time and hid the phone away like a sneaky little gremlin. Surprisingly that's the only you didn't catch in that evening.

The city light blurred behind you, and your expression was raw, unguarded, heartbreak and rage tangled together after he just had called you "my baby blue".

Later, he just can’t help himself. On patrol with Jason (Dick found excuses to accompany Jason. He's in the chirpy-18-year-old-teen-just-got-accepted-by-his-favorite-college mood recently because you're back.), he casually lets his phone slip out and holds the lock screen way too obviously.

“Guess who crawled back to me first?” He gives Jason the smuggest smirk.

Jason squints.

“What the hell is that supposed to-” And then he SEES it. You. All older, haunted, but still undeniably you.

Jason goes dead quiet. He snatches the phone before Dick can react, his voice drops harder than his mood.

“Where and when the fuck was this taken?”

“Not telling. Don’t want you stealing my reunion moment.” Dick grins like he won life. Basically that's not incorrect at all.

“Reunion? That’s not a reunion, Grayson. That’s a goddamn cry for help.” Jason shoves Dick and hisses.

And he storms off and swears that he’ll find you himself.

Meanwhile, you (oblivious as hell) are sitting somewhere in Bludhaven, probably using your illegal voice to talk muggers through buying you shrimp burgers again. Classic.

By the time he finds you, he’s filled with outrage. And he’s not subtle about it either.

A blur.

His fist cuts through the space where your head was second ago, fast enough to make the air crack. You twist away just in time.

“So you show up in Gotham and the first person you run to is Boy Wonder? Really? Not even a goddamn text? You could’ve come to me.”

“What’s the matter, Todd? You're mad because you didn’t get to be the first one I beat bloody? Sounds like jealousy to me.” You laugh it off and shrug.

The words hit him like a crowbar.

He drives another fist for your sternum. You deflect and barely spin aside before his knee would’ve crushed your gut.

He wasn’t trying to hurt you.

He was punishing the idea of you.

For the very first time in these years, you're painfully aware that he has never unleashed himself fully on you. How… sickly sweet.

“You know what it did to me? Seeing that photo? You, mask off, eyes wrecked, looking like the city already ate you alive? He flaunted it like a trophy, and all I could think was… You should’ve come to me. You should’ve let me carry that weight first.” He confesses angrily.

“What, you wanted me to hit you harder? Break your ribs too? You really that desperate, Jason?” You taunt in that false sweetness but your eyes underneath the mask are already laced with dampness.

His next strike doesn’t miss.

Your forearm catches the blow, and pain screams up the bone. His fist drives straight for your throat. You deflect at the last second again, but the sheer weight behind it makes you stumble. He pivots, and his heel slams into your ribs before you can reset. Air punches out of your lungs.

“I wanted you to come home to me first.” His voice breaks.

The moment that line leaves his mouth, your bravado just crumbles. You lunge forward and wrap your arms around him, crushing him in a hug that’s more desperate than gentle. He stiffens instantly, like he doesn’t trust it, doesn’t trust you. But then you bury your face against his shoulder, and his whole frame shudders like he’s been holding his breath for years.

“DON'T… FUCKING… DO THIS TO ME. Don’t hug me like you didn’t just put me through hell. You don't fucking know a thing, do you?” His voice comes out restrained.

"I still picked up calls despite knowing that they are ridiculous scammers just because I wanted to believe that you MIGHT call me someday. YOU SMASHED MY HEART TO PIECES BUT IT STILL BEATS FOR ONLY YOU. IT'S ALWAYS BEEN YOU."

The moment he hears himself confessing to you again, he jolts like he's been burned. He tears away from you, shoves you hard enough that your back could break against the ground if you weren't built like a tank.

"You think you can just waltz back after SIX YEARS, hugs me like I'm some damn safe place and it fixes everything??? Am I just a fucking mutt to you?"

"No one's going to put up with the things you did the way I've done. I did enough. God, I wish I knew how to quit you."

"Do you have any idea what it’s like, waiting here with nothing but Joker’s ghost heckling me about being abandoned? Do you know how many times I re-read your stupid old voicemails and letters just to remind myself I wasn’t hallucinating it all? You could have checked on me. Just once. A hi. Something. But no. You had to make me suffer. You had to leave me alone with my feelings like some… widow. Do you have any idea what it was like waiting here, watching the timer tick? Gotham’s not the one that needs saving anymore. I am. And guess what? You failed. Every word about me in those stupid letters. Lies, all of it, huh?”

"I knew you were leaving me anyways, I just wanted it to last longer. I never healed because it meant letting you go. I still… I still fucking… TRUSTED YOU… AND YOU LEFT ME… NOT JUST LEFT ME… BUT LEFT ME BEING YOUR SECOND CHOICE."

"You were my Sun. I was Icarus. I knew I was bound to fall when I fell for you. Yet, I still chose to fly towards you."

“I gave you everything and this is what you gave me.”

He jerks you up from the ground and leads your hand to his heart.

"See this? This used to be yours before you left me to rot in Gotham for six… whole… years."

He didn't just confess. He just pointed out where you hurt him, what he needs, and what he's afraid to say. It's swallowing pride, risking rejection, and choosing honesty over comfort.

"So don't pretend to love me…" He whispers reverently.

You barely manage to say something back when Jason's hand grips your collar and yanks you flat to the ground again.

Then he’s on you.

He straddles your chest. His thighs lock your arms down. The first strike lands before you can raise a guard. A sharp crack across your mask. Then another. And another.

Flash. Consecutive. Precise. Rhythmic.

You can’t track his hands anymore; they’re just flashes, breaking through every gap in your defense as soon as you try to form one. The floor shudders under each impact. Pain blooms sharp and clean wherever he hits.

Your hips shoot upwards in a violent bridge, every muscle in your back and legs coordinate to snap up just right. Jason's balance shifts.

"Heavy deadass weight." You think to yourself.

His left knee slips for just a moment, but that crack of space is all you need.

You slam your shoulder, aiming into the side he's tilting toward, and twist your right side sharply. Jason grunts and his straddle breaks. Your arm slips free and you yank Jason to the ground. Now you're the one pinning him and straddling his hips in seconds.

“God… you hit me and it felt like a kiss.”

You’re breathing hard, your body aching from the sheer impact of his last blow. For a split second, Jason’s entire system falters.

“What the hell did you just say?” You can hear the shift. It's the mix of fury and disbelief, like you just reached inside his chest and twisted.

He grips your collar, shoves you down hard to his mask.

“You think this is a game? You think getting murdered is romantic to you?!”

“They feel the same when it’s you.” You lean down and your crooked, shattered and blood drenched mask kisses Jason's helmet.

And Jason’s breathing hitches audibly.

”DON’T YOU DARE LIE TO ME.”

"You love me, Jay." You add.

"I love you being dead." He chokes out a bitter laugh.

The rain just pours down abruptly when you get off him. He rises to his feet and leaves you in a blink.

Chapter Text

Jason stomps into the safe house, still radiating leftover heat from the fight with you earlier. The kind of heat that clings to his shoulders is heavy, sour, unshakable. He throws his jacket onto the couch, muttering curses under his breath, only to freeze at the sound of clattering plates. The kitchen light’s on.

You’re there. After six damn years of being gone, after all the half-truths and ghost games, after crawling back to Bludhaven and running to Dick first instead of him, you’re there, sleeves rolled up, bent over his counter, cooking like you belong here.

He stops dead in the doorway.

“The fuck are you doing?”

You glance up with a soft smile, almost tentative but stubborn. Your suit is off, leaving you looking almost domesticated, all presentable and neat with your tied up hair, white sweatpants and a plain T-shirt (except from the purple bruises all over your face. Yeah… who did that?)

He has no idea where you got that pink apron that says "KISS THE GHOST<3"

“I made you dinner.”

Jason blinks, then he snorts sharply and bitterly.

“It’s 11:37.”

“I know. Your favorite.” You say with that unbothered tone, turn off the stove, and slide a plate toward him.

He gives that dish a deadpan glare.

“Your favorite.” He corrects you with a mocking eye-roll.

“Our favorite.” Your voice lowers in that earnest warmth as you finally step closer.

Then boom. The next second he's venting with sharp words and sharper edges: about you disappearing, about you crawling back to Grayson first, about acting like you can just show up with food and make it all better. He grumbles, curses, spits venom that barely hides how wrecked he feels.

"Seriously? You must think this is cute little apology snack fixes six years of me going insane missing you. Oh, right, Grayson gets the grand entrance, the first soft laugh, the first touch, the first heartfelt punches, the "I only look soft for you" picture. And me? A leftover apology?!"

"What are you even expecting? I'm supposed to smile, be grateful and wag my tail just because you're back with a damn burger???"

"I'm saying that… you're failing. Failing me-"

And in the middle of his tirade, you move. You step in, slip your arms around his waist, and yank him flush against the counter. Jason stumbles a half-step back, palms braced against the cool surface behind him, glaring down at you like he’ll put you down to the grave with just a look.

You don’t even flinch. You’re too busy pressing your mouth to his jaw, his throat, the edge of his lips. They are all hot, steamy and passionate kisses that make it impossible for him to stay focused.

“Uh-huh, keep going. Act like you actually care for once.” Jason growls and tries to keep his rant going, but every word dissolves as your mouth drags lower, as your hands clutch tighter at his waist.

He’s scowling and glaring daggers, but you?

God, you look like you don’t hear a damn thing he says. You look like a man starved, desperate, drunk on being this close again.

And the worst part? He doesn't want to shove you off. His fingers twitch against the counter, aching to grab you, to hold you, to give in. But he just clenches his jaw instead. His breaths are erratic and ragged, as he's trying to drown in frustration instead of what’s crawling up in his throat.

Jason’s hand fists clutch in your shirt, and he slams you back against the fridge so hard the shelves inside rattle. He glares again like he’s ready to kill, like you’re just another target he should’ve put down years ago. Well, in your perspective, he looks… kinda cute and sulky. He's 2 inches shorter than you now.

He’s so close you can smell the leather, the smoke, the blood, and the metal still clinging to him.

“Don’t you dare think you can walk back in here like nothing happened. Six years. Six goddamn years, and the first person you crawl to is Grayson. You come here with a plate of food like you get to touch me?”

He grips the back of your neck to drag your head down, so close his breath is hot against your lips. And then he spits to the side, as if the taste of you lingering is poison.

“Pathetic. You think I’m gonna melt just ‘cause you whisper ‘our favorite’? I’ll break your hands before you touch me again. You hear me? I don’t need your scraps. I don’t need you. I'm not your damn second choice.”

But you don’t move. You know this is how he acts - pushing people away with the slightest hope that someone dares to stay.

Your hands are still locked on his waist. You're not dragging him in, but holding, trembling with restraint. Your head’s tipped back against the fridge door, eyes glassy, wide, yearning and worshipful. Like you’ve already surrendered every defense, and the only thing stopping you from kissing him again is the last shred of respect you can muster. You're breathing like you're stressing from seeing your gorgeous stunning scrumptious wife in a wedding dress for the first time. You look like someone who’d bleed out happily just to touch him one more time. Jason sees it. He feels it. And it terrifies him more than any word ever could.

He breaks.

"Don’t look at me like that… like I'm everything to you, like I'm still fucking yours. Fuck-” Jason snarls, but the word dies when his mouth crashes into yours.

Not tender. Not sweet. It’s teeth and breath. All fury, hot, sloppy, and violent make out like he wants to devour and destroy you at the same time.

His hands grip your face and his thumbs are digging hard enough to bruise you again as if he’s punishing you for making him want this.

You kiss back instantly and all of your restraint evaporate. Jason grinds his body into yours and he's gasping between every clash of lips.

“Hate you-” He growls into your mouth, even as he bites your lip.

“Miss you.” And he grunts.

The contradiction burns in his throat, but he can’t stop. His kisses get messier, rougher, until it’s nothing but spit and panting and raw, aching need. He's kissing like he tries to sucking the air out of your lungs, leaving you clutching onto him more desperately. You moan into it and Jason shoves you off again immediately.

His lips are still swollen from the first brutal kiss. Your breath is still mingled with his. His fists clench like he doesn’t know if he wants to punch you or drag you back in.

His knuckles slam into the fridge next to your head. The sound echoes like gunfire in the kitchen.

"You think this is love?” He snarls again against your lips as his forehead cracks roughly against yours.

“This is punishment.”

Then he devours your mouth again brutally. His tongue pushes deep and takes what he wants, his teeth crushing yours like it’s a war inside the kiss.

Clothes hit the floor in ragged layers one by one between curses and breathless groans. He pushes you back onto the counter. You two tangle together in the dim light of the safe house kitchen, the rain's still pouring outside, but the only thing either of you could hear was the sharp, uneven breaths, the whispered curses, the half-choked pleas that escaped despite yourselves.

Jason breaks for a moment to give you a death stare at you before tugging your underwear off. He's asking for your permission, but stubbornly.

His hands keep hovering on your hips like a ghost.

And you let out a snicker and place a lingering peck onto his nose.

"I love you." You mumble as your hands travel to his back and rub small circles onto his scars.

"You don't get to say THAT. And it doesn't change a thing." He trembles and he buries his face into your shoulder.

And you whisper into his ear over and over. How cruel.

"I love you, I love you, I love you-"

That's when he grabs your hips. His eyes are begging, loving, scared in fury.

"STOP! DON’T YOU DARE TO LIE TO ME-" His voice rolls out shaky and broken.

"Because you will believe it?"

He bites down on your shoulders to stop himself from screaming your name. Despise the blood, your hands soothe the tension with methodical traces on the edges of his shoulders.

He glances up with glassy eyes for a second. Then he reaches for his helmet and snaps it back on.

"Take it off, Jay. Please." You whine pathetically and nuzzle against his mask.

"No. You don't deserve to look at me when I fall apart for you. Never again."

His hands sink down to the last piece of your clothing and tear it off. His touches on your manhood are reverent, relentless and raw, switching the rhythm every minute to draw out every whimper from you. His strokes run from your base to the tip, deliberately and deviously slow but rough. The other hand lands onto your sack. His thumb traces over the seam of your nuts teasingly. Then his palm strokes over the tender curve until you shudder.

You get stimulated fleetly. Your hips jolt and your thighs spread in an instant. Your breaths stutter right away.

He lets out a sarcastic sneer.

He escalates the speed and pressure, driving you to the brink of ecstasy and the flood of hazy warmth. You're dazed, floaty, dizzy with bliss. Your skin flushes in no time. Your heart is thrumming, your body slackens, your eyes are half-lidded and your lips part before you could realize that.

And, he leaves you on the edge.

Yes, Jason Peter Todd, the king of vicious vengeance, unsurprisingly, stopped before you could get the release.

Before you could protest, he scoops you up in the bridal style and strides to the bedroom.

He takes his time like he has all the time in the world.

He tosses you down the bed carelessly like how he usually drops his hoodies all over the couch. He reaches for the lube in the drawer of the nightstand. Jason slicks his fingers with quick, practiced strokes, not sparing a glance at the bottle as he tosses it aside. His palm presses down on your hip, pinning you flat, and then his first finger lands. It's cold, firm, unyielding. You freeze in shock. The sudden penetration feels weird, foreign, but not painful. Too much and not enough at once.

Jason doesn’t wait any longer to add another finger. You grimace and grip the bed sheet in a blink out of instinct. This is… new. The tension builds rapid and relentless. He drives harder in an attempt to loosen your walls and explore your spots. Every thrust of his fingers are sharp like every snap of his wrist was calculated to break you apart piece by piece. Your back arches helplessly against the sheets and your breath comes out in uneven bursts but Jason’s voice follows in low and rough tone.

“Don’t fight. Take it.” He commands.

The rhythm was punishing. Jason drags his fingers out gradually and leisurely just to slam forward again multiple times with a brutal force. He's making you gasp for the sudden emptiness with every retreat and ache for the fullness his fingers bring when they sink back in. He curls his fingers with perfect precision. It doesn't take long for him to find those sweet spots you crave. He catches every desperate moan of yours.

Heat coils in your belly and you feel like you might explode from the pressure.

“Jason. I’m gonna-” The words sound like strangled gasps. Your panic's threading through the pleasure now.

“Stop. Please. I want you. Please… I don't want to come if you're not looking at me. Please. Please. Please. I need you. I can't-”

Jason’s hand freezes in place. Jason finally… looks at you. He leans down and murmurs in your ears.

“You don’t get to come. Not until I say so.”

His fingers slip out as he brushes against your trembling thighs. Sweat cling to your skin like a second layer. A deep, feverish flush has already crawled up to your body. Your lashes are moistened whenever you blink. You look wrecked. His imagination never comes close to this. Terrific.

And he flips you on your stomach. Thought you'd get the intimate missionary? No.

His member slips inside your anus smoothly. Then, his right hand tugs your hair up along with the other hand supporting your tummy to pull you up on your knees. You barely have time to struggle and adjust. That's also when his torso pressing up behind your back. His right hand releases the grip and his palm immediately finds your tit to brush and caress with. Meanwhile the left one slides down to your hardened shaft to toy with. He starts thrusting maddeningly.

God, it's too full, too deep and too Jason. Even the cold from lube can't ease the heat Jason introduced to your inside now. You tremble helplessly and chokes out broken whimpers violently. Overstimulation. Of course. However, Jason keeps you grounded with a steel grip over your body.

And you plead.

"Haa… Please… mmh… kiss me, Jay. Just one. I… hahh.. need to see your face. Look me in the eyes… mhm… when you fuck me…ghh… like this. Take the fucking thing off…nghh…"

You sob uncontrollably from all pent up frustration and need. And that's when he pauses. He switch positions in seconds as he grunts. He settles you above his thick drenched cock as he cocks his head.

"Earn it." His voice comes out muffled and challenging.

You sink down with a guttural groan. Your hands are on his chest as you grind down slowly and try to build up the rhythm. God, his size is still too much for you to adjust.

"Coward. You’ll give me your body, your bullets, your blood but not your face?”

"Don't touch the mask." Jason growls.

You don't even care. You grab the edge of the mask in half a second then rip it up halfway, just to see the full wreckage of his face.

His eyes are wild and red-rimmed. His face are tears-drenched. His mouth is red and quivering from all the biting he did to his own lips.

He's been crying silently for the whole time.

Breathless. Human. Broken.

Jason shakes violently and shoves his face into your throat like it’ll hide him. Like shame has claws. But he doesn’t stop moving beneath you. He refuses to stop.

"WHY WOULD YOU- Goddamnit…"

His thrusts turn frantic and wild from below like he's running. The slapping sound from skin to skin echos in the room like a melody. You cup his bare jaw and kiss him in an inexplicably tender way.

"I love you, Jay."

He gasps, moans and sobs out loud.

Then he comes inside you like it's killing him. He shakes frantically, clutches onto your body to anchor himself, and he breathes your name over and over again like a sin he never knows how to quit.

"Don't say you love me. Not when I look like this."

You hold his face and whisper sacredly:

"This is the only way I ever mean it."

Jason doesn't say anything else. His head rests against yours. He doesn’t say he forgives you, doesn’t promise anything. But his arms stay locked around your waist, refusing to let you go ever again.

And for the first time in years, it’s quiet between you. No taunts, no fists, no masks. Just the sound of his heart hammering against yours.

Chapter Text

Jason has been sulking for six full days like it’s an Olympic sport.

Yes, you and Jason haven't been on a good term yet. Jason doesn't let you off the hook that easily.

He dresses in all his blackest clothes, refuses to laugh at Dick’s terrible jokes, sleeps with his stomach to the bed like a moody teenager, and borrows your hoodie twice but swears it “fell into my laundry basket.” He grumbles when you catch him stealing your snacks and pretends not to enjoy the warm smell of you on the fabric.

You suddenly “just happen” to be in Jason’s orbit nonstop. You have been shadowing him on rooftops, hanging around his safe house and taking over his couch. It’s less romantic wooing and more cornered animal loyalty, like you're silently begging: don’t make me sleep outside your life. And every time Jason shoots you a condemning glare, you make it seem casual:

"What? I just happened to be here."

You're starting to be obsessed with Jason’s smallest habits. You hover, linger, memorize. Your gaze keeps falling to Jason until Jason snaps.

“The hell are you staring at?”

You just shrug and bite back from saying: "Everything."

You even start dropping trophies at his feet: weapons, names, intel like offerings that he didn't ask for.

When you deliver comfort after pain, the emotional contrast makes relief feel more intense, creating addictive emotional patterns. A rollercoaster is thrilling because of the drops, not just the flat parts. This is why he craves you even if logically he doesn't want to do anything with you anymore.

Jason knows your reasons for putting him second were reasonable. Logically, he can understand it but emotionally? That’s a raw, stinging spot. He want to test you, to see if the comfort is genuine or just a bandage.

Jason does appreciate the effort, even if it comes with guilt or reminders of the hurt. He wants to accept you, because he deserves this kind of compensation after everything. But he won't make this easy. He doesn't want to be forgiving that fast either. He's not supposed to be thankful and accepting after everything you have put him through like a kid. Bullshit.

It’s Valentine’s night.

The place is packed with couples - hand holding, flowers, tacky balloons. Jason and you squeeze into a booth.

Oh, right. How did you even manage to drag him into this madness? Absolutely not because you have been whining nonstop until his ears explode and acting as if this is just a part of your make up plan for him. Plus, this place has coupons for couples today.

Jason mutters under his breath, side-eyeing the decorations:

“Figures. Trust you to drag me to a burger joint that looks like Cupid threw up in it.”

Your just smirk and point at the big chalkboard special:

“Free fries and an extra burger for couples. Don’t tell me you’re above hustling food, Jason.”

Jason raises an eyebrow, but his stomach growls. He’s halfway through saying fine when the waiter comes by, dead-eyed but chipper.

“Special for couples tonight. If you wanna claim it, we’ll just need proof you’re, y’know…” She gestures vaguely. “… together.”

Jason freezes. You blink.

“Proof?”

“Yeah. Kiss.”

You finally leans back, deadpan, eyes narrowing like you're calculating how badly you want those fries.

“It’s a free burger, Jason.” You whisper.

“It’s a kiss.” Jason hiss.

“What, scared?” You roll your eyes and mock.

“I ain’t scared. Just… don’t feel like putting on a show for some fry jockey.”

“So we’re letting lovebirds at the next table steal our burger, huh? Shame.” You taunt.

The waiter is just standing there, pen poised, unimpressed.

Jason glares. His pride bristles. He leans in closer. His voice is rough, full of denial he doesn’t even believe himself:

“Fine. But only ‘cause I’m hungry.”

You whisper back, smug as hell:

“Sure. Only ‘cause you’re hungry.”

And then Jason kisses you. It's quick, sharp, more like a challenge than romance. But the second you smile against his mouth, Jason lingers. Just a beat too long. Just enough for it to mean something more.

When you two finally pull back, the waiter scribbles your order.

“Yeah, that counts.”

Jason leans back, arms crossed, trying to look unaffected while his ears burn. You grin, stretching out like a cat.

“Told you it was worth it.” Your voice rolls out lazy and satisfied.

"Better be the best damn burger of my life.” He grumbles and glares at the table like it was all its fault.

The food comes - two overloaded trays with extra fries stacked high, the “free” burger sitting proudly in the middle like some kind of trophy. You dive right in, smug as hell, while Jason stares at his plate like it insulted him in food language.

“Mhm. Totally worth it.” Your cheeks are stuffed like a squirrel stacking nuts for winter.

“Chew before you choke, dumbass.”

But his voice cracks just a little. His hands are restless, tearing his napkin to shreds, jaw tight.

Halfway through the meal, you slide the extra burger toward Jason.

“For the best kisser. A prize.”

