Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The countertops in Mack's are always sticky. You used to be a little more aware of them, a little better about putting in effort, but every day the counters get stickier and your fingertips drag a little more when you pull the tip change off. 

You look up from where you're writing the order for someone else, see a stranger at the counter. He's not familiar, a red hoodie on and the hood up. His hair is black, his eyes a pretty, startling blue. Your fingers still on the notepad, his gaze drawing you in like a whirlpool. 

A bolt of awareness hits you, like you know all your little imperfections. The little hairs escaping your hastily made early morning style. The way you always messily tie your apron strings and make them lopsided. The way your jeans have syrup smeared on your left thigh from a spill and you couldn't wash your hands and just wiped them off. 

The stranger's eyes are magnetic, something deeper swirling in those blue depths. 

"Hey!" someone snaps, and you drag your gaze away, look back at the customer whose order you'd stopped taking. 

"Sorry," you rush out, looking back at him. "The number thirteen, smothered hash browns, over easy, extra butter?"

"Yeah," the customer says, disgruntled. "And another coffee."

You give the ticket to the cook and refill the customer's coffee, trying to shake off the residual trance you'd been left in. 

This isn't me, you think as you wipe off a table, the midday Saturday sun shining through the windows and illuminating the cheap red vinyl booths. Your fingertips feel dry from the cheap cleaner, and you pick at your fingernails as you muse, looking out at the empty Gotham sidewalks.

The stranger's still sitting there, and you walk over, notepad ready and pen clicked. You meet his gaze, feeling that same magnetic pull. 

"Do you need any coffee or anything?" you ask, one foot back and braced to pivot if he says yes.

"Yeah," he says, picking at the edge of the plasticky menu. "Just coffee."

You nod and stride off, returning with a mug and a pot of coffee, setting them down in front of him. His hands are scarred, fingernails neatly trimmed. There's bruises on his knuckles and one's split open and scabbed over. Callouses on his palms. 

"You a boxer?" you ask before you can stop yourself. 

"Somethin' like that," he agrees, his accent the rough type of Gotham. Not the pristine, smooth Jersey, but a little more weathered, like a piece of stone that had been tossed by the ocean but not quite worn smooth. He has a nice voice, you think. There's a warmth to it that sits low, like an ember not quite burned out. 

"You any good at it?" you ask, putting your notebook and pen back in your apron pockets. 

He laughs softly, a warm, weathered sound. It rumbles in his chest like an old tomcat's purr, crackles a little on the edges. "Sometimes."

"Hope you win your next match, then," you say with a small smile. 

"Yeah." His gaze meets yours, that impenetrable blue seeming like a sheet of lapis lazuli and the clearest sea you've ever imagined all at once. His mouth quirks into a small smile, like sun breaking through grey. It lights up his face, turns his weathered, jagged edges warm. 

"I do too."

Chapter Text

Sunset stretches inky fingers across the sky as you pick your way across the industrial creek. 

It's full of rocks, gravel, and bits of concrete, and it's about as clean as any other part of Gotham, but you like it. It reminds you of those nature documentaries about wildlife in cities, the way small frogs hide beneath broken cinder blocks and algae grows from the stream of water dripping.

You call it the Creek, because you're the only one who's ever there. You like the way it's isolated, the silence of the formerly built and now gone. 

It's peaceful the way Gotham City never is. 

You sit down on a large sheet of broken concrete, laying back to look at the smoggy sky. The worn threads of your parka are comfortable, the hood up as a cool breeze skates across your skin. Fall hasn't quite set in yet, but you can see it in the sparse trees in Gotham, the ones that haven't been burnt or destroyed or twisted to suit someone's needs. 

There's only the soft noises of crickets and frogs, the trickle of water, the evening sky colored in red and brown and black and orange. 

You hear footsteps and sit up, startled. 

The stranger from the diner is there, looking confused. His gaze meets yours. 

"Didn't expect to see someone else," he replies, his warm rough Gotham tone washing over you. 

"Me neither," you admit, pulling your knees up to rest your chin on them. "Didn't know anybody else knew about this place."

A small smile touches his mouth and it's just as breathtaking as before, flames through thick smoke, blue eyes like the parting of Gotham smog. "Most people don't."