Jason nearly chokes on his soda. He scowls, glaring daggers, but he still takes it. He mutters into his food:

“You’re not funny.”

“Then why are you blushing?”

Jason slams the ketchup bottle down too hard. A couple at the next booth glances over. He growls low under his breath, not meeting your eyes.

“It was just a kiss.”

“Didn’t feel like just a kiss.” You mumble softly.

“You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?”

Jason doesn’t answer. He just shoves the extra burger into his mouth, like chewing could drown the way his chest aches.

The next morning, Jason stumbles out of the bedroom, yawning, hair tousled. You're busy cooking him some decent breakfast.

“Morning.”

“Tch. Morning. Didn't take you for an early bird.”

“So. Last night.”

“Don’t. We were drunk off grease and fries. I have done dumber shit for food. You dared me. And I don't back down. Doesn’t mean anything.” He scoffs.

“Fine. Guess I imagined you holding me like you’d die if I pulled away.” You sigh.

His jaw clenches but he says nothing.

“If it was nothing, Jay… why aren't you pushing me away?”

"FOR THE VERY LAST TIME, STOP CALLING ME THAT!" He screams at you.

"If you think I’m going to forgive you just because you’re sorry, then I'm sorry for expecting you to be smarter than that. I gave you everything, and you gave me nothing but regrets. You act like a hero, circling me around like I'm some damn fool who needs to be saved. BUT YOU- You're the damn reason I needed saving."

"You don't get to have me back. You chose to lose me. Sure, you wanted to surpass Grayson - the big brother, the milestone, the golden acrobat to be 'someone new'. Hence, you chose him to be your first. As if I don't understand that. But you could have fucked all the pride and identity aside and chose me. So… Do you even hear yourself, or do you just love the sound of your own excuses?"

"You want a honest answer? Fine. I wish I’d never met you. If I were destined to stuck with the harsh winter for eternity, then at least take away my yearn for the spring. I wish for a life without you. Never. Ever. Again."

The words hang there, heavier than the smell of eggs and coffee. Your lips part, yet Jason has already been moving. He grabs his jacket and storms off the room like he could outrun everything.

“I need air.”

The next thing you know… Phones? Off, blocked, or abandoned. Social media? Ghosted, blocked, unfollowed. Emails or messages through mutuals? Ignored or explicitly marked as “do not forward.” Jason ensures there’s literally no channel for you to reach him. He avoids shared spaces entirely - no accidental encounters. Hours blurs into days. Sleep becomes a faint memory. Food is secondary.

It feels like Jason evaporated from Earth.

He doesn’t want you.

Your obsession grows, a chaotic pulse of yearning and frustration. Every instinct tells you to push, to reach, to fight but Jason’s total, unwavering withdrawal is stronger than any tactic you could muster.

For the first time in a long time, you feel powerless again. And maybe, just maybe… that is what Jason wanted all along.

The city is restless tonight. The neon light flickers across puddles as you prowl the streets like a man possessed. Six years apart and now another wall between you two.

And then, by sheer chance or cruel fate, you catch the glimpse of him.

Jason. Standing under a weak streetlamp, hood pushed back, smiling fondly.

At his side is a boy, no more than five, with messy dark hair, pale skin, and those blue eyes. Those damn eyes. The eyes you know better than anyone else. The eyes that mirror Jason's gaze.

You freeze in place.

The boy tugs Jason’s sleeve, mumbling something too soft to catch, and Jason knees down. His hand ruffles his hair in a motion that is too natural, too tender and too fatherly.

Your throat chokes up. God, it feels suffocating in seconds.

Your fists clench uselessly at your sides.

"He has someone else. In the years I was gone… he moved on. Built a life. A family." You think to yourself.

Your lips part. You want to scream, to demand, to tear the truth out of Jason’s chest. However, the words dies there, strangled in silence. Every question Why? How? Yours? Someone else’s? dies on your tongue. Your chest burns with betrayal and longing, with grief and fury.

“I should’ve stayed gone. He replaced me. He regrets being with me. He's not just ghosting me. He is begging fate to undo the mistake of ever tangling his life with mine together again."

"I should have known it better. How foolish I am… Of course, he deserves better. But I don't want to learn another scent, another face, another voice all over again. I don't want to kiss someone else and have to pretend that they are him instead. I don't want the children of another woman to have the eyes of the man I will never forget…"

And just like that, you vanish in shadows.

Chapter Text

Jason has been trapped in a bubble of all the “what could have been.”

Gotham shines outside in fresh mornings, the city is alive, brilliant, indifferent. And it suffocates him.

You stopped fighting for him, didn't you?

He distanced himself for the hope that you will pull him back like he's worthy.

And maybe he's too good at pushing you away.

He curls into himself, knees drawn up, arms wrapping around them as if he could physically hold back the ache. His chest heaves, his breaths are jagged and shallow. Every beat of his heart is a reminder: the life he imagined, the children he thought about with you, the warmth, the whispered promises, a tiny hand in his, laughter echoing across a park, bedtime stories, scraped knees, smiles in the early morning light.

He yearns for a child that bear the eyes of yours, so that people will know one of the reasons he fell for you when looking at them.

All of them evaporate, leaving a raw, hollow pit where hope once lived.

The world doesn’t stop for grief, he thinks bitterly.

It just shines and moves, like it’s mocking him. Like nothing he feels matters.

Jason presses his face to his knees, feeling the sting of tears mixing with the disgust towards how human he feels with or without you.

"How can anyone live with this? How can anyone survive loving someone who gives up on you?"

The world doesn't shelter places for feelings. How cruel.

Not here, not in Gotham, not in a life where people are expected to act and move and fight and function.

The nights get him in a choke hold of punishing and pursuing unattainable justice. He can't even take a break to mourn you without thinking about what to protect.

There is no room to collapse, no room to scream into the night or let the tears fall freely. And yet, he cries anyway. Because what else can he do?

"I loved you. I still do. And that doesn't make things any easier. I lied. I wish that there will be us. Broken freaks pretend to function with a family of our own."

Loving you feels like a curse and a blessing.

Because loving someone like you leaves scars no time, no city, no mission can heal. And he doesn't have the heart to erase you from his soul.

His heart is so full of you, he could hardly call it his own.

And if there's ever a light at the end of this tunnel, he still hopes that it holds a silhouette of you.

There's no escape worth going without your inexplicably heartfelt embrace.

You feel like… home.

Even though everything is not the same as it was…

It feels like you stole every single thing from him. His breath, his attention, his heart, his mind and he'd plead you to take more from him, even his existence.

If you asked him whether he likes stars or flowers better, he'd answer that…

"Stars. Because the only difference between you and them is that you're closer. Plus, I won't be able to tell where you are in the midst of a flower field, even when you're right in front of me."

And even if he were to walk beside you through hell, he would still happily believe it to be heaven.

He craves you so much that he hopes that there will be alternative universes where he and you could be happily together till the end of the world. He'd still be jealous if there were ever one, though.

He used to think there were only two types of love. The one people'd kill for and the other one people'd die for.

But now after knowing you, he knows that you are the one he'd live for.

"I miss you."

But what he really means is "There's an absence in my heart that only you are capable of filling."

One Thurday night. Jason didn't mean to drink.

No.

He doesn't like that.

Drunk Jason Todd is peak raw, unfiltered, heart-on-his-sleeve and he will bleed honesty.

But he wants to pass out so badly since sleep pills aren't working out anymore and physical pain isn't helping, more like deteriorating the emotional pain he's taking.

Your phone rings at 2:47 AM. Jason’s name. Static, muffled city noise, then his voice comes out low, breathy and slurring. You pick up anyways, playing casual as you sit up in wary.

“Hey bastard. Don’t hang up. Just… just listen for a sec, alright?”

"Drunk? Or high? You could face your fear but not face your brother huh? What made the meanest and toughest son of a bitch in Gotham change your tune this time?"

You scold, mock but you cannot hide the way your voice softens at the end of your line. You don't wanna hide either.

“I sound like shit, yeah, I know. Don’t… do that voice. The worried one. You quit worrying about me, remember?” Jason cracks a bitter laugh halfway.

“You stopped trying. You let me ghost. Guess I should be grateful, you finally stopped choosing me second.” He adds with exhaustion.

"Jay… you are the one regretting everything."

“Don’t. Don’t say my name like that. Makes me wanna come back, crawl back to me like a pathetic dog. Makes me wanna… fuck- You don’t get it, beloved. You don’t get it at all. You think I regret us? You think I regret you? Baby, I regretted millions of things. But it was never you.” He snaps.

“What else was I supposed to think when you disappeared on me with that kid? You have a family, Todd. As you should be.”

Jason lets out a broken laugh, almost a sob.

“Which damn kid? The only family I have always been wanting with is you. Are you fucking stupid, pumpkin? You're telling me that my adaptive genius, the horrifyingly complex beast, the infamous Ghostflare who gets away with Batman's Ted Ed talk after stealing Batmobile for 219 times, really thinks that I'm capable of having a family, specifically a kid with someone else?"

"Love, I've been crying to your ugly handwritten letters for over 6 years with the idiotic emotional support plushie you gifted me as a cruel joke on Father's day…”

"… I didn't mean the ugly part. Your handwritting is delicate and very you, I bragged it to Roy the other day drunkenly. Didn't regret it."

A long silence.

You grip the phone so tight that your knuckles ache.

“Never regretted you. Only regretted not being enough for you to choose me first.” He breathes out in the most fragile way.

You finally find your voice.

“I chose to be with you from the very beginning. You thought you were picking some Bruce's strays having to teach me a thing or two. I chose you when I didn't have to. I didn't run to you because I wanted to fix you or I was just purely curious like a crazed fanboy. I didn't want to redefine you. I like you this way. You were enough from the start. You were worthy of my lifetime from the moment I knew about you. I have already been seeing you as my family from the early days. You were special, you are still special that way. You’re the person I come back to when I want to remember how stupidly alive I can be." You confess with an agonizing sigh.

"I was a dumbass for thinking that you didn't want me to come back to you. Your words still haunt me like a ghost. You said 6 years ago that you didn't want me to call you 'Jay' anymore. So I thought... 'heh... maybe I don't deserve to see you again, perhaps you don't need me the way I need you', that's why I didn't crawl back to you first. That's the ugly truth behind everything. I didn't just want to surpass Nightwing like it's some kind of pride play or milestones. I just... didn't know how to face you. I didn’t want to admit this from the start because it wouldn’t change the fact that I didn’t choose you first. I wanted to make it up for you without giving you excuses. Yet, I think you deserve to know and I hope it eases you in some way.”

"I'm fully aware of the fact that I fucked things up by making you feel this way - being my second choice, being unloved, being insufficient. You don't need to forgive me. And I won't forgive myself either. Yet I have an entire life forward to make it up for you. I promise."

"You were, are, and will be my one and only, Jason Peter Todd."

There’s a crash which sounds like Jason stumbling, maybe throwing the bottle aside. Then his voice again. He breaks desperately.

“Say that again. Please. I need to hear it, sweetheart.”

“You’re my first. My one and only, Jay.”

“God. I love you so much it makes me fucking stupid.” He laughs mockingly.

Silence hangs. You don't know whether to cry or laugh. Jason’s breathing softens. He sounds small, almost boyish for a second.

“Don’t hang up on me, honey. Just… stay. Just this time. Please. Like the world is ending tomorrow. Love me, cherish me, console me.” Jason whispers like he's vowing for your soul to be entangled with his again.

You throws on your jacket, half-running through Gotham. Jason’s call is still open. Streetlight glow, distant sirens. You spot him in the first place you two ever encounter when you were 17. He's slouched on a rooftop ledge, helmet tossed aside, bottles scattered.

"Jay."

Jason lifts his head slowly with his red eyes and a crooked grin. He tries to stand up but ends up stumbling. You rush forward and grab his arm before he greets the ground with a hi.

"You came anyway. Couldn’t resist me, huh?”

“You’re drunk off your ass, and you called me like it was your last prayer.”

“Maybe it was. Maybe I didn’t wanna wake up tomorrow without knowing if you’d still pick me.”

You exhale hard, then press your forehead to his and tremble.

“Then stop ghosting me. Stop running. If you’re gonna let me love you, Jason, do it all the way. Burn with me.”

Jason chokes a laugh, but his hands are already clutching your waist like lifelines.

“… Fuck. You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

You breathe against his lips and mumble: “I know exactly what I’m asking for.”

And then Jason caves. The kiss isn’t clean. It’s messy, tasting like whiskey and salt, like grief and relief colliding. He groans against you, hands gripping like he’ll never let go. You hold on just as fiercely.

Jason pulls back just a fraction, whispering with that rasp that wrecks.

“You bring me back from the dead every damn time.”

You smooch Jason's cheek with an exasperated chuckle, taking him up in a bridal style. His arm slings around your shoulders. Jason’s heavier than hell and he's purposely adjusting his weight to cause you uncalled burden again with a muffled laugh against your neck.

You two finally get inside your apartment. Jason immediately rolls his weight onto the couch like a dead man, tugging you down with him in a bear hug.

“Jay, shoes off first.” You struggle.

“Nooo. You leave, you don’t come back. Stay here. Warm. Smells like you.” He whines and tugs harder like he's trying to imprint himself on you.

“I’m not leaving. Just let me take care of you.” You sigh in that soft tone.

“You promise?”

“Always.”

You finally manage to take off his boots, shrug off his jacket, and bring him anti alcohol pills with water. Jason ignores the glass like a 3 year old kid refusing their veggies.

“Drink, Jason.”

Jason pulls you down beside him instead.

“Y’know what I hate?”

“What?”

“That I let myself believe for one second you didn’t want me. That I wasted time not touching you.”

“Then stop wasting time. You’re here now.” You brush your fingertips onto his cheeks and smooch his nose.

Jason's eyes flutter and he sighs seriously.

"If you only kiss my nose, my lips will be jealous too, y'know."

You smile faintly and land a smooth, lingering and affectionate kiss onto his lips

Jason curls into you on the couch and his arms snake around your waist now. He mumbles half-dreamed things as he drifts off slowly.

"I want to wake up seeing you next to me." Jason slurs.

"You will. I'm yours. Night night, Jay." You kiss his hair.

Jason finally goes slack, breathing evening out. You hold him, wide awake, heart aching but steady, realizing that for all the chaos, Jason just needed this - needed you.

Chapter Text

Gotham has been raving about the new vigilante recently.

Ghostflare.

(Yeah that's you, baby.)

His suit is mostly white, sleek, giving that God-like divine energy. Jagged and chaotic yellow stripes are glowing lightning threads flashing through the borderline of his hood, running down to his arms and gloves, spreading down to his torso and striking down to his boots, like veins of light are breaking the costume apart. The lines flicker faintly, like embers. Full-face mask is untouchable, making him otherworldly. His boots, utility belt and gloves are chunky and armored. Besides the unsurprisingly rocket-rising popularity in Gotham's new sexiest vigilantes leaderboard thanks to his mysterious identity and the way he messes people around with multiple ranges of his voice, rumors has it that he stores Bar & Cocoa mini bars in his utility belt…

As anticipated, this catches Batman's attention like fire to oxygen. Bruce's mid-replaying the surveillance cameras' footage for the 11th time, gauging the possible threats, attempting to unmask the man's identity and sketching contingency plans. His face is stern, the blue light from a dozen monitors reflects across his jawline. It's quiet. That's also when he gets sneaked up on in his own Batcave. But you? You have been planning this for weeks. You know Bruce’s blind spots, the slight creak in the metal walkway, even the exact rhythm of the Bat computer fans that could mask your steps.

You don't come in guns blazing, even though that's your childhood playground. No. You melt into the shadows, close enough to hear Bruce’s measured breaths.

A gloved hand clamps down over Bruce’s mouth, another pressing cold steel lightly to his throat. The Bat reacts instantly. His muscles tightens, and his fists have already been flying, but your anticipation is deadly precise. You twist, countering each move with infuriating ease, forcing Bruce back against the console.

For a split second, Bruce sees his own reflection in your mask - unreadable and accurate.

And here’s the kicker: Bruce knows if this had been an enemy, he’d already be dead. The precision, the silence, the speed aren't just a warning. It’s a demonstration.

Before Bruce could reach for the underneath button behind his back for emergency backup, you lift up your mask and grin wildly.

"Hi dad. Miss me?" You tilt your head a bit.

"Cipher-" He freezes, his eyes widen with astonishment, regret and grief.

(That's still your name in case you forgot because it's barely mentioned.)

"Yes, yes, I'm still alive. Now you're going for the "Batman don't do emotions" option or you're going to give your son a hug? Or worse, you're calling for backup behind your back? I'm up for everything."

You roll your eyes and totally tug off your mask, revealing your grown features with the same chocolate eyes you used to give Bruce when you were just 17, returning from school, asking for a hug. As if everything didn't change at all, as if you're just coming home from a long school day, as if you'd still ask Bruce for creams and cookies before dinners.

His memories flood back unexpectedly like a hazardous hurricane's crashing through his heart. And at that moment, Bruce Wayne, against every rational calculation he's been taking for 6 years, against every repeated internal monologue in his mind screaming for "It's just a trap, Bruce. Stay back. You're making a very fatal move.", stumbles and rushes to crash into you with a hug that feels like steel.

In this very moment, he isn't Batman. He doesn't want to be, either. He's just Bruce Wayne - a father embracing his lost kid after years, grasping the love he thought for countless times that he'd never get the chance to hold again.

Bruce is not just hugging you. He's anchoring his heavy soul in you, persuading himself that this isn't just another sick twisted joke that fate set up for him, and proving to himself that you're here, home, even after he failed to shield you from the cruelty of the world, especially that.

And like it's the most natural thing in the Earth, you wrap around his back and pat him slowly in rhythm, soothing him like how you'd rock and coo a child to sleep in a stormy night.

As if these 6 years apart are worth it, every yearning second counts, a hug makes up perfectly for every guilt and suffering Bruce went through.

Alfred lets out a small huff, breaking the atmosphere as he emerges from nowhere and speaks up half-fondly, half as a scold:

"Welcome back home, young Master. I'd rather you hadn't violated all the security measures all the way in here. If my estimation is not inaccurate, you purposely messed up every single one that costs over $1M-"

Alfred's words die in his throat as he's pulled into an awkward group hug by Bruce and you. Alfred, dignified as ever but betraying the faintest tremor, presses his hand against Bruce’s back, his other hand resting on your arm. It’s an awkward huddle - the Bat, the butler, and the phantom who threatened to eclipse them all few minutes ago.

"I'll take care of that." Bruce hums.

"Sure, keep telling yourself that, Master Bruce. Apples never fall from the tree anyways."

And then:

“Sentimental weaklings.”

Damian’s voice slices through the air, disdain curling around every syllable. He strides forward, sword balanced casually in one hand, gaze sharp and unyielding. His lip curls, a sneer breaking the brief truce. He looks like a predator ready to pounce. He's not bulky like Jason, not lithe like Dick, but coiled muscle. He still carries that sharp, aristocratic Wayne bone structure but older now, jawline clean and angular, cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. His eyes, oh my god, piercing emerald green, always scanning, always judging. A glare that makes even leopards hesitate. He has this unholy aura of absolute discipline wrapped in arrogance and he stands like he owns the room because his silence now cuts harsher than words.

Thought he'd be any less arrogant by his mature exterior? No. Now he's a man whose arrogance is backed by years of refinement and weaponized control.

Divine.

Before you can even speak, Damian snaps his wrist in a beckoning gesture. “Come. Prove yourself in motion, not in theatrics, brother.”

You tilt your head, grin, then slide your mask back on and without a word lets Damian drag you into the open space - the training floor.

Then Damian launches forward. His style is lethal and efficient, every strike like it’s meant not to kill like before, but to drain you like a cat and mouse game. You parry, not with textbook blocks but unpredictable pivots, sliding under Damian’s blade to snap a palm against the man’s ribs, already switching stance mid-spin.

Damian's smile tugs up as he clicks his tongue. Now he knows you play unpredictable game.

“Sloppy. Reactionary.”

But you don't stay reactionary. You mirror Damian step for step, cut for cut, turning the man’s own rhythm back on him. When Damian slashes, you slash. When Damian feints, you feint the exact same motion a half-beat later. It’s eerie, almost mocking. It's frighteningly adaptive.

Alfred mutters under his breath as he goes “Good heavens…”. And Bruce watches in silence, eyes narrowing.

Damian snarls, increasing speed. He tries to force you into a specific rhythm - sharp diagonal strike, low sweep, elbow jab. And for a moment it works. You follow like a puppet echoing his master.

That's until on the last step of Damian’s orchestrated combo, you break pattern. Instead of completing the mirrored strike, you take one hit from him, drawing much blood purposely. Then you drop low, sweep Damian’s ankle, and flip the boy onto his back with brutal precision.

Damian slams down hard, breath knocked from his lungs. You crouch over him, blade at his throat before the boy even has time to blink.

Sure thing he could predict how you'd fight, but how far you'd take risks? Couldn't.

“Patterns make you predictable.”

Damian growls, defiance blazing in his eyes even as the steel touches skin.

“And unpredictability makes you reckless.”

You let the blade hover, then flick it away with deliberate casualness, rising smoothly. You offer no hand to help Damian up.

And Damian, pushes himself off the ground, chest heaving, eyes shining with something between pride and fury, simply mutters:

“Tch. Not bad, brother.”

Chapter Text

Superman is patrolling Metropolis when Bruce mentions the new update: “The kid’s back from his… extended training abroad.” He blinks. Hence, he decides to get a quick check-in.

And then he sees you.

You just stand there elegantly after the battle with that perfect posture, calm aura but quietly intense. Your once-shiny wide-eyed eagerness has matured into this polished, precise confidence. The golden retriever excitement is there, but now wrapped in discipline, awareness, and just… so much self-possession.

Supes’ jaw literally drops lower than his actual working hours in The Daily Planet. “Wow… that’s… that’s him?”

Bruce smirks knowingly as he crosses his arms smugly.

“The one and only."

"He’s changed. Six years of training, travel, and personal growth. He comes home, despite everything, even when I don't feel like I deserve his devotion and love. He is my greatest paradox. He can’t be Batman. I know he doesn’t want to be. However, he is who he is. Reckless but calculated, impulsive but passionate. He’s never been a soldier, he’s always been a lover, my dear son. And that makes him extraordinary. I’m proud of him. And I trust his loyalty more than anyone in this family. That’s the last thing I have ever wanted to admit.”

Supes grins warmly and nudges Bruce.

"Didn't expect you'd open up that sentimentally to me. All of that sweet talk just to consistently update your contingency plans against him?"

"You know me."

Superman can’t help it. He steps closer, scrutinizing. The man in front of him is still approachable, still kind, still attentive, but there’s this weight now. You radiate competence, command, and intelligence.

You are clearly enjoying the full scope of Supes’ inner awe. Then you give a small, respectful nod.

“Good to see you again, uncle. I’ve… learned a lot since last time.”

Supes just nods, mouth slightly open like he's about to say something but can't find the right words.

Your hands are gentle, reaching in your utility belt precisely for a blooming iris and adjusting a delicate petal in a careful and reverent way. You hum softly, subtly, melodically, almost absentminded.

You glance up, catching Supes staring, and smirk faintly.

Supes swallows, flustered.

“I… uh… I didn’t know you… still care about flowers.”

You tilt his head, playful yet calm. “I care about beauty, unc. About fleeting things. Flowers die. People forget. But appreciation… that’s something you can carry. I enjoy carrying it.”

Supes feels a little warm in his chest. You are still that kid, but now you're an adult who knows exactly how to melt people's heart, especially Supes.

“Here. For you. For my favorite uncle, I came across it along the way back to home.” You finally hand the flower to him.

Supes, still slightly flustered, takes it with both hands. And for a moment, he just… admires the attention, the care, the subtle genius of someone who can make even a flower feel like it matters.

It's definitely not the first time Supes has ever met you.

Years ago, the moment was brief, but you walked slightly lighter, more open, your “extra sweet” side fully activated, tail-wagging in spirit, ready to soak in every little lesson from this uncle after claiming that you're his number one fan. Yep, Superman had taken you up across the sky in a joint mission and unfortunately he had been stuck with your rave about him.

However, he swears that his first impression of you is cautious curiosity. He noticed immediately that you moved differently - precise, deliberate, almost like you're calculating three steps ahead in every small gesture. Not just posture, but the way you observed, how your eyes flicked from one detail to another, how you tilted your head like you're reading the room (and everyone in it).

Supes thought: “Hmm… intelligent. Observant. Strategic. Confident.” He noted that you didn't exude overt aggression, yet there’s a subtle intensity that suggested if you had wanted, you would have been formidable.

Supes also sensed loyalty and restraint. There’s a self-control in you that immediately signals you're principled in your own way - that you wouldn't act recklessly, but you’d do what you considered necessary. And there’s a faint… charm, something understated, quietly magnetic, but not flashy.

And in true Clark Kent style, he also thought quietly: “Interesting. I like this kid.”

Chapter Text

You barge in your room anyways.

And here, you are greeted with gifts, clearly from the idiot that might have sulked and cried in your room during your 6 years abroad.

A carved hand-made black knight left lonely on the desk is positioned like it's mid-game, as if it's waiting for you to finish the last move in the game. And there comes a dark emerald silk scarf folded with military precision. It's not bought, clearly made. The stitching is fine but imperfect. Damian probably taught himself stubbornly. And there goes the corner, it's embroidered in gold thread with your name. Then a perfectly sharpened dagger - the first blade Damian ever let you hold when you were 17. A single line in Arabic along the hilt goes: " لأتذكر من يحتضن قلبي في العاصفة ".

After that, you flip through Damian’s sketchbook left on the nightstand for you - basically the most unguarded window into his heart. Pages are filled with quick, sharp strokes - you mid-fight, cape trailing, daggers flashing. He'd sketched the same pose five, six times until he nailed it. Some were crossed out angrily. Some are perfect. And asleep you on the Manor couch, chest pulsing, lashes flexing, hair falling down, mouth slightly open like a boy finally gets his own rest, a book slipping out of your hand along with a note that goes "I could watch you breathe forever"; you drinking lemon tea, steam curling up, eyes half-lidded; you standing at a window with Gotham’s skyline behind you, looking untouchable - every proof of his worship is here. Damian doesn’t romanticize easily, but here? Every line is reverent - the exact angle you tilt your head when teasing like a fresh wind in the spring carrying all the sweet fragments from the blooms, the way your hand rests lightly on Damian’s shoulder, thumb curved in, the close-ups of your eyes (sometimes soft, sometimes terrifying), your boots, even the fold of your gloves. Damian catalogues it all like he’s afraid of forgetting. And here goes the hidden page tucked in the middle, folded carefully: you drawn in childish chibi style, only one and a half apple tall, sitting in a teacup. And sketches of you and Damian's shadows overlapping on a rooftop, the two of you sparring, blades clashing and flashing with a title: "Partners" can't be ignored. And there is one page where Damian actually drew you and him sitting side by side, your head tipped onto Damian’s shoulder. That page is more detailed to absurdity than anything else in the book. And the rest of the sketch book is just your eyes. He tried to capture every single moment of your expressive brown eyes like it's an unholy mission from God. Also, the last page is your radiant smile with a note: "You laughed and I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding." Everything is wrapped with obsessive patience.

Your throat tightens. Your chest aches in that horrible, beautiful way. A record of being loved. Your eyes are glassy, and your voice rolls out softly with a choked laugh:

“Gosh, your obsession with me is getting a little creepy, baby.” You force out a terrible joke as you turn back and extend your arms for an embrace.

You manage a crooked smile. There goes the exhaustion. Your body goes pliant like you just let go the weight you didn't know you were carrying the whole time.

Damian's ears flushes red all the way down his neck. His hand twitches toward his belt like he might smoke bomb out of your bedroom. Instead, he pulls out the flowers, not roses, not extravagant. Damian knows you don't need flashy things.

Those are thoughtful white lilies on his one hand– symbolizing purity and renewal, a subtle nod to the fact that Damian respects your growth. Mixing in-between are blue hyacinths – symbolizing constancy and deep emotions, because Damian’s feelings are always steady, even if rarely expressed. Forget-me-nots run around the circle as well. They are small, delicate, but meaningful. It's Damian’s subtle way of saying: “No matter how far you go, I’ll remember you.”

And sunflowers, of course, on the other hand, are bold, bright, impossible to ignore. Just like your presence - standing out effortlessly. There are also yellow phalaenopsis orchids - elegant, rare, a bit exotic - represent your sophistication, worldliness, and the mystery Damian has always been fascinated by. A few tiny wildflowers bloom around the corners – the understated, chaotic, bold hint of Damian’s own personality sneaking into something carefully arranged for you.

"Welcome back home, brother." He whispers in a velvety manner.

The dynamic between you and Damian is prickly love wrapped in daggers.

At first, Damian used to be furious: another Robin who lived in his father’s shadow, another brother to measure himself against. Your absurdity drove him insane. How can someone that unserious still earn Bruce’s trust? But the more time he spends with you, the more he realizes you never compete with him. No, not at all.

You were simply… there. Warm. Present.

Damian complains the loudest: “Cipher is insufferable. He interrupts, he mocks, he throws nicknames at me like I’m some housecat.” But when you disappear for too long? Damian sulks. He eats slower at the table, sharpens his sword in silence, paces the halls until you show up again. It’s love through absence.

Bruce taught him how to feel alive. Dick taught him hope. Jason taught him rebellion. But you? You teach him joy - that he can laugh at his own mistakes, that someone will ruffle his hair like he's 4 and still take him seriously in the field, that it’s okay to be a kid.

His most irritating, cherished brother, his secret pride, his lifetime longing - you.

Damian growled when you tease him, but never actually left the room. He secretly let you get away with more nicknames than anyone else. You were the one Damian would kill to protect, but also the one who made him roll his eyes 20 times a day. And he handed you his sword to clean, let you critique his sketches, even on rare occasions, fell asleep next to you on the Manor couch.

You always brought Damian sweets from patrol. As a matter of fact, he scowled: “Do you take me for a child?” But he always ate them. Always. And when you ruffled his hair, Damian swatted you away, yet sat closer the next time. He watched you joked around in fights, pulled stunts, gambled with risk and wasted your brilliance on antics. It infuriated him. But if someone else ever mocked you? Damian’s blade would be at their throat in seconds. Because only he gets to call you an idiot.

Doomed brothers? Damian's still fuming at you because you gained Bruce's respect the fastest and his love the healthiest. It's so painfully easy. It pains him. You were terrifyingly adaptive, unarguably competent and cute(?). You somehow even wormed your way past every wall of his. Thus, he can't blame you for that. That's the life you deserved. That's also the treatment he expected you to receive.

And six years later, you two are both grown, but the same teasing core. Damian’s taller now, sharper jaw, colder eyes in public. But the second you are around, he’s 14 again. You ruffle his hair (yes, still), call him “my little baby bat” and Damian rolls his eyes but leans into the touch like it’s cracks.

“You’re still ridiculous.”

“And you still love me, baby.”

“… Tch. Unfortunately.” He’s smiling when he says it now.

“Six years, birdie. You’re still stuck with me.”

“You make it sound like imprisonment.”

“Tell me it isn’t.” You nudge his shoulders.

“… It isn’t. It never was.” Damian exhales.

“Knew it.”

One Thursday night when Damian sketches at one end of the long table, you are sprawling at the other, flipping through a book upside-down just to annoy him. Eventually you slide your chair closer and closer until Damian growls:

“If you wanted to sit beside me, you could’ve asked.” You grin, leaning on his shoulder.

“But then I wouldn’t get the growl.”

"Unnecessary theatrics for attention." He scoffs but keeps sketching with you pressed against him.

And his mind wanders off. You're so unserious, still. A bloody lunatic freak, even. Your moral compass is questionable, sometimes borderline Jason-coded, sometimes savior complex. He can't predict but he respects you for that. Your self-management is incredible, he will give you that. And there are times when you take up the leader role, you bark the lamest orders around. But every single directive is calculated beforehand.

You could look like the most idiotic dude in the room with plans that could lead the team to self-destruct and anyone who trusted you to hand you the authority instantaneously regrets their life decision. Yet if everyone complies, it's actually the most unhinged and greatest plan constructed by the brightest mind in the room.

He still competes with you. Rivals? But he doesn't know if you and he even anticipate in the same race right now… You are now Ghostflare - your own honorable legacy - no longer Robin. Therefore, what's he doing? He keeps competing anyways, even you don't bother to pay attention that he's, in fact, burned with envy. To find a meaning of this madness? To prove himself to you? To show that he still means something worthy to you? Will that mean you still need him beside to grow like old times? Once a yearning man, always a yearning man.

And his gaze drops back down to your hand. You're doodling yourself beside him - a mini versions of you two in the corner of the page. Damian scoffs and reaches in his pocket, revealing a Russian nesting doll (matryoshka) of you.

"Here you go, idiot." He places the doll in your hand like how you place treats in his hand after missions.

"Eh?" You pause.

You pull the top half of the doll off, inside, another smaller one, painted darker, with a sharp green slash of detail along the side. From outermost blank expression - cold, unreachable, untouchable to the teasing tricker one with a sly smirk and one eyebrow arched, then the happy chaotic one with a bright grin and wide eyes with mischief. There goes another affectionate caretaker with softer lines of you holding a tiny flower. Another one follows up with the wounded soldiers with scars and cracks across the face, faint red streaks.

“You made this.”

Damian’s smirk is faint, but his eyes betray the care.

“Six years I’ve had to refine my hands. Don’t insult me by acting surprised I can paint wood as easily as I can draw blood.”

One by one, you open the dolls, the layers stacking like a history of your shared time. And the smallest doll…

Is blank. Smooth, unpainted, unfinished.

Your chest go pliant, something aching and soft unraveling under your ribs.

“You left it empty.”

“Because that part… only you know. And I thought maybe one day you’d let me see it.” Damian lowers his tone and whispers intimately.

The silence between you two throbs.

You crack a small laugh, sharp and broken at the edges.

“You're so sentimental.”

Damian only smirks harder. “Takes one to know one.”

Chapter Text

Each Batmem has his own special ritual with you that no one else is allowed to violate.

Dick insists walking home together whenever possible, even if you all take the longest route. It’s less about the destination, more about rambling convos, your listening and nodding, and Dick sometimes blurting out the most random feelings. If anyone else tries to join, Dick politely shoves them off: “Sorry, this is our thing.”

Damian drags you to spar. You always end up casually dismantling him. Afterwards, you actually make tea for both, no matter how much Damian complains. It’s your ritual of respect. Damian won’t admit it, but no one else makes tea taste right.

Occasionally Bruce finds you awake at 3 a.m., reading or stargazing. You don’t talk much, but Bruce will sit with you. Just… exist. Sometimes bring a blanket. It’s your unspoken ritual - two quiet souls finding peace in stillness.

Dick thought it’d be funny to crash a sparring session. You were fine with it, Damian was not.

“This is MY hour. Get out.” Damian bristles.

“Oh relax, I’m just here for the tea.” Dick's grinning blatantly.

Damian kicks him in the chest and snarls:

“You’ll be tasting the floor, Grayson.”

Jason once barged into your room at 2:57 a.m. for a “sleepover.” Found Bruce already sitting in silence with you.

“…what the hell is THIS?” Jason questions in awe.

“Our ritual.” Bruce calmly replies.

“YOU HAVE A RITUAL TOO???” Jason gasps in betrayal.

“No no no no. You don’t get two dads, Ci!” He adds.

Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs.

It starts innocently. You are in the kitchen with Alfred during his sacred “Alfred Hour.” You are chopping vegetables while Alfred hums, maybe a kettle whistling.

Then Dick slides in first, all smiles: “Hey, thought maybe he wanted a walk before dinner?” Damian immediately shoves him: “Back off. He and I spar now.” Bruce appears in the doorway, dead serious: “He was with me at midnight last night. It’s my turn.”

You still chop carrots in a unbothered way and sigh.

But instead of leaving, they start arguing louder and louder. Dick claims you “laugh more” on walks. Damian insists “tea is our bond and you can’t replicate it. Bruce just growls “He needs quiet, not your chaos.” It escalates into full-on family brawl in Alfred’s pristine kitchen. Someone knocks into the counter, carrots go flying, Damian nearly upturns the kettle, Dick yells over everyone, and Bruce is literally restraining every single one by the collar.

Alfred slams the ladle on the counter. The room goes dead silent.

“This is my hour. Get. Out.”

Cue all men shuffling out like scolded schoolboys. Dick mutters, Damian glares, then Dick tries to sneak back in and gets The Look, Bruce sighs.

“So do I win?”

Alfred pats your shoulder and affirms: “You always do, Master Cipher.”

The men are all sitting on the manor steps outside the kitchen, sulking like kids who got kicked out of class.

“Unbelievable. We’re his family. How does Alfred get away with hogging him?” Dick speaks up.

“Fine, then we fight fire with fire. If Alfred has an hour, we make a schedule. Cipher every night, Cipher every day - rotation system.” Dick adds.

“Like… visitation rights?” Damian cocks an eyebrow and huffs.

“Drafting a timetable as we speak.” Dick has already pulled out a notebook.

Bruce crosses his arms and grunts in exasperation. “We are not-”

Damian cuts in. "Shhhh, you’re not exempt. You’ll get your slot too, father.”

They all start arguing over who gets Mondays, who gets Sundays, who deserves holidays, like it’s joint custody of you.

Meanwhile, through the kitchen window, you and Alfred are sipping tea, watching them spiral.

“Do they realize I can just say no?” You tilt your head and states.

“Why would you? It’s more entertaining this way.” Alfred smirks faintly.

Damian wrote a book. Oh, it's not just… any book. It's "How to Stop Obsessing Over Cipher: A Practical Guide for Wayne Idiots." by Damian Wayne (the only sane one left in this household) - a full handbook with graphs, case studies, and unnecessary footnotes. His 42-page disasterpiece.

Damian writes it with all the discipline of a war manual, but the second you so much as breathe differently, he’s ripping his own rules apart like it’s a ceremony. It’s not even hypocrisy, it’s a milestone progression.

Rule #3: Do Not Stalk His Daily Routine.

Damian, Day 1: “I must not trail him like a lost hound. I have more dignity than Grayson.”

Damian, Day 2: is literally perched in a tree outside your window, notebook in hand, detailing what brand of tea you brewed that morning.

“Progress: First breach of protocol. He seems fond of chamomile. Noted. This is necessary intel.”

Rule #11: Do Not Engage in Petty Rivalries Over His Attention.

Damian, after Jason hogs you during movie night: “This is not rivalry. This is warfare. Correction: rivalry IS warfare.” He challenges Jason to a spar at 2:41 a.m. to settle who deserves the left armrest beside you.

Rule #16: Stop Memorizing His Expressions Like a Lunatic.

Damian literally has a running sketchbook full of your “notable facial micro-expressions.” When Dick discovers it, Damian hisses, “It’s called field research, Grayson. Science.”

Rule #21: Do Not, Under Any Circumstance, Treat Him as If He Is the Center of Your Universe.

Damian is also sitting bolt upright at 3:13 a.m., diary in hand:

“You are the sun. You are the stars. You are gravity, pulling me into orbit. This is not obsession. This is inevitability.”

It’s literally the funniest thing because instead of following the rules, Damian treats breaking them like leveling up in loyalty to you.

By the time you reach the last page of the book, you will see his notes:

"This book was drafted as a weapon against irrational behaviour, an ordered response to chaos. It was meant to be practical, surgical, cold. It was also written by someone who believes rules fix problems.

They do not.

Cipher is not a problem to be solved. He is a person who interrupts my systems and annoyingly improves them. He will not be owned, scheduled, or reduced to a graph. He will not be fixed. He will be experienced.

I failed to follow my own plan. I catalogued my failures because failure is data. Each time I broke a rule in these pages, it was not because I am weak. It was because something else, less logical, uglier and purer, moved me. I call it many things in my head: gravity, orbit, unprofessional incompetence. You may call it whatever helps you sleep.

So here are the only acceptable actions:

1, Respect the boundaries he asks for. If he says no, mean it. If he says yes, do better than you did the last time.

2, Show up, properly. Not to prove a point. Not to collect favor. Show up because you are capable of calm when it matters. That is how you demonstrate worth, not through possession.

3, Keep your ridiculous rituals. But understand they are for comfort, not control. If you protect him, do so gently.

Final, unscientific note (I will regret this):

If you are reading this and you are me. Stop pretending the spreadsheet saved you. It did not. The moment Cipher smiled at me for no reason and I felt my chest rearrange itself like an idiot. Well, that was the moment metrics failed me.

Metrics are useful. People are not."

The house is almost too quiet when even the clock seems to hold its noises back. Damian pads down the hall with a small thermos in his hands.

Tonight he sets the binder on the dresser and walks in without intellect interfering - only the single, stubborn, clumsy force that refuses to obey instruction: affection.

For a moment Damian studies you as though reading a map he’s supposed to memorize. It is reverent. It is ridiculous. It is everything he cannot explain.

He sits on the edge of the bed, close enough that you can feel the heat of him, far enough that he honors the space you prefer. He hands over the thermos like an offering.

“Chamomile.” he says. His voice is softer than it ever is in the training hall.

“One of your favorite. Do not feign indifference when I know you like it hot.”

You blink, amused, then surprised, then… something like warmth loosens the corners of your mouth.

“Since when do you make tea instead of cataloguing its boiling point?”

“Since I realized boiling points do not comfort.” Damian answers.

“I will not own you.” He adds and there is no theatricality in it.

“I only offer presence. When you need it, I will be there. When you do not, I will leave. But I will not be absent.”

It is not a vow to possess. It is a vow to be trustworthy. That is Damian’s love: deliberate, exacting, and above all, respectful. It does not beam or beg; it engineers safety. Sometimes it looks like unfinished sketchbooks. Sometimes it looks like a blanket over shoulders. Sometimes, very rarely, and only when the world stills enough, it looks like him falling asleep with his head lightly against your arm, breathing the same slow rhythm, unashamed.

That is the love that is beyond humane: fierce, quiet, absolute.

Chapter Text

I printed charts and drafted contingencies. I believed rules would hold the tide.

Tonight, I broke another rule.

He was awake when I came down. He pretended to be reading; he always pretends. I brought chamomile because Alfred would notice if I stole Earl Grey and argue about the tannins. The thermos was warm in my hands. My fingers remembered how to be gentle before my brain permitted it.

He said nothing important. He tilted his head and smiled in the way that undoes me - that quiet, small smile that turns my world upside down again and again. I tried to catalogue it. I failed. I watched instead. I let myself immerse in it. And that moment I genuinely believe in people's nonsensical love quote like "They smile once and I forget that I moved on long time ago."

He let me stay. He rested his hand near mine and did not pull away. The world narrowed to the sound of breath and the faint hiss of the kettle somewhere downstairs.

I wrote down that moment because I needed evidence that I had been present and not performative.

Because presence is how I measure love now.

If this is a betrayal of the manual, so be it. The pages will stay. I will keep them because they remind me of the day I admitted that rules cannot restrain what is true. He is not mine to fix. He is mine to protect and to honor. That is different and worse and better than everything I thought I wanted.

If he ever says the word “leave” in the tone of needing space, I will physically leave the room and not return for at least forty minutes. I time it. I respect it. I hate the waiting but only he makes me feel like it's worthy to be patient and unwavering.

He is a problem I stopped trying to solve and began to keep watch over instead.

There are equations for everything - momentum, force, arc. There is no equation for the way his laugh rearranges my soul. I wrote spreadsheets to understand him and the spreadsheets stared back like I'm the fool.

If love is a battlefield, I am the one who refuses to raise a weapon. I would do violence to anyone who hurt him and then make tea for them to recover, because he is worth both savagery and civility in the same breath.

He demands nothing. He is a gravity that does not ask; he only pulls. I orbit him not because I am trapped, but because I choose that rotation. I call it reverence because that’s what it feels like at three a.m. when everything is quiet and the only proof of life is his breath against the dark.

I cannot promise I will never be clumsy, selfish or ridiculous. I will fail. I fail often. But I will not withdraw. I will remain.

He is not mine to own. He is mine to guard, cherish and love. If that sounds less romantic, then I will rather be practical and present than poetic and absent.

One day, Jason casually refers him as "my boyfriend" in mid-briefing, and he responds with a soft grin and doesn’t correct him. I freeze, try to pretend I didn’t hear it, but the gears are spinning faster than ever.

Before, I could’ve laughed it off.

“Jason, joking again, nonsense.”, easy.

But now… the tone is soft, deliberate, affectionate, not teasing. It’s intimate in a way that drills straight through my chest.

And he gives Jason that look. That's not just any tender gaze, that's the look of love - the kind that disarms every single person in the room, the one that's too bare, indulging and worship, the type that screams he's drowning in Jason and he won't want the other way.

He doesn't know how how priceless that look is, does he? The look that could make men go to wars for him, women tear their hearts out and hand them to him…

At late night, I accidentally overhear a soft exchange:

“Come on, babe, hurry up.”

“… Yeah, yeah, I’m coming, love.”

I freeze mid-step. Those are not brotherly nicknames. Those are not “best friends teasing.” Those are intimate. Impossible to misread.

I have calculated beforehand. I know there will be this day. It's inevitable. It's destined to be this way. It doesn't make my chest hurt any less. And I chose to love anyways.

I stand in the shadows of the common room, notebook in hand, trying to pretend I'm busy with strategy diagrams. I'm supposed to be analyzing training drills, formulating contingencies for future operations - anything but this. But I can’t. Not when he laughs across the room with Jason, head thrown back, sunlight catching the faintest curve of his smile.

I know I should leave. I know he doesn't see me that way. I'm nothing more than just… family. Officially, Jason gets that corner of his heart now.

I lost from the very beginning. I despise having to admit that I lose. I'm not even allowed to compete for his love, since he never looked at me in that way. So how am I supposed to win?

Nevertheless, is it possible to lose someone if he's never yours?

Yet, I smile to myself, bitterly, painfully because I know I'm caught in a loop. Falling again. Falling again. Falling again. And there’s no antidote. No plan. No manual that can stop it.

Not when he exists.

Not when that smile exists.

Not when he's pretty like an exotic flower.

I will rather be dead than having to confess this tangled feeling. What do I get after that? The ease? The relief? No. I bet he'll be too nice. He will turn me down slowly and gently like he always does with me. And that shatters me more than anything. Because that means I'll never be able to let go. I'd rather bury myself and bury this twisted affection. It's better off than having to die twice - going through the heartbreak of refusal.

Zeus… God… Allah… whoever… anyone is high up there saves me, because solely seeing him is breaking every single rational thought in my mind, leading me to swirl around the idea of confessing to him over and over again till he gives in.

Love, love, love.

I never wanted romance.

Love is unnecessarily burdensome.

I'll be sitting in the dining room with an apple and randomly wondering if he likes apples or not. WHO GIVES A FUCK-

However, that's not the point.

The point is that… I don't want love if it's not from him.

I'm highly self-aware that I should quit this madness, yet I can't find any way to refrain my heart from waiting.

Todd isn’t even disciplined. He treats every mission like it’s a bar fight, and somehow he still looks at him like he hung the stars. He’s reckless, loud, undignified. He's clearly nothing worth in comparison to me. Almost…

Yet, Todd loves as hard as I do. And he makes him feel safe, cheerful, loved enough to be with. That's where I fail to compete. Perhaps… that's more than enough.

My heart feels heavy whenever I think of his heart.

Does his heart ache? Does he really accept that he'll never reach out anymore? Not even anyone in this family?

I know he doesn't. Not totally. Everyone has hopes. Even when it's little and barely perceptible.

He's independent, competent, capable of great things. He earned his legacy - Ghostflare. He constructed his own person.

But I know better. He still craves to open up.

He's still human.

Nevertheless, I know it's easier and more practical for him to believe that "No one could save yourself forever but you." after that Joker incident.

Dreams.

I don’t even talk about these dreams, mostly because I genuinely believe they’re some kind of spiritual trial. Not romantic, not lustful, nothing I can scold myself for… just deeply unsettling in a way I can’t scrub out.

It always goes like this:

I’m somewhere quiet. A courtyard. A rooftop. A void. It changes every time, but he never does.

He always stands just close enough to count as “near,” just far enough to make I feel like I’m the one approaching.

And he looks at me with that calm, devastating softness - the kind Jason fights for, bleeds for, whines for, the one he never gives out freely in waking life.

It’s not like he never looks at me softly.

It’s just I never witnessed this level of dusk-like softness dedicated to me - Damian Wayne.

But here? I receive it like a benediction. I feel like it’s a private audience with a god he never asked for.

He touches my face or fixes my hair sometimes in these dreams.

Not flirtatious.

Not claiming.

Just… familiar.

Like someone who knew me first, before Robin, before the League, before everything.

It’s gentle, undivided, tailored enough to bleed my soul.

It’s done with this intimate, effortless certainty, as though he’s been doing it for years.

And I, in that dream logic haze, take his gentleness like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

I lean in not out of desire but instinct, like my body recognizes him in ways my mind hasn’t caught up with.

Sometimes he says my name in a warm, low way that makes my breath hitch.

Sometimes we just sit.

Or he hands me tea.

Sometimes he’s just there, present in comfortable silence.

It resembles our daily life.

Nothing odd.

Just the extraordinary look from him that sends my heart aching in surprise.

And it feels like he’s always been mine.

Just… aligned.

As if we’re binary stars get tired of orbiting each other for millennia and eventually collide.

And I know very well that even inside the dream-

This isn’t real.

This isn’t how he looks at me.

This isn’t mine.

Nonetheless, it feels like it is.

In this safe place, he feels like a presence I don’t have to earn - someone who belongs to me in a way I’ve never been allowed to want.

And then I wake up.

Always fast.

Always too fast.

I breathe sharply like surfacing from underwater.

I blink at the ceiling, palm pressed over my heart because it feels too full, too strange, too not mine.

I tells myself it’s foolish. Silly. Ridiculous.

Just dreams.

Anything that helps me sleep at peace again at night.

But the worst part?

Every time I see him the next day, something inside me jolts like my subconscious is trying to reconcile dream-him with real-him.

I look at him and think:

“I wish you would ever look at me that way.”

And then immediately hates myself for even thinking it.

It’s bitter, silly and haunting.

I’d take these dreams down to my grave before admitting out loud.

However, I dream again anyways. Twice a month. Like clockwork. Like I can’t outrun it. Like he’s the sweetest shadow I can never escape. Like he’s the fluid living in my veins. Like he’s the religion keeping me alive yet I have to fight my life to oppose to.

How cruel.

How silent.

How empty.

It leaves my heart aching again and again.

And I wonder.

I wonder why my subconscious insists on giving me something I never asked for but can’t stop mourning.

I have dozens of plans for the future.

I don't know which plan my life will follow or if either will happen at all.

Maybe I'll end up somewhere in-between, or somewhere unexpected.

But no matter where I go, a part of me will always stay with him.

He's always been with me for so long like a soft ache.

I never expected anything from him, not love, not return.

And there is a day when I bother enough.

An unavoidable joint mission, of course.

Jason and he moves side by side, laughter echoing in the air. Jason’s voice is loud, easy. And Cipher's smile is bright, electric, warm enough to thaw the night air.

I stay a few paces back silently. The glass of the tower beside me catches the reflection - his grin. The way he leans close when Jason said something stupid. The brief flare of his eyes that had nothing to do with the skyline and everything to do with the man next to him.

And I just stand there. Watching. That reflection feels cruelly honest - all the things I couldn’t say trapped behind a pane of glass.

Cipher’s head tilts slightly, his own gaze flicking toward the reflection as if sensing it. But the moment he does, I turn away sharply, cloak shifting, jaw tight.

“Focus on the mission.” I utter.

“Didn’t say a word.” Jason chuckles.

Cipher lingers, eyes still on the glass before his smile returns, softer now, and he says nothing.

Somewhere between the light and the mirror, the ache stays.

Chapter Text

Dick and you still patrol together occasionally in Bludhaven (Dick totally insisted it for "family bonding").

"Come on, return to me. In Gotham, you cannot throw a Batarang without accidentally hitting another vigilante. Every rooftop has someone brooding on it. I'm pretty sure you'd love the greatest sexiest hero's accompany in the city. Oh, that's me - your big brother, heh." He revolves around you dramatically with a presentation remote and a slideshow "Top 10 reasons why you should be my partner in crime «Bludhaven's edition»"

"Actually, I'm traveling to Hub City next week, Nightwhine. The Question called me over-" You sigh in Dick's mid-lecture.

"WHAT??? YOU CHOSE SOMEONE ELSE OVER FAMILY? Baby, I have known you for years. And this is what I get after behaving and waiting like a hopeless idiot for 6 whole damn years. Now you're telling me I'm not qualified to be your Capt anymore. I officially lost over a faceless guy. Okay. Cool. Nice. People are not wrong when they say good guys don't get their happy endings. Is it too much when a poor pitiful guy just wants his family time again?"

"… Dick, that's not what I-" You glance away in a half-guilty, half-exasperated way.

"Hush, I have already called Bruce for this. Successfully negotiated. Period." He grins like he just got awarded a Nobel Prize for Peace.

Anything just for you to finally reach out again and pull him back into that orbit.

Dick can be in full Nightwing mode, giving orders, flipping through rooftops, and the second you show up? His brain goes “oh my baby brother’s here!! :D”, not “oh god, that’s the terrifying ghost operative that even assassins whisper about.”

He’ll be smiling all fond and proud while you are walking out of the smoke, bloodied and calm. Your voice is all quiet like “Target neutralized.”

And Dick just goes “You did so good out there! Wanna get pancakes after?” While everyone else (including Jason) is in the corner like

“?????? Dick. He just took down a death squad with his bare hands.”

He really does forget sometimes that your reputation makes even Justice League's members flinch.

It’s one of those missions where Dick gets there a bit too late (Probably flirting with someone mid-way, you suppose so). He’s expecting to back you up. He's (half ass) worried, ready to swoop in and protect his baby brother like the savior of the day. Only to find the whole place already silent.

Bodies down. Lights flickering. And in the middle of it all - you.

Your voice rolls out detached and low: “You shouldn’t have followed me here, Nightchicken.”

And it’s not his baby brother talking. It’s the Ghostflare.

Dick freezes. His throat clenches. It’s that split-second where he remembers, oh right.

This isn’t just his kid brother who frowns at his rage baits and falls asleep on his couch.

This is the same person whose name sends trained killers into hiding.

The same person Bruce keeps classified files on.

The same guy never (oh really?) killed anyone, but always sends criminals straight to 1 HP state with a hyper-lengthy hospital bill that's more burdensome than having to deal with death itself.

The same dude that gets his revenge so petty to the point that even jaywalkers fear him. Death is overrated, your pettiness is unarguably one of the best kind.

And Dick's voice just cracks.

“Well… great work, artist.”

“You weren’t there. Surprise is predictable.” You answer quickly without looking back.

Then Dick finally sees what everyone else does - that his little brother is a beast the world made out of love for them.

Dick’s still standing there. His heart is pounding in his chest, trying to reconcile what he just saw. Dick’s hand half-reaches out like if he just touches your shoulder, he can pull you back from that eerie, untouchable state.

However, you turn first. Your expression softens when you see Dick. Your eyes turn back to the quiet tender warmth that Dick knows by heart. You tilt his head slightly, like nothing happened, like the room isn’t full of unconscious bodies on the verge of dying or so. You never let your force slip away from your control.

“You hungry?” You ask with a small tentative velvety tone and a faint smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

“What?” Dick blinks.

“Pancakes, eggs, and creams. You promised, remember?” You reply with the same nonchalance someone would use to ask about the weather.

And it shatters Dick a little bit, because how can someone go from absolute nightmare to soft domestic craving in two seconds flat? He can’t even speak for a moment. He's still in that state of mixing awe with grief.

“Yeah, yeah, I'll make them. Let’s… let’s get out of here.” He nods with an almost imperceptibly shaky laugh.

Your face lights up at that. That gentle, genuine, boyish grin curls up again. You step past the wreckage, hands tucked in your pockets, humming under your breath.

Dick’s just there in that quiet apartment with you, leaning against the counter while you are buried in some mission planning, utterly absorbed.

Dick watches, hoping (praying) that you will glance up, notice him, and… need him like you used to. Like those small, unspoken ways that used to tie you two together: a hand brushing over his, a quiet “stay with me,” a sigh that means "I can’t do this without you." Sometimes he even sees the reflection of old you and him in the puddles, towers’ glasses, mirrors. Funny, isn’t it?

He is replaying every tiny interaction, every laugh you two shared, every night where you let him in just a little, and now he’s there… waiting.

It's not like he doesn't trust you. When Batman is down, Nightwing - himself is the one people should call over first, yet Ghostflare - you are the one people should call when their lives need guarantee.

It's just… doesn't feel like before.

You don't reach out anymore. Not just in the battlefield, emotionally as well.

The trust shifts. You always show up to help Dick out - sending backups, checking on Dick's routines and emotions, fixing the tech when he doesn't ask. Yet, when something goes wrong, you fix it alone. No call, no check-in. Dick finds out, and you just go "I could handle that.". And he knows you mean it.

You share less. Dick might talk about his latest mission, rant about him being drained, and you listen, offer companion with that steady, teasing voice. But you never mention yours. Not out of secrecy, just... detachment. The emotional bridge that used to be a two-way flow now runs one direction.

When Dick worries out loud, you just deflect with a joke.

"You're going to give yourself wrinkles, Dick." Then you move on, change the subject. You're not cruel, you're just keeping the door closed.

You still text him at 4, but it's lighter. You send memes, not midnight thoughts. The "Hey, you awake?" becomes "Look at this idiotic raccoon."

It's bullshit to say you are no longer bothered by nightmares and the exhaustion of consecutive patrols. He knows you better than that. He knows you're way much worse than before, even when he doesn't have the slight proof of that.

You just... don't need him anymore, do you?

That's something… new. It's subtle, almost invisible if one's not paying attention. But Dick always does. And it's everywhere.

The ache in him is the bittersweet and desperate.

Wanting to be needed isn’t pride, it’s survival.

That longing, that tiny spark of hope, that flicker when you finally reach out… it would be everything for Dick.

You have been his anchor since you were just 17. You were his safe place to come home to when his shoulders are cracked from the weight of the world. And you were there, saw through him, embraced him. You were present even though he never asked for help. Never. And that means more than anything.

You always feel like home that he wants to protect, even when you're just fine being alone, coping well and being all competent.

Therefore, he wants to be your home too. He vows for your opening up though he's an atheist.

Dick leans against the doorway, arms crossed but his posture betrays him. He’s so tense, like a coiled spring. You are at the table, sketching something meticulously.

He swallows and whispers quietly: “… Hey.”

You pause and look up.

Dick approaches you nervously and settles down beside you. He feels the heat rocket in his chest as your hand lands and lingers on his shoulder, just enough to remind him that that he matters.

And Dick… oh, Dick melts. His knees go weak. His chest feels like it's about to explode out of tension.

“I… I just… I missed this… I missed you, my baby blue.” He whispers with tiny, shaky and fragile breaths.

Your hand slides from his shoulder to the back of his neck, guiding him slightly closer, and Dick’s head dips instinctively, nuzzling against you.

Silence stretches comfortably.

He will wait.

He doesn't need to push you to open up.

He will make sure that if there's one day you turn back, you will see him always behind your back.

And maybe that’s the most heartbreaking, beautiful part of it all.

Chapter Text

Of course, Jason has heard about your reunion with your family.

He should be happy for you, shouldn't he?

Instead, he feels conflicted.

The feeling creeps like fire in his veins. It's tangled with traumas and messy recognition.

Both of you two endured physical, emotional, and psychological violence - Joker, abandonment, being “secondary” in the Bruce's grand moral hierarchy.

However, Jason and you carry the pain in two parallels.

You seem to carry the wounds with almost serene control. You are composed, methodical, and you come home.

Jason, meanwhile… he’s the bruised and black version of the same story. He wears traumas like they are the sole armor he trusts. Jason lashed out, resented, carved his own blood way. He couldn't ever be in totally good terms with Bruce. No, not really.

Though things are rather going well, it's certain that it isn't like before. There's something like an invisible wall Jason and Bruce couldn't quite cross through. And they let it that way.

Jason sometimes mimics you in a minor way. He tried to embrace Bruce after everything. Nevertheless, it always comes out a little off, like a reflection that reminds him: “I’m not him.”

Jason’s envy is existential. He resents you for making the same pain look easier, making him doubting his self-worth by unspoken comparison. He craves the closeness you get. He desires how heavenly it must feel.

Basically, your “I survive, I endure, I come home” is like a mirror Jason doesn’t want to look into. Hence, all the envy, challenges, and poking fun he has thrown at you recently is less about wanting what you have and more about reacting to the fact that someone else can be okay in a situation where he isn’t.

Jason never wants to be like you.

That’s the crux of it.

Jason cannot reconcile the idea that loyalty is worth that much.

In his mind, loyalty that requires self-abandonment isn’t noble, heroic or saintly. It’s a kind of masochism, a burden no one should willingly bear. It rots you from inside, shallows your wants, your own survival. It takes away your self-respect, your ability to grieve or rage, even your capability to exist humanly.

Unworthy.

Jason sees you: calm, composed, enduring, even when the cost is unbearable. And he knows your aches.

Heartbreak.

Because he sees someone he loves willing to be broken for others and it feels almost… unfair.

He’s raw, reckless, hurt, and chaotic. He hasn’t learned how to tolerate the kind of selflessness you embody. So instead of admiration, he gets this mix of painful awe and simmering resentment.

Loyalty like that doesn’t heal. It's destructive in the way individuals cannot even see.

Your unconditional love for family sounds holy until he looks closer and realizes it erases boundaries and blurs accountability. Without conditions, there's no balance. The "I love you no matter what" should meet "I still need self-respect, your respect, honesty and efforts." Pairing conditional love and unconditional love keep everything alive instead of consuming everything. It's messy to love that way - unconditional love isn't that bright like people always praise and pray for. Ironic, isn't it?

Sure thing you made it work. Sorta. Nonetheless, Jason doesn't want connection, loyalty, love with self-erasure.

It’s not a competition. It’s not a hierarchy.

He can't even imagine how bitterly and silently you will measure the love you receive sometimes and still decide it's worth the pain to keep it this way.

You are no "better” than Jason. You are just… different. It never means you are his "what-if". Two people, same fire, same scars, same chaos. Nonetheless, the way you two carry it diverges, and that divergence is what cuts Jason the most.

Pain in two forms. That's all.

"Jay?" Your quiet voice snaps him out of his drifting thoughts.

Jason flinches slightly and sighs.

"Thinking about us." He diverts his eyes away and rubs his nape.

"How we take things after that incident. It kinda pesters me how different we are." Jason adds as his jaw clenches, his other fist tightens subtly.

You go all quiet immediately, a little withdrawn, lips pressed tight, eyes tracing some invisible corners while a low storm brews inside you. Your shoulders slump slightly and your usual effortless posture goes a little off. Jason knows you are feeling it deep down, letting the blue wash over yourself in silent waves.

Jason can't help but feel every ounce of your quiet despair like a personal insult to his system. His frustration threatens to take over him as he soaks in the sight of your almost fragile state in your own storm.

"You know I love you for that, right? You bleed louder, you rage, you push and yell and fall apart. That’s fine. That’s… you. You just… endure. In your own way. That’s enough. I hope that you never think that I'm the standard." Your voice comes out after a while and softens in an intimate way.

"I know it hurts, watching me… carry things like this. You’re allowed to hurt for the two of us. You’re allowed to rage for me too. You’re allowed to be… you." You nudge Jason lightly as you grin warmly.

"Thanks, love. We're just fucked up, y'know. This dilemma just highlights the ultimate cruelty of loyalty: That even the “best ending” is, in reality, a form of self-erasure. Your reunion doesn't feel bittersweet to me. It’s… gut-wrenching. I just wish that both of us could take a break sometimes." Jason whispers in an exasperated tone.

He finally turns to look at you with those eyes - the eyes that pour out all of his exhaustion, ache, and devotion for solely you.

And you two just stay there in that comfortable silence.

Perhaps that's the best answer to everything.

Chapter Text

Dawn.

The Batcave is still silent with occasionally quiet beeping sounds from monitors and glowing navy screens. The half lone coffee cup lies on your nightstand.

Jason swears it's just curiosity or simply the urge to watch over you - something to take the edge off, to fill his void in his sleepless nights, to soothe the flame that burns in his soul. Let's not mention the fact that it's been a ritual every night. You know. He always leave you something to hint that he was there - a small token he picked up from missions, a book he find it amusing, or his mug of water for you to stay hydrated in the morning. You let him stick around with this quiet ritual anyways.

He tucks the blanket up for you in your sleep, pauses for 3 minutes and 29 seconds to take in your messy but peacefully asleep state. He wants to reach out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ears, but he stopped himself as he's afraid of startling you.

As he's getting bored, he rummages through your suit.

He shouldn’t be doing this. He knows that.

"This is science. Recon. Intelligence gathering. Whatever. Maybe something to blackmail him later for stealing my fries every time." He mumbles to himself anyways.

He ducks into the equipment alcove where you usually dump your stuffs after runs, and there it is - the utility belt.

Jason grins. He hooks a finger into a clip and eases it off like he's diffusing a bomb.

He makes a mental guess.

"Hm… it would be a mix of lethal tools, over-engineered gadgets, and absolutely ridiculous, borderline petty items. He has a twisted humor anyways."

Of course, he finds tactical basics first. He thumbs through collapsible multi-function blades. He rolls the blades between his fingers, already imagining your smug little lecture about balance and edge angles. Oh, there is also one Damian gifted you. Yeah, Jason's going to take that for blackmailing. And there go micro-grenade launchers - smoke, EMP, and “confetti” versions for chaos. Compact crossbow with explosive bolts is also here. Miniature hacking drones, sticky web grenades, mini grappling hook launcher, infrared monocle, mini medkit, lock-picking set, mini sonic bugs for eavesdropping or misdirection with sound distortions. There are a lot more high-tech gadgets going on but-

"Alright, too boring. Typical for a nerd." Jason thought to himself as he moves onto another pocket.

Spray paint pellets, mini smoke bombs that faintly smell like durians, an UNO REVERSE card you use to throw at enemies mid-fight dramatically, tiny useless handcuffs that you think they are funny, a tiny notebook labeled “Shit Jason Does”. Right, of course you have to write down all the things Jason did to annoy you for a later petty comeback. Mini rubber chickens look ridiculous and suspiciously clean for field items. Jason squeezes the chicken’s belly; it emits a pathetic squeak that makes him snort. And emergency lollipops - great for calming frightened civilians… or Jason when he’s being dramatic. Oh, and they are great for your sweet tooth too.

It fits your whole vibe: part menace, part prankster, part affectionate. You are the type to distract a villain with a confetti grenade, then toss a candy at a kid nearby, wink, and disappear into the shadows. 50% deadly efficiency, 50% chaotic middle schooler energy.

The stupid items take Jason back to the other day.

Jason yanked another thug into a headlock and snarled.

“Trouble, I swear to God, if I see one more-”

Something clattered onto the ground.

Jason looked down.

“A fucking rubber chicken?”

You didn’t even hesitate. You kicked it across the floor like it was a grenade. The squeak it made was so sharp the last thug tripped over his own boots, slamming face-first into a crate.

“See? Effective.” You dusted your gloves like you just proved a thesis.

“You’ve got C4. Knives. Smoke bombs. And you’re telling me-”

“A rubber chicken won us that takedown.” You interrupted smugly.

“Do you even hear yourself when you’re in the field? Rubber chickens. I’m trying to not die, and you’re out there running a damn clown sh-.” Jason kicked off the thug in his arm and crushed his back with a rant.

Before he could finish, you leaned forward, pressed something into Jason’s hand.

Jason looked down. A little wrapped caramel sat there, shiny in the low light.

“Are you bribing me right now?” Jason asked flatly.

“Not bribing. Soothing. You rant better with sugar in your mouth.”

Jason wanted to argue. He really did. But the candy was warm in his palm, like you had been holding it just for him. With a quiet groan, Jason shoved it into his mouth and chewed angrily. He glared at you. Then his mouth twitched traitorously, helplessly into a small smile.

Jason snaps back to the present when a polaroid strip catches his attention. A photo looks torn, folded, bloodstained even, but you keep it anyway. He unfolds it neatly and the image instantly triggers him.

Chapter Text

It all started when you were eight years old.

Tiny thing, yeah. Your hair was too neat for the neighborhood, and your shirt was tucked in like you got a board meeting at recess. You got that careful kind of posture kids copy from watching adults too closely and a soft voice. The sort of boy who said please to strangers and thanked the wind when it behaved. The sweetest and almost richest kind in this dark neighborhood. You had already got combat instincts thanks to your family history, but it’s all playful and precise. And you were unsurprisingly fearless around people bigger and older than you.

However, you eyes were something else. They held that quiet, steady way of noticing like you were constantly scanning for cracks in the world you could patch with kindness. You always carried a little emergency kit: tissues, plasters, a tiny flashlight, maybe a lollipop for diplomacy.

You were also this little whirlwind of curiosity who always managed to get into trouble because you had to know how everything works.

Jason, 14, was scrappy, fiery, but with this simmering intensity that made him a bit intimidating even as a kid. He's street-smart, and his survival-mode was always on. He’s lean, fast, knew how to hide, steal, manipulate, fight. His life was chaos; he trusted no one. But under that fire was so much hurt and a protective side towards his family.

You were playing near the alley behind your house, practicing little parkour jumps (you adore challenge) when Jason spotted you. Jason’s initially sizing you up: “typical rich kid who thinks the world is soft” and he’s definitely planning to snatch something small to help his mom out or just scare you off.

“Hi! I never saw you before. Wanna spar?” You didn't even flinch and you dusted off your clothes as you smiled.

“What, you think you can?” He blinked.

“Maybe. Wanna try?” You tilted your head in a calm but fierce way.

“You’re about to learn you cannot fight me.” He frowned.

“Then teach me! I love learning!”

Jason strode and threw constant jabs. You dodged and dashed off gracefully, flipping over a crate effortlessly (and unnecessarily). He’s actually impressed and a little unsettled. You were annoying, yes, but… fun? Fascinating? Dangerous in ways Jason wasn’t used to.

“Great… I’m gonna have to keep an eye on you.”

You waved back from the alley end: “See you tomorrow, maybe? We’ll spar again!”

Jason shook his head, half smiling, already feeling that chaotic pull toward you.

The next day, Jason’s lurking near the same alley, eyes scanning for trouble or opportunities. He spotted you practicing flips on a low wall again. You noticed him immediately and waved.

“Hey! Come to spar again?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, kid.” He had already rolled his eyes.

You giggled and ignored the attitude. You held out a small paper bag, decorated with stickers and ribbons, like some ridiculously cute homemade snack pouch.

“Actually… I brought something for you!”

Jason froze mid-step. His instincts screamed: "Reject it. Be indifferent. You are older, tough, don’t need anyone’s sugar-coated kindness."

“I don’t… I don’t want-” He crossed his arms.

“Come on. Just try one. You might like it. I made them myself!”

Jason huffed, turning away, pretending to be annoyed. But his hand twitched… and then, against every survival-trained instinct in him, he grabbed a tiny chocolate treat.

“Not that it matters. I’m not… thanking you or anything.” He grumbled.

You beamed, clearly pleased, then nudged him with a little elbow:

“See? I knew you’d like it. You can spar harder if you eat first, you know.”

Jason scowled, but secretly shoved another into his mouth. His cheeks puffed as he chewed, trying to act like he’s disgusted.

“So… spar now?” You whispered delightedly.

“Yeah… yeah, fine. But don’t think this makes you my friend or anything, alright?”

“Oh, you are my friend now. You just don’t know it yet!” You beamed with excitement.

Jason rolled his eyes but, for the first time in a long while, felt… less alone. Tiny, fearless, sweet you had somehow wormed into his messy, guarded little world. And he secretly looked forward to seeing you again day by day.

Over the next few weeks, Jason and you settled into this weird rhythm: sparring in the alley, you tossing treats, Jason grumbling and pretending he didn't care. He lunged. You leaped, flipped, and dodged with surprising skills for your age. Jason was secretly impressed yet his pride wouln't let him admit it.

It’s late afternoon. The alley was quieter than usual. Jason’d just come from a particularly rough day: his mom yelled at him, some drug deal went south, he barely got home with the groceries intact. His eyes were hard, his body tense. He slumped against the wall, trying to shake it off.

You bounced into the alley, cheerful as ever, with your little bag of treats.

“Hey! I brought snacks! Wanna spar?”

Jason’s jaw tightened. He wanted to yell, to shove the kid away. He didn’t have the energy for games.

“Not… today. Go home, okay?” He mumbled.

You frowned, sensing something’s wrong, and tilted your head.

“What’s wrong?”

Jason glanced away, shoulders stiff. He’s not used to telling anyone. But your small presence felt… safe, somehow.

“Stuff. Life. Don’t matter.”

“It matters to you, though. I can see it.”

“You don’t know anything about me, kid! You don’t get it!” Jason lashed out, more out of instinct than anger.

You settled beside him as you uttered: "I could listen. I'm here. You matter to me."

Jason looked at you with the sudden lump in his throat. He hated being weak. He hated needing anyone. But the smell of the chocolate, the warmth of you’s innocent insistence… Jason’s chest tightened again. He wanted to argue, but he didn’t. For the first time in a long time, he let someone see even a sliver of his hurt.

“Kid… don’t you ever shut up?”

“Not when it’s about you.”

Jason felt the way you look at him, so small and fearless, so honest. And his chest clenched in a way he didn't like. He’s caught between wanting to push you away and… wanting to protect you. Deeply.

"Rough day. Mom is an addict. I fucked things up, didn't get her the shit she needed and got kicked out. And people got really fucked up with the groceries. The price rose up like life is testing how miserable my life could be. That's all. It's not like I can't get over it. I used to it, actually. It just… feels more tiresome this time. It's stupid." He sighed, expecting absolutely nothing from you.

You said nothing, patted his shoulder gently as time elapsed for a while.

Then you rose up, offered a hand. Jason looked confused but took yours anyways.

"Come on, let's go."

"To where?"

"Away from this place. Just a while. Anywhere with me."

And Jason laughed, like… genuinely laughed - the kind only slipped out when he forgot that everything else in this world existed. It feels like sunlight breaking through the clouds, bright, radiant and reckless. Jason wanted to say it wasn’t that easy. That people like him didn’t just run away and find peace. Instead, he went:

"Surprise me, dork."

And with that, you two ran.

Two kids chasing the sun, laughing into the summer wind, with no one in the world but each other.

The city’s noise was far behind you two. The afternoon sun poured gold over your tangled hair. And your cheeks flushed a soft pink. When you turned to look back at him, the sun spilling over warm skin, over eyes that held something too big for your age. Something safe. Something his.

Jason’s knees were scraped, and his heart hammering with the thrill of breaking every rule that ever tried to cage him. His shoes slapped against the uneven pavement. His breaths were coming out in bursts that mixed laughter and exhaustion.

You two shouldn’t have been there. Not this far out. Not with stolen money in Jason’s backpack and a map scribbled in marker on the back of a diner receipt. But for once, none of it mattered. No shouting from alleys, no bruised nights or locked doors. Just your captivating grin and your hand pulling his forward.

“Hey, slow down!” Jason called, his voice breaking somewhere between a laugh and a plea.

When Jason caught up, you two ended up under the willow tree. He bent over to breathe but you didn’t stop. You reached for him again, your fingers brushing over his, then interlacing tightly. The world seemed to go quiet in that instant.

And for a fleeting, golden moment, it felt like the world was kind. Like nothing could ever hurt you two.

Chapter Text

You tried too hard, too soon.

You were the kind of kid who think good intentions and clean money can fix anything if you just try enough.

You showed up with a carefully chosen grocery basket in front of Jason's house after knowing about Jason's mom struggling with drugs. Of course, you didn't overdress. You didn't want to highlight the contrast among different social status. You dressed all casual and minimal, ready to greet his mom.

As you knocked the door, you got hit with the reality - the smell of sweat, smoke, and the kind of chaos no amount of kindness could smooth over. And there's his mom.

You politely introduced yourself to Jason's mother with a smile and a gentle voice.

"Good morning, ma'am. I'm Cipher Phan. I'm your son's friend. I currently live 2 miles away from here. And I wonder if you have eaten and if my friend's home."

And to your surprise, she snapped at you, thinking you are here to pity her. She snatched the small basket of vegetables from your hands, smashing it against the wall, letting tomatoes burst and squash across the floor.

“Do you think you’re some kind of savior, huh? You're just some puny worms.” She spitted as she lashed out harshly, shoving you back like you're dirty. And her eyes were blazing with contempt.

“Who gave you the right to meddle in my life? You think kindness can fix the world? Go rot in the gutter with the rest of them, trashling! Now get out of my sight before I decide to teach you a real lesson, little pest! You don’t get to fix me! Nobody does!"

She slammed the door in your face, the frame rattling violently, and leaned against it with a wild, harsh laugh, daring you to stay.

You didn't flinch. Nevertheless, it did leave a mark - that first crack in your tidy little worldview.

You kneed down and slowly picked up the scattered produces. Half because you didn't want to leave a mess like this in front of his house, not at all. And the other half is like you were trying to cling to something unnamed, gathering the broken pieces like it'd fix something.

And when you're done, Jason had already been there. He accused you of crossing a line, of embarrassing him.

“You don’t fix people like her, stupid. You just try to keep ‘em alive.”

You didn't argue. You just stood there, wide-eyed and quiet like you're witnessing someone you cared the most drowning and throwing away all the lifelines you scarified to get him another chance. And you nodded, held the a crushed grocery basket and left silently.

You had been clear, polite.

Ugh. People forget that refusal is an answer, but it doesn't need to be a painful one.

It's not like you didn't expect this tantrum.

You were right.

You were right on the part that it might not turn out well.

Zero joy, though.

It’s like predicting rain and then stepping outside and getting drenched. Congrats, you win absolutely nothing except damp clothes and a soaked face.

You’re not overreacting. You’re not being dramatic. You just expected basic courtesy, which is, you know, the absolute rock-bottom minimum of functioning in society.

And the moment you catch your own reflection with those soft, honest eyes for a second, you find a little boy who's too adorable, thoughtful and communicative for this world. And you think "you don’t deserve that treatment".

It’s like “Why would anyone be unkind to something that’s clearly trying, clearly gentle, clearly not hurting anyone?”

And that ache in your chest? That’s you recognizing your own innocence in the situation. You didn’t overstep. You didn’t demand anything unreasonable.

You went home after, staring at your hands - the ones that were supposed to be capable, clever, useful. And you finally felt it - the heavy, hollow understanding that not everyone can be saved, and not everyone wants to be. The butler asked if you're okay after seeing your slightly trembling white knuckles on the handle. Then you said yes, because you were polite. But later, you crawled into bed, staring at the ceiling, whispering little apologies Jason would never hear.

And that's you - the small, heartbreakingly composed kid who just learned the world doesn’t bend for good intentions.

Next morning, you still showed up in the same alley with Jason. But quieter. No rescue plans, no speeches. You just sat beside Jason, wordless, both of you staring at the cracked pavement. You learned the worst kind of love: the kind that stays even when it can’t fix.

Unlike his mom, pity wasn’t what set Jason off.

Every bit of his world is chaos - his mom’s addiction, the bills, the constant threat of losing what little they had. The only thing he got to own is the fight itself. His bruises, his choices, his scraps of dignity. When Cipher stepped in, even out of love, it started to feel like someone else taking the reins like he’s being turned into a project. Not because you meant it that way, but because every act of help reminded Jason that he couldn’t fix it himself. And that burnt worse than hunger did.

He didn’t want to be rescued, because rescue implies helplessness. He’d rather drown on his own terms than be pulled out and told how lucky he was. It’s not that he didn’t trust you. Letting you save him means admitting the world had already beaten him.

There’s fear too. No, it's not like he's afraid of you. He's afraid of what comes after being saved. Jason had seen what happens when people owe favors. Adults in his world didn’t help for free. He didn’t know how to receive something without bracing for the hit after.

And even when you didn't want anything in return, he wanted to repay you after all. He was raised that way. In that household, he had to earn affections by proving his worth - keeping his family functioning.

It’s late afternoon. The alley was quieter than usual. Jason was leaning against the wall, hood low as you bounced in with a small bag. Today, your treats seemed heavier than usual.

“I… I have to tell you something.”

“What now?" He grumbles.

"I'm about to move away with my parents."

Jason's eyes widened instantaneously. Soon, he quickly bit his lips and glared at you.

"So? What're you expecting? Me crying over this little goodbye?"

"I just want to say that I promise I'll-" You lifted up your pinky, waiting for him to hook yours like you two always did.

"Listen this clearly you little… I didn't need you from the start. You are such a burdensome nuisance this whole time, you know that? Your pity has been sickening me for a long time. Just vanish with your idiotic delusions that you ever matter to me." He cuts you off as he turned his back on you.

Your hand dropped down as you pleaded.

"Please… could you at least tell me your name? I just wanted to know… for the last time."

"Idiot." Jason walked away from the alley with his hands in his pocket.

It's definitely not your first time to ask his name. You never knew his name, though. It's not like you couldn't do a little detective work and figure it out by yourself. You just wanted him to tell you. It'd mean he trusted you enough to open up.

Jason sat alone in your usual alley the next day, hood over his head. The golden light paved its way to the crates and walls, but it felt emptier now. His hands clutched a small cookie wrapper you had left at the exact spot the day before - one of the last things he got to hold before you moved away.

He muttered to himself: "Why did you have to leave, huh?”

He didn't mean to scold at you like that. He just wanted to make sure that you wouldn't care or worry about him ever again. He didn't want to fill his heart with empty promises. He broke things before something could break him. That's the only coping mechanism he knew. Hence, there's this Jason - deciding to completely bury those memories. He tasted happiness briefly as a kid then it’s ripped away. For survival reasons and because he’s bitter, he always told himself it never happened and mattered. So he's back to his usual way - street-hardened, grumpy, emotionally shut-off.

And he forgot.

Chapter Text

It'd been months.

You consistently wrote letters attached with souvenirs and things that remind you of him. You always found a way to love him no matter what.

Letters went one way. You never received Jason's replies. You kept writing anyways. Maybe that's what held you from not falling apart.

Jason didn't look back even just once when you two broke parts. Yet, you couldn't help but feel like he followed you everywhere.

On the bumpy footpaths where you hiked with your parents to the secluded mountains, you were there to help poor disabled victims of Agent Orange in Vietnam out.

It's quiet, cloudy and chilly. You could even see the smoke from the far cottages slowly finding their way to the open sky.

And you thought: "He would grunt and pretend that he doesn't like this place if he's here."

They brought you along for you to learn a thing or two, beside the primary reason that you were just 8. Of course, no good parents would trust their child to survive by themselves in Gotham.

Villagers were warm and hospitable since your family did request this visit to the headman beforehand, except from few judgmental side-eyes towards your dad.

Well, he's complicated. Not mentioning his foreign look, he did have a disturbing past that deserved this discrimination.

Your parents didn't talk much like usual. The only exception was them checking on you. Maybe the weight of the loss in this place made the air heavier.

They didn't lecture you about anything because the silence told you everything.

Your parents were talking to the village chief when you were darting between villagers, handing water, carrying blankets, asking questions in your eight-year-old way that somehow drew out smiles even from those who were in pain.

Small hands can do big things. You could be small, but listening, fetching things, holding hands gently, organizing support actually matters. You realized age or size doesn’t define impact.

People were thin, fragile, faces lined with more than just age. The bodies were bent by illness or deformed caused by Agent Orange. Some could barely stand without support. Others were forced to crawl. Their clothing was worn, patched, sometimes threadbare, and dirt-stained from long days of struggling just to get by.

Individuals carry invisible battles. You watched the victim struggling with pain, scars, and loss, and realized there’s so much suffering that didn't show on the surface.

There were children too, tiny and weak, who should be playing but instead bore the genetic deformity. They didn't look human, but they were the most human people you'd ever seen.

Resilience isn’t always visible. The kids smiled sometimes, even laughed, but you noticed the quiet moments of struggle between smiles. You learned that bravery doesn’t always roar; sometimes it’s just keeping going when the pain is relentless.

Eyes.

Those hit the hardest. They held exhaustion and quiet suffering, but also a flicker of resilience. A tired kind of hope that even small gestures, like you handing over a cup of water, mean something in a world that’d been relentlessly cruel to them.

The world is messy, but you can still be a force for good. Seeing how villagers helped each other during hardships, you realized that the victims never waited for some miracles. They became the miracle instead.

No one couldn't undo decades of damage, but they could make a life lighter, a day brighter, a heart a little less lonely. The world needs you. Someone else out there needs you. Every person means much more than they think of themselves.

And you thought about Jason. You felt a connection across time and experience like you were holding both Jason’s memory and these villagers’ realities in the same space, and it gave you this strange mixture of sadness, admiration, and resolve. Jason, even at 14, would have hated needing help, but he did need it sometimes. He would have understood what it feels like to be both fragile and strong, to be responsible for others’ emotions while struggling with your own.

Hence, you picked one blade of blady glass (imperata cylindrica). It's a popular species around here, running through the hills. A little sharp with long thin leaves. It's yellow in dry seasons and green in rainy seasons. And you wrote to him, again, tugged that blade in the letter then sealed it.

Jason never received your letters. They got tore and burned down by his mom every single time. And that's the tragic and ironic part of it. He thought you never really cared enough to maintain contacts. He smashed the last hope in his heart and moved on. He thought to himself that clinging to the illusions of good old days wouldn't make things different, that he's that easy to be forgotten, that the thought of not being with each other didn't get you in a choke hold like it did with him. He saw you as a lesson life cruelly dropped for him to man up.

The most crucial thing he didn't know is that you were too busy falling for him to fall for somebody new, even when you didn't know what falling means.

When you were 17, you were back in Gotham. Your parents trusted you enough to handle things on your own. Almost a decade already, huh?

Your shoes hit the airport tiles with a soft, deliberate thud, echoing just enough. The smell of jet fuel and disinfectant hit you instantly, sharp and familiar, but nothing in the world mattered except what came next.

The airport noises faded into nothing; the only sound you noticed was your own heartbeat, pounding with anticipation. Every step now, away from the airport and toward Jason, felt like a countdown. Every red light was a tiny torment. Every pedestrian crossing the street was just a minor annoyance delaying the inevitable.

You had Jason in your mind - every street, every corner, every little detail.

And you imagined Jason's face when seeing you again. Maybe he will frown, confuse you with a helpless stranger or do something else that you had the slightest hope for.

The taxi driver dropped you off at an old corner, you thanked him in a rush and left some tips.

As you stepped out of the taxi, you kept rushing forwards as the faint flush crept up on your cheeks.

And there you were.

Chapter Text

You were standing there in that half-collapsed doorway, the smell of rust and old smoke hanging in the air, and the silence just shook your soul. The bed frame’s gone, graffiti’s over the wall, but there’s still one of those stupid tire marks scuffed into the floor.

The next moment you were out on the street, voice cracking from how fast you were asking with this wild mix of panic and hope.

“The lean kid with the tires, the one who used to fix radios sometimes, the one with the bad temper?”

And people just shook their heads or said "Oh, him…" that led you to lose your mind.

Then that one old neighbor, sitting on a stoop with a cigarette and a faded floral shirt, calmly told you:

“The rich man took him. The boy. The one you’re asking for.”

You blinked like the world didn't even make sense to you anymore.

Relief, grief, disbelief?

He moved out? Perhaps he would get a better life, right?

As you were about to ask for more, the old man cleared his throat and glanced away.

"Look, kid. You seem like someone who cares too much. Just like I used to. I don't wanna break this to you but… the kid is dead. Stop waiting."

Your eyes widened as you froze in place.

A beat of silence or two.

Your eyes fell, lashes trembling, heavy with something you couldn't name.

And you nodded, whispered a barely inaudible "Thank you."

As you turned away, the elder called you out.

"You don't know how to quit." Not a question, a claim that's too close to the truth.

“If I stop searching, it means he’s really gone.” You glanced back with a faint smile with tears threatening to fall down your face.

He was taken back. You were way too stubborn, it's infuriatingly memorizing.

"Then don't stop. Not today." He managed to put on a crooked smile, waving goodbye.

"I won't." You nodded as you paid the last glance to the direction of the fractured remains of his house, then swiftly left.

You were sitting in that dim, flickering-light motel room. You got folders spread across the bed: police reports, old press clippings, invoices, whatever you could dig up from the slums to the city’s elite circles. Coffee’d gone cold three times.

You were piecing it together - cross-referencing every missing child report, every vigilante sighting, every Wayne Foundation “charity case.” Patterns emerged like veins under thin skin.

"You're staying up too late." Jason's voice startled you.

"Don't boss me around. I'm older than you ever were." You resumed working on the cases.

"Miss me that much?" He leaned over the table, flickering through the reports. "Impressive."

"Don't start. You're distracting me." You grunted quietly.

"You will get grey soon if you keep giving me that attitude. Too grumpy for a 17. Don't you have better things to say to me?"

A pause.

"This is the only way you get to talk to me after all. A nice dream." Jason lowered his voice in a silky manner as he glanced at you, as if waiting for you to at least look at him.

You stopped sketching on the graphs for a moment as you mumbled.

"I wanna say I'm sorry… for something that we couldn't stop. I wanna show you all the things that I've been doing. I wanna tell you that I miss you, I love you but I cannot reach you. I'm learning to lose, that's a thing people never taught me. You can't leave me like this… not when I can’t pretend to be the guy who moved on from everything we could have had."

"Then I'll be waiting." He made it sound like a promise.

And you woke up.

You ruffled your own head and rewinded fast.

"Another dream." You muttered flatly to yourself. Yep, definitely not the first time.

Then you cross-checked the autopsy list from Gotham General - one unidentified minor, no family contact. Then the next page, a sudden Wayne Enterprises transport invoice for “charitable donation equipment” routed from the same morgue two nights later.

You made a call to your dad, clearly asking for some networks he had in Gotham.

You would use everything in your hands to find Jason out.

The call ended after half an hour later.

You leaned back, silent.

The papers were still a mess around you, but the shape of it’s clear:

Bruce Wayne didn’t just adopt a street kid.

He trained him.

And when the boy died… Batman went with the new sidekick.

How coincidental.

Your hands were shaking as you reached for the crooked polaroid - little you and him laughing like morons when things weren't messy like this. And you kissed the edge.

The world tilted, because the myth and the man suddenly fitted together too neatly.

You said it out loud, voice low and numb:

“Bruce Wayne is Batman.”

Chapter Text

A dentist’s waiting room.

There were white walls, that faint antiseptic smell, soft jazz humming overhead. You were slouched in the corner seat, file folder tucked under your arm, pretending to scroll through your phone. But you knew who’s just walked in. You felt that heavy, deliberate presence before you even looked up.

Bruce Wayne. Perfect suit, unreadable calm, a man who carried silence like a shield.

The dentist called your name.

You uncrossed your arms, rolled your shoulders back just enough that the cut of your shirt catches the light. For performance, of course, but it's easily precise and measured - the angle of your lean, the drag of your thumb against your jaw, the lazy confidence that said "I know what I am."

The rest was merely nothing but you showcasing your capabilities. It's more like some subtle daily habits.

You knew he was always watching. Always.

And when you were done, you glanced up slowly. Your eyes met his in a brief and electric way. Bruce’s still calculating, weighing. Your eyes dropped lower - still, half-lidded, but the kind of look that saw too much. After a brief second, you put back that innocent facade, resuming talking to another child.

Bruce didn't react much. That wouldn't be the infamous Batman if he did. Yet solely the look he gave you was enough to validate your success.

The alley was all rain and rattling wind. Batman dropped from the fire escape just in time to see you move. Not flailing. Fighting. Clean, fast, calculated. Too sharp for a street kid, too smooth for a civilian.

Bruce knew the voice before the mind could catch up. The one from the waiting room.

When one of the thugs flung at you from behind a dumpster, Bruce moved before he could think. A single strike. The man dropped, the sound dull against the wet ground.

You glanced up, breathing hard, mask glinting faintly. The two of you stared across the bodies.

“Nice timing.” You mumbled with a steady voice.

“You were handling it. Until you weren’t.” Bruce uttered with a gravel voice.

He stepped closer, cape brushing puddles.

“You shouldn’t be out here. You’re what? Sixteen? Seventeen? Go home. People like you should be in school.”

There it was - the fatherly reprimand that felt like both concern and command.

You gave a short, humorless laugh.

“People like me? People like me don’t get to go home safe, Bruce.” You tilted your head.

That name stopped him cold.

“I do this so no other kid has to drag their mom off the floor. So no one has to fight men twice their size for scraps. You care too much to stop me and I care too much to listen.” Your voice came out quieter now.

It's half truthful, half manipulative. You knew simply impressing him earlier in that absurd waiting room wouldn't not be enough to push him to take you in. You knew he needed something much meaningful than just a competent kid - the pain that mirroring his. Hence, here you were, giving out your heart. You wanted to make sure no kid will end up like Jason needing a ridiculous billionaire to adopt and dress him like a damn ambilobe panther chameleon to fight crime, thus you couldn't stop saving people.

It's still fact. It's just wrapped in a delicate design to ensure the expected outcome.

Something broke soft in Bruce’s voice then.

“You lost someone.”

You didn’t answer. Just a small shake of the head, water running down your temple. Then you turned, stepped into the dark like you’d been part of it all along.

Bruce just stood there. He’d seen that look before - in mirrors, in archives, in graves.

Days later, in daylight, Bruce Wayne’s pen hovered over the final line of adoption papers. Your real name on top. His own signature beneath.

He told himself it was about responsibility. But it wasn’t.

It was about recognition.

Morning light pooled across the wooden floor of Wayne Manor - too warm for the tension inside.

You stood in the doorway, still half-wet from the drizzle outside, duffel bag slung over your shoulder like a shield.

Alfred with all calm precision and gentle command was the first to greet you.

“Welcome, Master Cipher.”

He took the bag before you could object.

“I imagine you’ll wish to freshen up before dinner. Though, you might find the household a touch... lively this morning.” He looked with that steady kindness.

That was putting it mildly.

From the hall came raised voices. One was sharp and exasperated, the other one was deep and defensive. Dick Grayson’s pacing silhouette came into view first, sleeves rolled up, blue eyes bright with anger. Bruce stood near the staircase, arms crossed.

“You can’t keep doing this, Bruce!” Dick snapped.

“You can’t just pick up another kid off the street and throw him into your crusade. Have you forgotten what that did to us?”

Bruce’s tone stayed quiet, but that kind of quiet that cut sharper than yelling.

“This isn’t the same.”

“Not the same? He’s a kid, Bruce. You think he’ll be fine because you sign adoption papers instead of writing obituaries?”

Alfred gave a discreet nod toward the side hall - an escape route, but before you could take it, something small and fast sliced through the air.

The room went dead silent.

You ducked, head tilting just enough for the silver blade to whistle past your cheek and thud into the door behind you. You straightened slowly.

Your eyes drifted toward the corner where Damian Wayne stood with his arms folded, face calm.

“Master Damian. I must say that is not quite a polite way to greet a family member.” Alfred said evenly.

Damian’s gaze didn’t waver.

“If he couldn’t dodge that, he shouldn’t be here. School would’ve been safer.” Damian said flatly.

Alfred simply sighed and retrieved the blade from the wood, muttering something about “young masters and their introductions.”

Dick glanced at you with that half pitiful and half admired gaze.

He turned to Bruce with a gentler but firm voice.

“If he’s staying, I’m training him. He’s got something, but you’ll smother him trying to turn him into you. He deserves better than another Batman.”

“I don’t want him to be me, I want him to be more like you.” Bruce closed his eyes and exhaled. His voice roughened and quietened.

For a moment, nobody moved. The echo of that sentence hung between you all like a promise neither of them fully believed yet.

You started out shadowing Bruce out of obsession, not affection.

You figured out the first clue while listening to Damian's lectures.

Red Hood.

It didn't take much work for you to find out Jason was still alive, but now Red Hood. Well, you're still a natural learner. Credit to Tim's detective skills.

He's different now.

A sigh of relief and something you couldn't name escaped your throat.

You tracked Bruce's late-night absences, the subtle shifts in tone when someone mentioned “the old cases,” the way Bruce would tighten his jaw when you asked about Jason Todd.

"He was intense… Did things his way."

It was detective work at first - meticulous, cold, almost surgical.

You needed answers.

You needed to know how Jason had gone from the boy with grease on his hands and fire in his eyes to a gravestone in the Wayne yard.

Why did he die? What exactly happened after that? Why Red Hood?

You picked up the patterns quickly.

Bruce always lingered outside the east wing after returning, staring at something you couldn’t see. There were hidden compartments in his study, encrypted drives buried under meaningless philanthropy paperwork.

You cracked one out of curiosity, another out of anger.

And then one night, while you were half in Bruce’s study and half in the cave’s system via Alfred’s redirected line, you got caught.

“Looking for something?”

Bruce’s voice was soft but sharp enough to make your fingers freeze.

“Depends. Would you tell me if I was?”

For a second, Bruce looked unreadable, assessing whether you were a threat or student. Then something in the your expression.

Maybe that defiance, maybe the ache under it broke through the mask.

Instead of yelling, Bruce walked past you, typed something on the console, and pulled up Jason’s last recorded patrol map. The screen glowed faintly blue, ghostlike.

“You won’t find peace in these files.” Bruce said.

“Maybe not. But I’ll find the truth.” You replied with a quiet tone.

There was no more talk that night, but something shifted. Bruce didn’t send you away. Didn’t lock you out.

Just the two of you staring at the map in silence.

And you got your answers about Jason.

Days bled into weeks.

You began joining Bruce for the quiet parts of his routine - morning sparring, rare breakfasts, hours spent cataloguing old case notes. At first, it was just reconnaissance. However, soon you found yourself listening, asking questions that weren’t about Jason - about strategy, the cost of obsession, the life behind the mask. And Bruce, to your own surprise, answered.

You two never called it bonding. It was quieter than that.

Bruce would hand you a datapad without a word. You would refill Bruce’s mug when the coffee went cold.

One night, when Bruce was dressing a minor wound at the med table, you spoke before you could recognize that.

“You’re not as scary as people think.”

Bruce huffed, a sound that was almost a laugh.

“You’re not as detached as you think.”

For once, you two smiled in a brief moment. It's tired, small and real.

And in that fragile, flickering calm, you realized something painful: you’d started to care about the man you once blamed.

Chapter Text

Jason didn’t recognize 17-you as a Robin. All the little memories of the sunshine cookie-bringing kid are suppressed, “forgotten” by his adult coping mechanisms. He did feel twinges of something familiar around you sometimes, but he chalked it up to coincidence or his paranoia.

On the one hand, you were ashamed you had to leave, guilty, and terrified that Jason really had forgotten you. You always bear in mind that he didn't need you. As a result, you never brought it up.

On the other hand, you couldn't never give up protecting him. Therefore, you spent 15 years living a second identity.

The belt suddenly feels heavier in Jason's hands. Then he hears the softest movement. Two steps behind him, a shadow folds into the dark like it belongs to the night itself. He doesn’t jump. He’ll be lying if he said he is surprised.

You always know. Sometimes Jason's convinced he wants to be found.

Your voice comes out close, dry, amused, hiding your internal conflict.

“For science?”

Jason doesn’t turn around.

“I was making a report. Very scientific. Candy distribution metrics.” He says in a blunt and theatrical way, albeit his voice is already shaking.

He feels the presence move, feels a hand settle on his shoulder. It feels nowhere near possessiveness or commanding. It's grounding, familiar and suffocating simultaneously, making his spine relax and his jaw clench at the same time. Your breath fans the back of his neck. You always smell faintly like sweet lemons.

“You pocketed my stuffs like a petty thief, JayJay”

Jason finally turns. You look, absurdly, like someone who had expected to be discovered and was quietly pleased about it with that stupid guilty grin. He shoves into your hands the polaroid with a ridiculous, exaggerated glare. But you know he's tearing up as he glances away fast after that.

“JayJay? Really? You're such a toddler.” Jason utters defensively.

He feels ridiculous.

He feels furious.

He feels small.

He feels like facing the man who’d loved, lost him and still loves him too much.

You look down at the old polaroid fondly and exasperatedly.

"You look more like a Todd-ler right now, m'love."

Then you leave the polaroid aside, reaching for a sweet in your belt. You take your time, slowly unwrapping it and bring it to Jason's lips.

…

Jason opens his mouth, then takes it anyways. He really takes his time as well. He savors the flavor like it's much more than a cheap sweet for calming nerves.

And when Jason's done, he finally really looks at you. He leans forward and presses his forehead against yours, only because it feels like the only honest thing to do.

"It's always been you." Jason chuckles almost imperceptibly. It sounds like a bitter relief.

"Perhaps I've been bracing for people to leave me longer than bracing for people that stay." He adds.

Your hand slides to the back of Jason’s neck, drawing him closer. You savor the press of his lips, your tongue intertwining with his in a slow, deliberate, intimate dance that feels both familiar and electric. When you finally pull back, your fingers linger on his cheek, tracing it softly as your eyes meet his.

Jason snorts.

"We have been fighting each other or ourselves more than the times we got to be together."

"Unfortunately." You nod.

"And I don't even think I want to know about half of the things you did to orbit me these 15 years."

"So you're trying to say that?"

"That I always tells myself we don't need names for everything." He leans onto your palm with glassy eyes as he traces the thumb of your hand with his.

“But I do. I want to call this something. I want to stop pretending it’s just coincidence when every path I take bends the same way. Because you're constant, steady, and inevitable.” Jason continues quietly.

"So how do you wanna call us, love?" You tilt your head with a certain and soft smile.

"Home." He utters warmly as he turns to land a soft lingering peck into your palm.

"All roads lead to Rome, no?" You exhale, the sound's somewhat half-laugh, half-surrender. You pull Jason closer by cupping his jaw with both of your hands slowly and delicately until your foreheads touch.

"Yeah. I stopped walking, and you were already there. Rome feels a lot like home."

For once, Jason doesn’t feel like he has to second-guess everything anymore. He’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.

So when he reaches in his pocket and gives you that ring, it’s small, casual, no grand speech.

“Don’t make a big deal out of it. Just… something I saw and realized I had nothing to honor your return but bites and bruises. Thought it’d look better on you.” He clears his throat before he mentions it nonchalantly. Albeit, his voice betrays him halfway through, softening around the edges like it is a big deal.

It’s a simple gold band, warm and weighty. Nothing flashy, but every scuff tells on you that Jason picked it up somewhere he shouldn’t have, maybe fixed it himself.

He slides it on your right pinky and you tilt your hand in the moonlight.

“You sure this isn’t stolen?” You cock one eyebrow in amusement and smirk teasingly.

“Borrowed indefinitely.” He grins shamelessly.

It’s not really a gift. It’s a claim. A quiet don’t go too far.

You can almost feel Jason’s thoughts humming under his skin: If you wear it, maybe you’ll come back.

"May I ask why the pinky?" You hum.

"I heard people say it represents independence, confidence, charisma and intelligence. You fit in those categories well. But to me," He pauses as he reaches out, your pinkies brushing before hooking together - a quiet promise spoken without words, a secret only you two share. "it means that I trust you with my life. Is that okay to you, sweetheart?"

"More than everything I could ever ask." And your pinky curls back too.

Chapter Text

You are a mess.

Missions went wrong. Miscalculation. Or perhaps it's just the fact that you've been holding on things too long and now it's taking a toll on you.

Not the sexy “got a bruise on your lip” kind.

No, the real kind.

The kind where you're shaking like all the adrenaline finally left and the pain flooded in at once.

Clothes torn, fingers trembling, chest hurting, eyes unfocused like you're trying really hard not to slip into that cold, distant autopilot you learned when you were much younger.

You don't know where to go so you stand there instead.

You don't even realize Jason picked you up until you're already off the ground.

And Jason… god, Jason practically folds around you. One arm under your thighs, the other bracing across your back, holding you like he’s terrified you might fade into clouds with the smoke if he even loosens up just a little.

“Hey- hey, I got you. Look at me. Look at me, baby.” Jason's voice comes out ragged.

You try.

He can see the effort in the tiny twitch of your brows. But your eyelids flutter like they’re iron-heavy.

Jason presses his forehead to your temple, breathing you in like he’s checking for signs of life.

“You’re okay. I’m right here. Just… stay with me, c’mon.”

What happens after that is a blur to you. The only thing you could recall is Jason's voice talking you through the pain on the way home.

You two get back to the safehouse and suddenly Jason is useless. He’s trying to clean the wounds but every time you flinch, Jason freezes like he’s an abused Asian child.

“Sorry. I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I know, I know. Just a second, dammit-”

“Jay… stop panicking. You’re shaking more than me.” Your voice is barely audible but it's all soft and hoarse.

And it kills Jason. Just kills him. Because you sound like you're hanging on by a thread and still trying to comfort him.

Hence, Jason cups your jaw with both hands, thumbs brushing those too-hot cheeks, whispering like his entire heart is in his throat:

“Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare check out on me. You stay right here.”

You're exhausted beyond words, just lean forward until your forehead meets Jason’s.

A instinctive tiny nuzzle.

Jason’s soul leaves his body.

“Okay, I’m here. I’m… tired, Jay.” You breathe.

Jason’s whole brain just blue-screens because you are finally too wrecked to even sass back like usual.

Jason tries so, so hard to keep it together as he resumes cleaning you up.

His movements are surgical, efficient and dedicated like you're the only person he gives a damn care about in this world.

Yet you wince just a little and Jason’s hands just… stop like his whole body refuses to function properly anymore.

He stares at the blood on the gauze and your skin going pale under the harsh light.

“… I should’ve gotten there earlier.” He whispers in guilt.

“Don't… start the self-blame monologue, Jason. You’ll get a headache. I won't kiss you better.” You try so hard to crack a joke in an attempt to lighten the gloomy atmosphere.

Jason laughs - a shaky, broken little thing that sounds like he’s choking on relief and guilt simultaneously.

He presses his head to your neck, shoulders shaking as he breathes you in like that's the only place in this Earth where oxygen exists, trying to convince himself that you're real, and you're really here.

“Shut up, don’t make me laugh right now. I’m trying to fix you. Fuck-”

You lift a hand to touch his hair, fingertips barely brushing.

You're scared to take a breath. You don't want him to move his head.

Jason looks up at you with glassy eyes and winced expressions like it physically pains him more to see you this vulnerable.

“You didn’t lose me. I’m right here.” You mumble softly.

After everything is cleaned, bandaged, Jason's finally laying on your side, propped on an elbow, eyes locked on you like he’s bracing himself for you evaporating into air any moment.

Every tiny shift you make, Jason flinches.

Every sigh, Jason panics like "Is that pain? Is that pain?"

“Jay… you haven’t blinked in forty minutes.”

Jason ignores that.

“Your breathing dipped.”

“My breathing dipped because you’re staring at me like a haunted doll.”

“I’m not leaving. You stop breathing weird when I’m touching you.” He murmurs.

“That’s not science." You utter.

“Don’t care. Works on you.”

You laugh a little and wince again instantaneously because oh my, it hurts in your stomach to even laugh.

You sigh and reach out to tangle your fingers with his.

And Jason tightens his hold, leaning down to nuzzle into your hair as he whispers brokenly:

“You scared me. I wish you would scare me in any other way - punching me in the face for fun, kicking my butt out of the bed in the middle of the night, kissing me aggressively out of nowhere. But this? Sweetheart, you ruin me."

As you're about to say something to uplift the mood, he just lands a soft smooch onto your eyelid.

And that shuts you up.

You drift off out of exhaustion later on.

Jason doesn't move.

All night.

Not until your breathing evens into that soft, steady rhythm that finally lets Jason’s heart unclench.

You wake up first.

Which should be impossible, because you were wrecked.

But your body’s done that thing again where it snaps awake like it's on a mission to detonate the whole world, ignoring the bodily condition.

Biological clock, yeah but an impressively hazardous one.

At first, you don't even move.

Jason’s arms are locked around you, face buried in your shoulder, breathing slow and heavy.

It seems like his whole soul shut down for maintenance.

You try to shift a little, just to see if Jay’s awake.

Jason’s arms tighten instantly.

“Don’t. Just… stay.” He mutters with a thick wrecked voice. His accent is so strong right now - the thing only slips when he's barely conscious or he's in a heated argument.

But you still turn in Jason’s hold slowly, carefully until you can see Jason’s face.

Oh.

Oh no.

Jason’s eyes are puffy. His lashes are clumped. His cheeks are blotchy in that unmistakable “I cried until my body ran out of fluid” way.

Your chest tightens like someone tied a rope around your ribs and pulled slow.

“Jay…” You whisper with a thumb brushing under one swollen eye.

Jason winces like being caught is somehow more painful than everything last night.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“You cried.” You say, too softly to sound like judgment. It comes out more like grief.

Jason tries to bury his face again, but you're quicker. You cup his cheek, forcing him gently back.

“Jason.”

“Shut up, I was scared.”

You lean in and press a kiss to the corner of Jason’s eye.

Just a warm, soft kiss against skin that still feels hot from leftover tears.

Jason goes absolutely still.

You kiss the other side in a slow, apologetic, and ridiculously tender manner.

“You don’t get to cry over me alone-” You murmur against his cheek. “- I’m supposed to annoy you for decades, remember?”

Jason huffs a laugh that immediately breaks into a hiccup.

“Don’t say things like that when you almost-”

You quickly kiss him again, right under the lower lash line.

“I’m here. See? Breathing. Being annoying.”

“You almost weren’t,” Jason whispers with a cracked voice.

“I’m sorry I scared you.”

Jason just presses his forehead against yours again and does a little nuzzle against yours.

Post-trauma domestic stupidity.

Because you know Jason Todd is the kind of man who will weep into your shirt all night and then wake up like:

“Who cried? Not me. That was… humidity.”

The day later, you're sitting on the couch, wrapped in a blanket because Jason insisted on “monitoring your vitals” like you're a helpless fragile duchess.

Jason brings you tea. Ginger. Honey. Extra care.

You take it with this little grin.

Jason immediately narrows his eyes.

“What?” He grumbles.

You sips blatantly.

Innocent. Angelic.

A menace, actually.

“Nothing. Just… your eyes look better.”

Jason blinks slowly in an offended way and he scoffs:

“My eyes look normal.”

“Mm. They were very red this morning.” You hum.

“That was dust.”

“In my bed?”

Jason glares.

“Dust travels.”

“Sure. Dust. That only lands near your left eye first, then the right…” You hide a smile behind the cup.

Jason’s jaw twitches. “Do you want this tea or not?”

You pats the couch. “Come here, humidity boy.”

Jason lets out an offended gasp and looks away.

"IT WAS SWEAT." He settles beside you anyways.

You set the cup down, grabbing Jason’s face with both hands like you're holding a grumpy cat.

“Jason. Look at me.”

“No.”

“Jason.”

“…what.” He turns to you in annoyance.

You kiss the corner of his eye. Jason goes limp like someone unplugged his spine.

“You cried. It was cute.” You look like those warm, fond, absolutely evil final mobs in movies before they reveal their plot.

Jason snaps back to life with a horrified shout:

“DON’T CALL IT CUTE.”

You kiss the other eye.

“Adorable.”

“STOP-”

Your kisses trail down to his cheek.

“Precious.”

Jason covers your mouth with his hand.

“If you say one more word I’m carrying you back to bed and confiscating your dignity-”

You lick his palm.

Jason short-circuits.

You go with the smuggest but gentle, warm as sunshine tone.

“I love that you cried. It means you care.”

“I still didn’t cry.” He pouts now, avoiding your gaze.

You soften, thumbs stroking his jaw.

“Fine. Then you ‘emotionally moisturized.’”

Jason groans and drops his forehead to your shoulder, hiding his face.

You wrap your arms around him.

“You can cry over me whenever you want, Jay. I’ll kiss every tear. Always.”

Jason replies with a muffled cracking voice.

“You’re never gonna let this go, are you?”

"Not even once." You smile in his hair.

And Jason tightens his hold like he’s never letting you go either.

Chapter Text

It's my birthday today.

The Manor was… way too loud. Alfred swore he only baked one cake, but somehow there were three. Damian was insisting the one with black icing was his contribution. Duke, Cass, Barbara, Stephanie, and Tim were there too, leaving a ridiculous number of gifts on the table.

“Tt. It represents mortality. Appropriate for aging.”

Jason showed up late, kicked the door open like a feral raccoon, and yelled:

“Where’s the birthday brat?!”

Then he threw a badly wrapped gift bag at me. It’s literally a gun-cleaning kit with my initials carved and a package of bánh pía shoved together.

“Practical and sweet. You’re welcome.” He shrugged like it's nothing, but his ears were glowing crimson.

Dick, of course, tried to make it emotional. He gave the warmest, sappiest hug in front of everyone, saying:

“You’ve been part of this family for over 6 years, and every year you make us better. You’re stuck with us, forever. Sorry.”

With Jason faked gagging in the background, of course.

Bruce just stood there awkwardly, clearly uncomfortable with the chaos, but when the room quieted for a second, he cleared his throat before saying softly:

“I’m proud of you, son. Happy birthday.”

Damian immediately broke the weird atmosphere before everyone went silent:

“If Father gave you approval, you should be deeply humbled. I will allow you to cut my cake first.”

Then chaos resumed: Jason smashed his piece of cake into Tim’s face, Dick tried to save the candles but ended up tackling his younger brothers into the couch, Damian drew his sword to restore balance, and Alfred just quietly slided a plate with the neatest slice in front of me. And there was also poor Clark arriving with a sunflower bouquet just in time for Jason's cake to smash perfectly into his glasses after Tim successfully had dodged the throw.

Jason with frosting on his nose, laughing like an idiot suddenly shoved a paper crown on my head:

“Birthday boy gets ruling rights. Tell me who I’m allowed to shoot first.”

And I just snickered in amusement and wiped the frosting off his nose with a kiss. His ears blushed faintly. I knew it.

However, Jason's head got hit by a damn cake from behind, he quickly returned to retaliate. Then Dick quietly nudged my shoulder.

“Hey. C’mere.”

He pulled me away from the noise, just to the kitchen where it’s quieter. From behind his back he pulled out a small, neatly wrapped box. Nothing flashy, just careful.

“I didn’t want to give this in front of everyone.” He uttered with that sheepish Grayson smile.

“But… you deserve something that’s just yours.”

Inside? A little navy wing charm, simple but shining - one you can clip on your belt, bag, or even tuck in your pocket.

“It’s not much, but now if you’re out there… you’ve got a piece of family with you.” He admitted.

Just when I thought I was about to cry because it meant more than Dick would ever know, he squeezed me tightly like he never wanted to let go.

“Happy birthday. Don’t ever forget - you’re ours. Always.” He muttered.

And when I was coming out from the kitchen, Bruce stepped right in front of me, holding a small velvet box. He placed it in my hands as he admitted with a low voice.

“I wasn’t sure what to get you. But Alfred reminded me… sometimes simple is better.”

Inside the box was a sleek, silver watch. Not flashy, but high-quality, durable with a Bat symbol, of course. On the back, there’s a tiny engraving: “Family.”

And there's also Alfred, he placed a small envelope in my hands.

"Take your time. Open it, my dear."

I nodded and carefully unwrapped it. Inside was a folded napkin with my name embroidered into the corner. Hand-stitched. His work. There was a handwritten letter - not long, but neat and elegant.

“To my dearest,

Birthdays mark the passage of time, but also the value of those who walk beside us. You have become a cherished part of this family, and I count myself fortunate to watch you grow.

With all my affection, Alfred.”

And I saw his eyes soften with the kind of love only Alfred Pennyworth knows how to give.

I teared up at the gifts and just nodded silently as I was unable to find my voice to whisper a thank you. However, they both knew what I was trying to say and landed a steady hand on my sides.

It’s late night when everyone is asleep on the couch or probably doing whatever only they know.

Jason is dozing off on my lap already as he murmurs something incoherently in his sleep about burgers. Silly.

And Damian did surprise me with something tactile and personal left on my nightstand- an old vinyl player restored by his own hands, complete with a curated selection of songs from the cities we’ve fought or hidden in. A sonic scrapbook of our chaos. No sentimental note, no fuss. Damian didn't try to wait for my reaction like an exam result. He left with an almost inaudible "Happy birthday, brother." before I could say anything.

I sigh and maybe I grin a bit, looking foolish as I scroll through my phone.

There is Vic texting:

"You don’t change much. But maybe that’s what steadiness looks like. Don’t forget to breathe today."

Following up is my first mentor in these 6 years - Kael's father:

"You’ve grown into your edges nicely. Don’t waste the day pretending you haven’t earned some peace. Happy birthday, kid."

"Also, I think my son has been rambling about something like "You always make room for others. Today, make some for yourself. I hope you smile without realizing it." like he's replaying his proposal on his phone and deleting the record again."

And there is also Constantine hiding affections under sarcasm:

"Can’t believe you’re still alive. Impressive. Drinks on me if you ever crawl out of that journal, pretty menace."

Roy somehow ends up texting at 23:47 and it goes like:

"Bro, I was gonna send a gift, but then I realized nothing I pick can compete with your taste. So just pretend I did. Happy birthday, Jaybird's leash."

Harley as well:

"Happy freakin’ birthday! Don’t be broody all day like your bat dad XOXO"

And of course, Selina:

"Tell Bruce to stop triple texting me. Also, don’t let anyone take your quiet from you, darling. Enjoy your night."

Surprisingly? Johnathan.

"You are oddly composed about your own decay. Or birthdays people call. Don’t die soon. I’m still studying you."

Artemis is the last.

"I was going to ignore the day just to spite you, but whatever. Happy birthday. Don’t get sappy about it."

"And btw, it’s kind of impressive how you handle him. I don’t know anyone else who could survive with half the things he does around you. You make him… better? Don’t roll your eyes, I mean it."

I shake my head as I put the phone aside, caressing Jason's hair.

Jason’s sprawled across me like he owns me, head resting against my thigh, arms loosely draped over me.

“Gimme… a double… cheese… no, wait… extra pickles…” Jason mumbles, half-smiling in his sleep, his voice muffled.

Today is not over-the-top fireworks, but more like a day where I notice myself - who I am, how I've grown, the people who’ve mattered along the way.

“Am I where I wanted to be? What do I value? Future plans?” I reckon calmly.

It's like a person checkpoint.

And I journal again. Steady, deliberate, reflective.

A pen in hand with my sketchbook open, I pause mid-thought to run a hand through Jason's hair again, chest rising a little faster, heart pounding behind that composed mask. Then a small ashamed smile escapes, because all the analysis and reflection somehow leaves me light in a way I didn’t expect.

Chapter Text

Jason always meets you too late.

And he hates how late it is.

It’s the tragedy of Jason Todd: He's just a walking bruise wanting to be held.

After Jason’s already broken, patched himself together, and learned the wrong lessons about love, you step back into his life. And that's when Jason’s already convinced: love doesn’t stay, he’s the one people move on from, he’s the boy Gotham forgot. Because it's easier to believe that he's easy to dismiss.

He wishes that you and him didn't have to go through all of those on and offs just because he is too drowned in his own issues. He despises how hard love can get when it comes to you and him.

And that helmet is practically glued to him - armor, anonymity, a way to hide the parts of him that still feel seventeen and abandoned.

He doesn’t take it off often.

Not for criminals.

Not for allies.

But then there's you.

He always takes his helmet off.

Not with dramatic theatrics.

Not with sexy bravado.

He takes it off like he’s confessing something.

Here's the awful, ugly but tender truth.

Jason Todd's scared.

Scared that you won’t look at him if he’s hidden.

Fear that you won’t see him if he stays behind the red glow.

Terrified that you will forget him, too, if Jason doesn’t keep offering his real face for remembrance.

It's like he's trying to vow that:

"Here.
I’m real.
I’m alive.
Please remember me."

And Jason, the poor baby, gets addicted to your gaze - the way you look at him like he's the only reason you are still fighting.

Every inch of him armored with “I’m fine, I don’t need anyone,” and yet… when he catches a glimpse of yours, it cracks him.

You always wait, huh?

Waiting. Always waiting.

Almost a decade of silent, steady devotion, and you don’t just remember him. You remember him beautifully.

And that's everything he could ever ask for.

He wants acknowledgment, validation, and maybe, just maybe, a love he convinced himself he doesn’t deserve.

So you became Robin, not just because you had to, but because you wanted Jason near, wanted to rebuild what had been taken from you two by time and distance. And even when Jason seemed cold, even when he disappeared for days or months, you kept going. You live in remembrance of Jason, even when Jason has almost forgotten how to remember himself.

Constant.

Aching.

It’s late. Gotham-late. That kind of hour where the city hum softens and everything feels too loud inside your own ribs.

Jason walks over and then stops inches away from you.

His hands hover, then fall helplessly to his sides.

You whisper and tilt your head towards him fondly:

“You stopped running.”

“Because it didn’t work.” He replies.

“And now?”

“Now I’m just… falling.” Jason sucks in a breath, and his chest trembles.

“Then fall softly.” Your hand rises, fingertips brushing Jason’s jaw.

That's the thing.

Jason wasn’t afraid of falling.

He was afraid of falling alone.

How fortunate.

You have been always right there, arms open, voice warm, ready to catch him.

Jason's fingers curls around your hand, guiding it to press against his cheek as he leans into your warm palm.

Not rough. Not assertive. Just… scared soft.

His eyelashes flicker like he’s looking everywhere except your eyes. His voice drops, low and tight:

“Hey… can you… just…”

He swallows. His jaw tenses under your hand.

“Why’d you come back to me?”

You blink, confused for a beat, because you didn’t think Jason would ever say it out loud.

He leans in just a little, cheek nuzzling into your hand without meaning to, like his body answers before his pride can block it.

“You were just a kid.” Jason gives out a tiny exhale and mutters.

“We barely had anything back then. You should’ve run the other way. You should’ve… I don’t know. Found someone who didn’t screw himself up this bad.”

And then the kicker.

Jason’s voice breaks, just slightly, just enough:

“… So why me?”

Your hand shifts against his cheek, thumb brushing the cheekbone lightly and instinctively. It feels like an apology and a promise.

His eyes finally lift - bright, vulnerable, angry at himself for being vulnerable.

“Please, I just… I need to hear it.”

You don’t answer instantaneously.

Not because you are uncertain.

Because you want to get it right.

Because Jason looks like one wrong word could snap him in half.

You shift closer, slowly, like approaching a startled animal. Your free hand comes up to cover Jason’s other cheek, cupping his face fully now.

“Jay.” You mumble in a velvety manner.

Jason’s eyes flutter swiftly at the nickname in half panic, half need.

“I didn’t come back because you were broken.” Your thumbs sweep lightly around his cheeks.

“I came back because-”

You stop and try again, quieter:

“I didn’t come back because of some tragic memory. Or because I’m missing something. I’m not empty, and you don’t fill some hole in me.”

“I’m here because I decided you’re someone worth choosing.”

“We were kids back then. Everything was messy, and bad timing, and half-formed versions of ourselves. I don’t romanticize that.”

“You were trouble even at fourteen.” You smile a little fondly and honestly.

Jason snorts weakly despite himself.

You lean in, forehead brushing against Jason's.

“But I want to come back because you’re worth staying for.”

“I’m here because I adore who I am with you. And I adore who you are when you let yourself be seen. It's also the fact that I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life wondering if you were still out there, needing someone to come home to.”

“And honestly?” You add with a teasing smirk.

“Because you’re annoying. And stubborn. And you keep bumping into me like you’re magnetized or something. Someone’s gotta supervise you.”

Jason’s nose scrunches in that half offended, half melting way.

“So why’d I come back?” Your thumbs smooth the corners of Jason’s eyes.

“Not I needed you. Not I had to. I wanted to. That’s what makes it real.”

“You’re my favorite person, Jay. Always were. Always will be.”

Hearing that, Jason Peter Todd, of course, tears up.

Oh sweetheart… softness is so scary.

But tenderness isn’t “scary” like danger.

It’s scary like opening a door he's kept locked for a long time and suddenly feeling everything rush out, unraveling him gently, stitch by stitch.

Not painful.

But vulnerable.

Exposed.

Raw.

Honest.

And Jason feels himself melt in a way he doesn’t always know how to handle.

Gentleness makes him feel instead of endure, invites him to stop bracing, asks him to let his guard down, untangles things he kept neatly tied, exposes how much he needed comfort, reveals how tired he's been and shows parts of himself he only shows in safety.

However, the real stunning part is that:

Softness only unravels what wasn’t meant to stay knotted.

It lets him breathe again.

It overwhelms him like a warm wave shock.

Therefore, Jason takes softness in teaspoons, not buckets.

He steps into it at his pace.

He tries to inhale sharply and exhale slowly.

Then he glances away. Anywhere. Anything that works to distract him.

Then his tears drop silently because his heart feels too full.

Drop-by-drop until he could cry freely without feeling suffocated by his own feelings.

And you are still there, bracing him silently and closely, still waiting, still choosing.

Chapter Text

Because apparently love feels like a curse and a cure in the same breath.

You did it to yourself.

The mission was a deep-cover extraction inside a mind-reading syndicate.

Court of Owls. Of course.

The one that didn’t torture for information, but skimmed attachments. They didn’t care what you knew. They cared who you loved. What made you hesitate. What could be leveraged.

If they found Jason in your head, Jason would be dead before you even knew he’d been taken.

So you made the call.

You locked Jason behind a mental firewall.

Not erased completely, just inaccessible.

No face, no voice, no emotional imprint.

The love was still there, buried like a landmine you couldn’t step on.

To the enemy, you would be read as clean. Detached. Unbreakable.

The mission succeeded. The syndicate fell.

But when you came back, bleeding and victorious, the cost hit all at once: you woke up remembering everything except the one person you’d been trying to protect.

And Jason stood right there, erased, not because he wasn’t important, but because he was too important.

Your mind isolated Jason alone, either to protect him or because losing him was the one thing it couldn’t survive all at once.

Jason’s already dramatic on a good day. The second the doctor says “memory loss” Jason goes full opera.

He’s pacing. He’s swearing. He’s bargaining with every god he doesn’t even believe in. He is so close to tears it’s embarrassing. He keeps mumbling stuffs like:

“No. No, no, NO. He knows me. He always knows me.”

You wake up seeing a stranger hovering nearby the bed. You blink and tilt your head.

“Sorry, do I know you?” You utter politely. All soft and confused.

He doesn't panic any longer. He doesn't even curse anymore. He just goes very, very quiet.

Like someone turned off the apocalypse engine inside him.

“… Yeah. You did.” His voice goes all soft and wrecked.

“But don’t worry. I’ll… I’ll stick around. You’ll get sick of me again eventually.”

He tries to joke. And he fails tremendously.

Later on, Jason brings your favorite snacks, which are those kinds you cannot recall taking a liking on them since… well, not so oddly, the sole reason you liked them is that they remind you of Jason. And, Jason retells your stories, you cannot form any feelings about them yet he does. Then, Jason shows you the photos. Hell, he even shows the invaluable polaroid you always keep neatly in your utility belt like it's a damn token of betrothal, but you just smile politely, Jason aches.

And the worst part?

Despite everything, it's still you.

Still gentle, still curious, still warm.

Just… not his.

Not yet…

Jason keeps that hope like a blunt blade living in his chest. It hurts every time he breathes. Slow, agonizing and torturous enough to chip away at his heart.

Jason tries to rebuild the bond but it's painfully slow.

He never pushes. He calls you “kid,” “sweetheart,” “handsome” but so gently it hurts. He sits on the opposite end of the couch so that he doesn’t scare you. He asks permission to touch every time.

Jason is trying his absolute best to win back you who tragically and hilariously do not vibe with his natural disaster personality.

You cannot still remember anything. You look at Jason with that soft, confused “???” face, like Jason is a slightly feral golden retriever someone dropped on your doorstep that you do not really know how to deal with him.

Jason, the poor, doomed Jason, is still trying to be a gentleman.

Except!

He can’t.

He’s Jason Todd. He leaks flaws like cheap cologne.

Jason is clingy as hell but trying to pretend he’s not. He absolutely says something like:

“No pressure. No expectations. Take your time. I’m chill.”

But he’s standing two inches away at all times like a mother goose guarding a single hatchling.

You turn around? Jason is there.

You sit down? Jason sits down too like he has been choreographed for all day long.

You pick up a fork and Jason’s nerves go:

“What are you eating? Do you want something else? Should I cook? Should I hunt it myself? You will like it fresh. Hold on. Lemme-”

“… He’s intense.” You think.

Jason brings you flowers. But they’re clearly stolen. From someone’s garden. Possibly during a chase.

“Are those… roots still attached?”

“They’re fresher this way.” Jason tilts his head and rubs his neck nervously while still holding the flowers with the other hand.

He's also freaking jealous to the point the blind could tell.

There's one time you randomly visit that one coffee shop for a quick light drink. The barista nodded and said "Of course. It's on the house." with the most charming grin of his.

Jason’s eye twitches.

You don't even look at Jason while you thank the barista.

Jason looks like he’s witnessing infidelity in 4K.

When the barista is away, Jason breaks.

“Okay, WHAT was that.” His voice comes out low and irritated like someone just stepped on his metaphorical tail.

“What was what?”

“He was staring at you like you’re a dessert he can take home.”

“You’re jealous?”

Jason scoffs loudly like someone just asked him if he eats rocks.

“Me? Jealous? Of Mr. Free Latte over there? Absolutely not. Zero percent. I’m made of confidence.”

“Your eyelid is twitching.” You raise an eyebrow.

Jason covers his eye and mutters something vulgar.

You try not to smile. Fail.

Nonetheless, there is an elephant in the room that needs to be addressed.

Jason? Clearly not your type.

Your type?

Calm guys. Soft-spoken. Emotionally stable. Someone that matches your rhythm.

Jason is none of these.

If anything, he is negative of these.

And you just sit there thinking:

“Why did past me date a raccoon with anger issues?”

Nevertheless, he accidentally shows you why you fell for him.

Not the grand gestures for theatrics, it's flaws.

Because every flaw comes with a glimmer of something real:

His temper? Comes from caring too fiercely.

His being clingy? He’s terrified of losing you again.

His jealousy? He still loves you. Hard.

His horrible romance attempts? He tried. The dumb ass really tried.

And you are capable of seeing all that. Even if it’s "not your type", it starts tugging at you anyway.

A little.

A lot.

And Jason notices since he's trying to hide his stupid hopeful smile.

You two try to go on dates again.

You sit at the tiny café table, posture perfect, hands folded neatly. You look calm, elegant… very not-Jason’s usual chaos vibe. Jason shows up three minutes late, out of breath, hair messy like he fought a hurricane on the way here. (Fun fact, he did! He just punched three robbers on his way here conveniently). He skids into the seat, trying so hard to seem casual but his chair squeaks like a dying goose.

“… Did you run?”

“No. No, of course not. I walk. I’m a chill walking guy. Just… very briskly.”

His chest is still heaving.

You just nod slowly.

The waiter arrives.

You smile politely. “I’ll have the chamomile tea.”

Jason panics.

“I’ll have… uh… the blandest drink you have.”

You blink. The waiter blinks. Jason turns pink.

They bring him a glass of warm milk like he’s a stressed toddler. Jason tries to pretend this is exactly what he wanted.

Jason attempts small talk. As a matter of fact, it doesn't go well.

“So… uh… how’s the whole… memory thing?”

You lift an eyebrow. Jason realizes that sounded incredibly stupid.

Jason backpedals instantaneously like a distressed student, wholly unprepared for the oral examination, fervently hoped their misquotations from John Milton would go unnoticed, praying the teacher's patience would spare him from his deserved discipline.

“No, I mean… you don’t have to answer that. Actually, don’t. This is supposed to be fun. Dates are supposed to be fun. I’m fun. You know, in theory.”

You sip your tea.

Jason looks like he wants to vanish into oblivion.

But then Jason slips.

Not a flaw.

Not chaos.

Something real.

You drop your spoon. It clatters so loud that anyone in that position would start to feel embarrassed.

Jason immediately, instinctively reaches over, touches your wrist.

Not grabbing. Not clinging. Just grounding you.

“Hey. You’re good. I used to drop shit all the time. Still do, clearly.” Jason coos you in a velvety manner with that devastatingly soft look that could make people's knees go weak.

And your eyes widen. Not much, just enough. It’s the first moment Jason seems… safe, warm, home.

“Jason… why did we date? Be honest.” You blurt out.

Jason’s mouth opens, closes, then opens again.

He looks absolutely terrified.

Then he shrugs and drops the act.

“Dunno. I'm sure as hell wasn’t your type. You liked calm, stable men. I’m… not exactly that.”

You cock your head and reply: “Clearly.”

Jason laughs, quietly.

“But you made me better. And I guess I made you a little worse.” His voice goes soft.

“We met in the middle. And somehow it worked.”

“It was real. The best real thing I’ve ever had.”

And you give the smallest, softest smile.

Not love. Not yet. But interest. Curiosity. A spark aimed right at Jason.

Jason looks like he might actually ascend.

Moving onto the second date! The broom incident!?

You insisted meeting somewhere “quiet” this time. Jason agreed. Then he immediately regretted it because you picked the public library. Jason Todd has never been in a library without causing a minor (major) incident. You are sitting at a table by the window, flipping through a book. You look like soft sunlight in human form, which is the exact opposite of Jason walking in like an absolute troublemaker in a leather jacket.

It's all cute and calm until-

“What are you reading lately?” You question casually.

“Oh, uh… manuals.” Jason sweats a little.

“Like… repair manuals?” You cock an eyebrow.

“No. Weapon manuals.” He lowers his voice…

“Is that… relaxing for you?”

“Yeah. Very soothing. Like yoga but with grenades.” He admits reluctantly.

You have to look away to keep from laughing, because you shouldn’t find that charming.
And yet… your lips twitch.

The two of you are walking between shelves, you're reading off a list:

“The staff recommended these two novels-”

Jason’s listening. Trying to be calm. Trying to be dateable.

Then a broom someone left leaning against a shelf suddenly tips over.

Jason reacts like it’s a live bomb.

He spins, grabs the broom mid-fall, drops his book, tries to save it, elbows the shelf, knocks ANOTHER broom loose (why are there multiple brooms??), and accidentally steps on the fallen one.

Which catapults straight upward.

You watch the broom smack Jason in the face with a soft “whump.”

Jason stands there, fully betrayed by gravity.

You cover your mouth, shoulders shaking.

“Are you okay?”

“Yep. Totally. Fantastic. Love libraries.”

You lose it. You laugh. Out loud. Warm. Bright. Honest.

Everyone looks. Jason stares at you like he just discovered sunlight.

Jason’s still rubbing his cheek from the broom attack when you step closer.

Too close.

You reach him in a gentle, instinctive way and brush Jason’s jaw with your thumb.

“It’s red. Let me see.”

Jason freezes like the universe just blue-screened his brain.

You tilt Jason’s chin a little, examining him with that soft, focused care… exactly like how you used to.

“You’re cute when you’re clumsy.” Off the top of your head, you utter.

Jason’s soul leaves his body.

Your eyes widen a second later.

“… I didn’t… I mean-”

Jason’s grin is slow and devastating.

“So muscle memory is kicking in.”

He grins victoriously. Your ears go pink.

The space between you and him is smaller now.

“What did we… used to be like together?”

Jason’s voice is quieter than the library itself.

“Like this. But worse behaved.”

“… I think I can handle that.” You give him a small smile.

And your thumb wanders off, then brushes over Jason’s knuckles. Slow. Gentle. Almost curious.

“Did I… touch you like this a lot?” Your voice drops without you meaning to.

Jason’s throat works but it's cracking badly.

“Yeah. Pretty much exactly like that.”

Your eyes flick to Jason’s mouth.

Jason nearly dies.

“And did you like it… this much?”

Jason grabs the wooden broom beside him like it’s the only thing keeping him not half a second away from kissing you stupid.

“Yeah. Yeah, I fucking did.” His eyes go half-lidded like he's been craving, aching, starving for your affections. He looks like he's being hunted by the love of his life.

You don't kiss him. Not yet.

Yet your forehead touches Jason’s in that soft, intimate, familiar way like a shared heartbeat you forgot you knew.

“… I think my body remembers you.”

Jason’s eyes close, a shaky laugh escaping.

“Yeah? Then let it take its time. I’ll be here.”

Third date time!

You decided to meet at Jason’s apartment this time.

You said he wanted “somewhere quiet.”

Jason pretended like that wasn’t the most intimate sentence anyone’s ever said to him.

He cleaned. He reorganized. He lit a candle. Then panicked and blew it out. Then lit it again. Then hid it behind a plant so you wouldn’t think he was trying too hard.

It was a disaster. He was a disaster.

But when you knock, Jason just opens the door with that soft, shy, “please don’t see how much I love you” smile.

You step inside and you freeze.

Not because the apartment is nice. Not because Jason looks good.

No.

Because something in your chest pulls.

Hard.

You walk in slowly.

Touch the edge of Jason’s couch.

Your fingertips hover… then settle.

And suddenly you feel something.

Not a picture. Not a scene.

A sensation.

Warmth.
Weight.
Safety.

“… I’ve sat here before.” Your voice rolls out quiet.

Jason goes still.

“Yeah. You… you used to fall asleep there after patrol. Like it was your personal nest.”

You trace the fabric like it’s holy.

You keep touching things. The coffee table. The fridge handle. The bookshelf.

Each time you do, you go quiet. Too quiet.

Jason’s heart climbs up his throat.

“Hey… talk to me.” Jason mumbles so that he won't startle your current state, with worry hanging on his throat, with concern glimmering in his eyes.

You swallow, stepping closer to Jason like you're moving through fog.

“When I touch things… it’s like… I don’t know. Like a faint echo. Like I’ve… done this before.”

Jason’s breath stutters instantly. He already wants to cry.

“That’s good, babe. That’s really good.” His voice is wrecked. Utterly wrecked.

“It feels like déjà vu. But warm. Safe.”

Jason almost loses it because when your memory comes back slowly and steadily, it feels like a light blanket to his heartbreak of your memo loss.

You know Jason’s doing the whole “I’m totally normal and cool and fine” act that fools literally no one. But the heartbreak isn’t in the big dramatic scenes…

No, no, it’s in the microscopic, stupid little moments that blow straight through his ribs.

Jason’s tossing you his old battered leather jacket - the jacket, the one you used to steal constantly. And you just… hold it.

“Uh… thanks?”

No sliding it on with that smug little smile. No “it smells like you.”

And Jason goes, “Yeah. It’s just… warm.”

But his face? Cracks like glass. Crumbles like the love of his life just turned him down at the wedding.

You used to have a favorite - the dumb dark chipped red one Jason hates but never threw out. You now pick it up like it’s any mug.

Jason tries to laugh it off, “You used to try to steal that thing.”

You shrug: “Really?”

And Jason nods, swallowing.

“Yeah. You, uh… liked it a lot.”

He turns away before you can see his eyes go wet.

And the name. The "Jason" thing.

Not the teasing, weaponized, sweet little “Jay” you used to throw around.

Just… "Jason". Flat. Polite. Calm.

No underlying softness. No unspoken understanding. No years of too much history.

Jason pretends it doesn’t slice him open, but every time you say it, he flinches so subtly you’d need a microscope to catch it.

You reach for a coat and put them on. Jason lift his hands and fix the edge of your jacket, straightening the fabric where it folded wrong. It is a small gesture, almost careless, but it carries the kind of familiarity that comes from knowing someone too well.

“You’ve done this before?”

Jason smiles, soft and pained. “A couple thousand times.”

You laugh at one of Jason’s unhinged comments. It’s a small laugh, but god, it’s familiar.
Jason gets quiet. Because for half a second it felt like the world was normal again. And when you ask:

“What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

Jason just shakes his head and smiles. “Nothing. Just… missed something.”

You take the ring off at some point.

You're not being careless. You're not being cruel.

You're literally just standing in front of the mirror, frowning at your reflection, costume half-zipped, straps and buckles undone, ring glinting on your pinky like a misplaced sunbeam.

You squint at it, pull it off gently, and roll it between your fingers.

“It… doesn’t fit the vibe.” You mumble to yourself. Soft. Curious. Not knowing.

And then, oh sweetheart, Jason walks in.

He wasn’t even trying to spy, he’s just carrying coffee and being hopeful and heart-sick and stupidly devoted, and then-

He stops. Everything stops like someone unplugged the universe.

You look over casually. “Oh hey, Jason. I was just-”

Jason’s voice goes tiny. “.. Why’d you take it off?”

You lift the ring, examine it again, completely innocent.

“It looks old. A bit crooked. And I don’t know, the whole… golden pinky ring thing? Doesn’t really match… whatever I used to wear, right?”

You let out a small laugh. “It feels out of place.”

Jason doesn’t laugh. Jason can’t laugh.

His lips twitch like he’s trying so hard to keep it together his face might crack from the pressure.

"Guess it must mean a lot to me." You continue.

“You, uh…” He swallows. “You used to say it grounded you.”

You tilt your head. “Really?”

Jason nods once. No shake. No shrug. Just one, single nod that looks like a man handing pieces of himself over.

“You never took it off.”

“Oh, I didn’t know-”

But Jason isn’t hearing it. Not really. He’s staring at the bare pinky like it’s an amputation.

And the heartbreak? It’s in the tiny details:

His hand curls into a fist. Because his finger used to hook into yours all the damn time.

His throat works. Because he remembers while you were half-asleep with that ring on, you were mumbling that it “felt like being chosen.”

His eyes drop. Because he can’t look at you holding it like a questionable fashion accessory.

Jason gives a shaky exhale, fake-casual, fake-tough, fake-okay.

“Yeah. Yeah, sweetheart. You, uh… you once nearly punched Dick for touching it.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “I did?”

“Oh yeah…” Jason says with a little broken laugh. “You said it was ‘symbolic as hell’ and ‘nobody messes with my stuff.’”

And then you look down at the ring again.

Slowly.

Almost reverently.

Like you're starting to feel something… not a memory, but a weight. A meaning. A ghost of a feeling that has claws.

You slip it back to your pinky.

And Jason? Jason has to glance away, jaw tight, because if you ask "why are you crying?" he cannot deal with that tonight.

You notice anyways. And you quietly cross the distance and say: “Sorry. I didn’t know.”

Jason shakes his head, voice rough.

“You don’t have to be sorry. I just…” He shrugs, helpless. “I missed seeing it on you.”

“… Then I guess I’ll keep it on.”

And it feels right.

The devotion.

The way Jason’s voice trembles on the memory like a bruise being touched.

“And …why did you give it to me?”

Jason takes too long to answer. His throat works. Shoulders tense.

“… Because I wanted you to stay." Jason finally replies. It's barely audible, like a confession he’s ashamed of.

And with the softest voice, you mutter:

“I’m still here.”

Jason doesn’t breathe. Can’t breathe. He looks at you like he wants to both cry and kiss you breathless.

You take his hand in a warm, steady, reassuring way and add:

“And I’m gonna learn everything again. Including why this ring mattered so much to me.”

Jason huffs a tiny, broken laugh.

“What a sweet way to go to hell.”

You grin, thumb brushing the back of Jason’s hand.

“I did that the first time too, didn’t I?”

Jason finally… finally lets out a real laugh.
And for the first time since the amnesia, he doesn’t feel like he’s losing you.

He feels like he’s getting you back.

You keep going.

“I can’t remember everything yet. But when I’m with you? I feel… safe. And stupid. And warm. And annoyed. And like I want to sit closer even when I’m already close."

A beat.

A tiny smile.

A warm look.

“I think that’s what it felt like before.”

Jason stares. He’s not breathing. He’s not blinking.

“I don’t want to rely on memories I don’t have. I want to rely on how I feel right now.” Your fingertip taps the ring.

“And everything in me tells me that I… should be with you.”

Jason’s voice breaks around the edges.

“You don’t have to-”

“I want to.” You cut in, eyes steady.

Jason looks like someone punched the air out of him in the best and worst way. His jaw flexes. His eyes shine.

“Baby…” His voice is tiny, raspy again like he's embarrassed and overwhelmed. Well, he is.

“You don’t even know what you’re signing up for.” Jason add.

“You mean the man who overfeeds me, checks if I’m warm every two minutes, threatens to fight the air when I sneeze, and keeps pretending he’s not soft?”

Jason makes a strangled noise.

“I may not remember loving you. But I want to learn.”

“You’re choosing me.” Jason states. It comes out like reassurance to himself that this moment is not going to vanish.

You trace Jason’s cheek, thumb brushing a tear Jason didn’t even realize he shed.

“I choose you.” You repeat.

Sure.
Steady.
Home.

That’s when Jason finally breaks. Not dramatically. Not loudly.

Just a soft, choked inhale before he cups your face and hides his forehead against your shoulder like he’s falling apart quietly.

You hold him in a warm, calm, new manner but still his.

And murmur:

“You don’t have to earn me again. I’m already here.”

Jason whispers back, shaking:

“I’m not losing you twice.”

You press your lips to Jason’s hair and answer:

“Good. Because I’m not leaving twice.”

It happens almost by accident or maybe it was inevitable.

After you say the words (“I choose you”), Jason doesn’t trust himself to move. He stays there like a statue with a heartbeat, trembling under your hands.

You lean in, forehead touching Jason’s again. Just a small, grounding thing.

And Jason whispers, voice cracked open:

“You don’t… have to do anything you’re not ready for.”

“Jason. I’m literally leaning into you right now.” You breathe out a tiny laugh.

“Still…” Jason mutters, eyes dropping. “I don’t want to take advantage of-”

You lift his chin gently with two fingers.

“You’re not taking anything. You’re giving something back.”

You close the distance, slow enough to let Jason pull back. He doesn’t.

Your lips meet his like a memory trying to remember itself. It's soft, hesitant, warm. You kiss him with curiosity. Jason kisses you like a prayer. And halfway through, Jason’s hand fly up like he can’t stop himself. One on your jaw, one on the back of your neck to pull you closer with this desperate, careful hunger.

He breaks the kiss first, gasping.

“Sorry… fuck… sorry- I got carried away.” His breaths shake as he mumble.

You cup the back of Jason’s neck and pull him right back in.

“I want you to.”

He pulls you into him as his arms wrapping around you with this overwhelming, reverent desperation like he’s memorizing the shape of you all over again, the way he used to.

And Jason makes the most broken, relieved sound, half a laugh, half a sob before kissing you again, deeper this time, like he’s relearning how to breathe.

Chapter Text

You didn’t lose your memories. You partitioned them.

Not erased. Not suppressed. Quarantined.

Because you realized something before the injury, before the fallout, before whatever made you do this:

Loving Jason was the only variable I could not predict. And unpredictable variables get people killed.

So you locked away everything that made you hesitate.

Jason. The ring. The softness. The instinct to choose love over survival.

And you designed the lock so that no external stimulus could break it, no emotional shock could override it, no amount of pain or familiarity would brute-force it open.

Therefore, you turned your own mind into a recursive logic puzzle that you knew your future, "unlocked" self would eventually try to solve… only when you choose Jason again… because choosing Jason means unraveling the safe cover you constructed.

And you believed…

It's only a matter of time.

You don't "trip" over a memory. You solve your way back in.

The air in the room is sterile, smelling of ozone and old paper.

For weeks, you had been tracing the breadcrumbs you’d left for yourself. It wasn't a trail of sentiment. It was a trail of architectural flaws. You had deliberately sabotaged your own financial algorithms and left subtle, inefficient lines of code in your security systems. You knew your amnesiac self would be bothered by the "imperfection" and try to fix it.

"You arrogant bastard…" You whisper to your past self.

You are looking at a sequence of numbers scribbled in the margin of a blueprint. It looks like a standard coordinate set, but the math is slightly... off. If you calculate the trajectory using standard Euclidean geometry, it leads nowhere.

"A drag path etched in the surface. As evidence I left there on purpose."

After having spent ten hours trying to find the error, you realize: The error is the key.

You close your eyes. You don't try to remember, you try to calculate.

As the logic clicks into place, the "lock" authenticated.

The sensation isn't a rush of images. It is a cold, systematic re-partitioning of your brain. It feels like glass shards being stitched back into a mirror. The "lock" is a mnemonic virus you programmed into your own subconscious, designed to remain dormant until your brain reaches a specific state of analytical stress.

You didn't see something that triggered you. You reached the required processing speed to decrypt you own mind.

You open your eyes. The confusion evaporated. The detective version of you is gone; the architect was back.

"Checkmate." You whisper to the empty room. You aren't talking to an enemy. You are talking to the version of yourself that tried to hide.

“Jay.” In moments later, you stand at the door way and call him out. Arms extending out. A small grin with those fond familiar eyes appearing again.

Jason’s entire body startles. And he pauses whatever he was doing.

“You found me.”

He rushes to reach for you. Draping over you like a koala with abandonment issues. An arm around your waist. Another one snaking around your hips. Face buried in your neck. A whole-ass vibrating smug aura.

You shift a little.

Jason tightens his hold instantaneously.

“Nope.” He mumbles into your skin. “Mine again. I’m not taking chances.”

“Jay. You’re suffocating me.” You snort.

“Good.” Jason mutters. “Die in my arms or not at all.”

Jason lifts his head, hair a mess, eyes gleaming like a raccoon who found premium trash.

“You remember me.” He says with this tiny, evil smile. “You remember you love me.”

“I do.” You smile and smooch his forehead.

Jason beams like a cocky sunrise. “I knew it. Of course you remembered. I’m unforgettable. Iconic. Life-changing.”

“… You are SO much worse with my memories back.” You stare.

Jason shrugs smugly and cuddles in closer.

“Your problem anyways."

And it gets so much worse.

Later on, you try to get a glass of water? Jason appears behind you like a dog pestering for snack time.

“You hydrated? Need help? Remember what cups are?”

“Jason-”

“Shhh. You’ve suffered a brain injury.”

“THREE WEEKS AGO.”

“Trauma doesn’t clock out.”

And he holds your hand 24/7. Like literally everywhere. In the kitchen. On rooftops. During patrol. Dick sees him and goes: “You good, Jay? You look… clingier than usual?”

Jason glares. “I am. Fight me.”

You nod politely like yes, this disaster man belongs with you.

Also he has a new catchphrase! Whenever you tries to do anything independently:

“I almost lost you once. I’m not letting you walk to the bathroom alone.”

“I didn’t forget THE TOILET, PETER-”

“Don’t care. We go together now.”

“WE?!”

And that freaking smirk will not even go off for any single second.

You kiss him in the hallway. Soft, simple, casual. You always do. Jason stands there frozen, blinking once. Then:

“Oh? You remember how to do that too, huh? Damn. Lucky me.”

“I should’ve stayed amnesiac.”

“You absolutely shouldn’t have, babe. I was losing my mind. Now come here again.”

THAT IS NOT EVEN THE WORST PART.

Later that night, you rests his head on Jason’s shoulder (with slight difficulties).

Jason whispers, smug and affectionate:

“You chose me without remembering and you loved me with remembering. That means I win twice.”

You groan and throw a pillow at him. Jason catches it one-handed, smirks, and pulls you into his lap like:

“Nope. Come here. Daddy needs his emotional support menace.”

Jason kisses the top of your head and murmurs:

“Not letting you go again. Ever. Sorry, babe. You’re stuck.”

You snuggle anyways.

“Yeah.” He whispers. “I know, sweetheart.”

By the way, Damian is offended on a spiritual level. Like there is one time he drops by to hog you for sparring. But yeah, Jason pulls you closer and kiss your cheeks RIGHT IN FRONT OF him.

“You’re disgusting, Todd.”

“I WILL STOP COMING OVER. I SWEAR TO EVERY ANIMAL I HAVE EVER RESCUED.” Damian hisses.

There have been also Duke's concerns the other day as well.

Duke: “Look, I’m happy for you both, but… Jason, your face. What is that emotion? You have too many teeth out.”

Jason kisses your forehead like an aesthetically pleasing octopus while Jason struts around like he just won an Oscar for Best 'Soon-to-be-husband': “It’s called joy.”

Duke: “Wow. Ew.”

An unstoppable force of PDA with villainous intent.

Bruce behind security cams after smirks coming from Jason? Traumatized. Exhausted. Considering exorcisms.

Chapter Text

Dick is absolutely that guy who treats texting like a live podcast.

Dick:

did u know pigeons can recognize themselves in mirrors
anyway that’s kinda like u
wait no that came out weird
i mean like emotionally
hello
baby
pls validate me

And you? You reply three business hours later with the calmest energy known to man.

You:

That’s interesting.
I didn’t know that about pigeons.
Thank you for thinking of me.

Dick is THRIVING off that. One single sentence and he’s kicking his feet like a teenager receiving his crush's messages. Don't mind his age right now (33). You read every message. All of them. The dumb gifs. The half-baked jokes. The voice note where Dick laughs at his own punchline before finishing it. You never rush. Never react fast. You let Dick finish being… Dick.

When Dick sends something painfully unfunny like:

ok but what if batman is just a furry with a budget

You reply MUCH later with:

I can see why you would think that.
You’re very creative.

OLD PEOPLE GIVING COMPLIMENTS ENERGY. And Dick, who’s usually smooth and charming and chaos incarnate, slows down. Waits. Doesn’t TRIPLE text as much (he still does). Because your patience isn’t passive, it’s intentional. Like you chose Dick. Like you're listening.

You don't mock him(much). Don't shuts him down (much). You just… support. Gently. Earnestly. Like Dick is a harmless creature that wandered into your life and now must be encouraged. (Or worse, your kid.)

Dick once asks, half-joking:

am i annoying u

You answer after a while:

No.
I like hearing from you.
Even when it’s nonsense.

Dick stares at his phone like he just got married. Ten-year age gap but somehow you are the emotional elder. Dick brings noise, you bring space. Dick fills the silence, you make it comfortable.

It’s giving golden retriever meets patient librarian, bomb texts meets slow, deliberate affection, and “you did your best”.

Dick (09:12)
okay important question
do u think if i tried hard enough
i could beat a goose in hand to hand combat

Dick (09:13)
like not a big goose
a medium goose

Dick (09:14)
pls answer fast this is time sensitive

(seen 09:14)

…

…

…

Dick (11:47)
nvm i googled it
turns out geese are evil
which explains a lot

…

You (13:06)
I think a goose would be more aggressive than you expect.
But you’re athletic.
If you stayed calm, you might manage.

Dick (13:06)
THIS IS THE MOST SUPPORTIVE ANSWER I’VE EVER GOTTEN

Dick (13:07)
“if you stayed calm” is crazy
bc i absolutely would not

Dick (13:07)
thank you for believing in me anyway

(seen 13:08)

…

Dick (16:22)
okay different topic
i told bruce a joke today
he didn’t laugh
or blink

Dick (16:23)
it was a good joke though
it was about spreadsheets

…

You (18:01)
I’m sure it was well constructed.
Some people don’t appreciate humor like you do.

Dick (18:01)
DID YOU JUST CALL MY JOKE “WELL CONSTRUCTED”

Dick (18:02)
i’m printing this out

Dick (18:02)
framing it

Dick (18:02)
putting it on the fridge

…

Dick (22:41)
do u ever get tired of me texting random stuff

Dick (22:42)
u can be honest
i’m emotionally strong
(lying)

(seen 22:42)

You (00:19)
No.
I think it’s nice that you share your thoughts.
It shows enthusiasm.

Dick (00:20)
“enthusiasm”

Dick (00:20)
baby you talk to me like i’m a very friendly puppy

Dick (00:21)
and somehow it makes me feel respected

You (00:22)
You are friendly.
And you mean well.
Those are good qualities.

Dick (00:23)
oh god

Dick (00:23)
oh no

Dick (00:23)
i think i’m in love

Dick (08:02)
good morning ☀️
i tripped over a step today
the step won

Dick (08:03)
just thought u should know

(seen 08:41)

You (09:12)
I’m sorry you fell.
I hope you weren’t hurt.
Thank you for telling me.

Dick (09:13)
THANK YOU FOR CARING ABOUT MY ENEMY (THE STEP)

Dick (14:56)
it's been a while. i tried cooking again today

Dick (14:56)
there was smoke. i got distracted. man, i think im growing gray.

Dick (14:57)
not in a cool action way

…

You (17:22)
Trying is still an achievement.

Dick (17:23)
WHY DO YOU TALK TO ME LIKE I’M LEARNING TO WALK

Dick (17:23)
(it’s working)

Dick (01:11)
random thought
if i disappeared tomorrow
would u notice

(seen 01:11)

You (03:02)
Yes.
I would notice very quickly.

Dick (03:03)
cool cool cool
just casually wrecked my entire chest cavity

Dick (10:19)
i made a joke at work today
nobody laughed

Dick (10:19)
except me
i laughed very hard

…

You (12:44)
Sometimes humor is for the person telling it.
That doesn’t make it bad.

Dick (12:45)
THIS IS ELDER WISDOM

Dick (12:45)
ARE YOU GOING TO PAT MY HEAD NEXT

Dick (21:07)
be honest
am i too much

(seen 21:08)

You (23:36)
You are energetic.
But it’s consistent.
People who care can adapt.

Dick (23:37)
“people who care”

Dick (23:37)
oh so we’re just gonna say things like that

Dick (07:50)
i sent u like 57 messages and 14 reels yesterday

Dick (07:50)
sorry

…

You (10:21)
It didn’t bother me.
I read them when I had time.

Dick (10:22)
YOU READ THEM

Dick (10:22)
ALL OF THEM

Dick (10:22)
EVEN THE ONE WHERE I MISSPELLED “MISSION”

Dick (18:33)
i feel kinda dumb today

(seen 18:34)

You (20:02)
I don’t think you’re dumb.
You’re expressive.
That’s different.

Dick (20:03)
okay so now i’m crying

Dick (20:03)
respectfully

Dick (23:58)
do u ever laugh at my jokes
like actually

…

You (02:14)
Sometimes.
Even when I don’t laugh, I still enjoy them.

Dick (02:15)
THIS IS WORSE

Dick (02:15)
THIS IS SO MUCH WORSE

Dick (11:06)
u know u encourage me a lot right

(seen 11:07)

You (11:41)
I think encouragement helps people grow.
You respond well to it.

Dick (11:42)
IM A HOUSEPLANT TO YOU

Dick (11:42)
YOU’RE WATERING ME

Dick (17:04)
u know what i miss
that awful coffee place near the docks

Dick (17:05)
the one that tasted like regret

(seen 17:06)

…

You (18:41)
You ordered the darkest roast.
You said it made patrol feel shorter.

Dick (18:42)

???

Dick (18:42)
hold on

Dick (18:42)
WHAT

Dick (18:43)
I SAID THAT ONCE

Dick (18:43)
IN PASSING

Dick (18:43)
LIKE SEVEN MONTHS AGO

…

You (19:12)
You seemed tired that night.
But you were in a good mood.

Dick (19:13)
why do you REMEMBER ME like this

Dick (19:13)
why do you catalog my soul like receipts

You (19:14)
It stood out.
You don’t usually complain when you’re content.

Dick (19:15)
oh

Dick (19:15)
okay so this is how i die

Dick (23:27)
hey
remember when it was just us

Dick (23:27)
no ghost and night
just late nights and bad takeout

Dick (23:28)
kinda miss that

(seen 23:29)

You (01:03)
I think about that sometimes too.
We were younger.
You laughed more freely.

Dick (01:04)
HAHA YEAH
i was cooler then

Dick (01:04)
less emotionally fragile

…

You (01:37)
You’re still expressive.
But back then you seemed lighter.
I liked that version of you.
I like you now too.

Dick (01:38)

wait

Dick (01:38)
?

Dick (01:38)
i was flirting

Dick (01:38)
that was supposed to be casual

Dick (01:39)
why did you answer like we’re discussing our shared past in a novel

You (01:40)
I thought you were being sincere.
Were you not?

Dick (01:41)
I MEAN I WAS
BUT ALSO I WAS TRYING TO BE CHARMING

Dick (01:41)
THIS IS WORSE SOMEHOW

…

You (02:06)
You don’t need to perform for me.
If you miss something, you can say it plainly.

Dick (02:07)
oh my god

Dick (02:07)
you just removed my entire flirting skillset

Dick (02:07)
i’m defenseless

You (02:08)
I don’t mind that.

Dick (07:18)
running on 3 hrs of sleep
bad decisions only today

(seen 07:19)

…

You (09:02)
Did you eat something with it this time?
You get shaky if you don’t.

Dick (09:03)

omg

Dick (09:03)
you REMEMBER that

Dick (09:03)
i mentioned that ONCE
in crime alley
while half-dead

…

You (09:21)
It seemed important.

Dick (09:22)
i’m important???

Dick (16:40)
it’s colder than expected

(seen 16:41)

…

You (18:12)
Did you bring the jacket with the loose button?
The gray one.

Dick (18:13)
WHY DO YOU KNOW MY CLOTHES

Dick (18:13)
WHY DO YOU KNOW WHICH ONE I WEAR WHEN I’M TIRED

You (18:14)
You reach for it when you don’t want to think.

Dick (22:56)
sorry
got distracted

(seen 22:57)

…

You (00:11)
It’s okay.
You’re usually late when you’re trying to help someone.

Dick (00:12)
that’s not even fair

Dick (00:12)
you just described my personality in one sentence

Dick (19:08)
ordered takeout

Dick (19:08)
regretting it already

…

You (20:46)
You always regret it before you eat.
After, you seem calmer.

Dick (20:47)
are you observing me like a study

You (20:48)
More like familiarity.

Dick (01:02)
still awake
definitely awake
eyes open

(seen 01:03)

…

…

…

You (02:31)
You fell asleep.
Goodnight, Dick.

Dick (02:32)
WHY DID THAT MAKE MY CHEST FEEL LIKE THAT

Dick (18:59)
sometimes i feel like i talk too much

(seen 19:00)

You (20:22)
You fill space easily.
Some people need that.

Dick (20:23)
you say things like that so casually

Dick (20:23)
do you know what it does to me

You (20:24)
I’m glad it helps.

Dick (11:14)
today feels weird

(seen 11:15)

…

You (13:40)
It’s the anniversary of that case by the harbor.
You were quiet afterward last year too.

Dick (13:41)
i didn’t even remember

Dick (13:41)
but my body did

You (13:42)
That happens sometimes.

Dick (21:30)
u don’t have to wait up

(seen 21:31)

…

You (22:58)
I wasn’t waiting.
I was just here.

Dick (22:59)
that’s worse

Dick (22:59)
that’s so much worse

You (08:11)
Did you sleep?

Dick (08:12)
YOU TEXTED FIRST

Dick (08:12)
GOOD MORNING TO YOU TOO I GUESS

You (08:13)
Good morning.
You sounded tired last night.

Dick (08:14)
i was

Dick (08:14)
i didn’t think you noticed

…

You (08:31)
I always do.

Dick (08:32)
oh cool
so i’m just emotionally exposed before 9am

Later that day.

You (15:47)
Did you eat?

Dick (15:48)
why

Dick (15:48)
are you asking like that

…

You (16:22)
You skip meals when you’re focused.
I wanted to check.

Dick (16:23)
you could have asked literally anything

Dick (16:23)
but you chose violence

You (22:04)
You were quiet today.

Dick (22:05)
i was fine

Dick (22:05)
just busy

…

You (22:37)
I know.
I just wanted you to know I noticed.

Dick (22:38)
that’s not a normal thing to say to someone

You (22:39)
It felt appropriate.

Dick (22:40)
I’M GOING TO LAY ON THE FLOOR NOW

Dick (19:18)
sorry if i was weird earlier

You (21:02)
You weren’t weird.
You were quieter than usual.
That happens when you’re thinking about something you don’t want to name yet.

Dick (21:03)
who gave you access to my inner life

Dick (21:03)
was there a form i signed

…

You (21:36)
You make more jokes when you’re trying not to feel heavy.
When you stop, it usually means you’re already there.

Dick (21:37)
i tell jokes for a living

Dick (21:37)
and you’re telling me my SILENCE is louder

You (21:38)
Yes.

Dick (21:39)
that’s unfair

Dick (21:39)
you’re supposed to laugh at my jokes

Dick (18:09)
okay listen
what if bats are just goth pigeons

(seen 18:10)