"What're you here for, then?" you ask, curious. 

"Little bit of peace." He picks his way across the Creek, stepping nimbly on algae slick concrete and over rocks. Your gaze stays on him, taking him in. Something warm stirs in your chest, like you don't mind the intrusion into what you thought was a sole sanctuary. 

"Think you'll find it?" Your fingers pick up a piece of gravel and throw it idly. It lands with a splash, a small frog hopping out of the way. Your eyes linger on the warm green-brown of the creature's skin before it escapes to hide under another rock. 

"Maybe." The corner of his mouth tilts up as he goes to the sheet of concrete you're sitting on and perches beside you. He smells smoky, like leather and the coals of a fire not yet gone out. It's nice. 

You pick up another piece of gravel and pitch it. It lands with a satisfying little noise, a plop more than a splash, the water giving way around it to make a split second pocket of air before the gravel sinks down. 

"I kinda wanna get out of Gotham," you admit quietly, looking up at the sky as you lean back. "Go see something actually natural, y'know?"

"Like what?" he asks, curiosity in his tone. 

"Maybe Appalachia. Or the Rockies. Something cool and big," you laugh softly, looking up at the sky without stars. "See a bear or something."

"You could go to Yellowstone," he suggests, smiling slightly. "They've got wolves."

"I'd like that." You turn to look at him and give him a small smile, shy. "I'm surprised you didn't laugh at me."

"Why would I?" he shrugs, his hoodie and hair ruffled by wind. For a moment, you're struck by the man beside you, his warmth seeping through the inches between you. The strength in his brow, the slightly crooked tilt of his nose, the bump in the bridge like he'd been punched a few too many times. The black hair with the messy bangs that fall over his forehead and brush his eyes. 

"Most people I've talked to say it's silly," you say, looking up at the sky, trying to convince yourself you've gotten your fill. His face is one you can pick apart forever, see every piece and take it in. It's a feeling you're unfamiliar with, but you look back over at him. 

There's a small scar just under his left eye, on his cheekbone. Jagged, paler than the rest of his face, and you notice that it crinkles slightly when he smiles at you. 

"I don't think it's silly," he says, the corners of his mouth tilted up in the barest hint of a smile. "They're beautiful places."

"Lot nicer than here," you sigh. Your hands fiddle with the lint in your parka pockets. "It always smells like smog here."

He laughs, and it's warm, sunshine in December, a glacial thaw. "I keep telling my friends to wear gas masks."

"Who wouldn't?" you complain, laughing slightly. "I would if I could afford one."

You think back to that savings account in the bank, the money you'd ferreted away when you could scrape together a few bucks. The trip you want to take. You wonder if he'd think it's silly, how long you've been saving up. You find yourself wanting to tell him.

"I'd get out of here for a while," you muse, thinking about the way your lungs would be tight from the altitude and the sensation of cold air as you stand on a mountain. A little personal victory, from a waitressing peon. A break from the pressurized grind, just you and the world. "Go somewhere cool."

"That'd be nice," he agrees, leaning back as well. You look over at him, your breaths fogging in the air. The carbon dioxide curls around his face on the exhale, his eyes bluer in the evening light. There's a streak of golden half light on his cheek, and you think for a moment he's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. 

"You know, I never got your name," you say, smiling slightly at him. "If I'm gonna share this place, I should know your name."

He laughs, and it's genuine, and it brightens him up, brings him from that perpetual Gotham moodiness into something that could swirl in space among nebulas and black holes. Your heart stops and starts again. 

"It's Jason." He smiles at you, and you think you might orbit around his sun because there's something so perfectly solar about him in his gravitational pull. Like he could bring the stars to their knees if he chose to. You miss it when it's gone. 

"Jason Todd."

Chapter Text

It's the tail end of the late shift, your yawns barely hidden by your palms. 

Jason chuckles quietly as he catches you trying to hide another. "Tired?"

"Unbelievably," you reply, stretching and rolling out your shoulders. You give him an exhausted smile. "I swear, it's like I get more tired every shift."

"You get off in like ten minutes, right?" he asks, his hands rolling up the wrapper of a straw neatly. He sets it on its side, and it looks like a nautilus shell in the vinyl red sea of the tabletop. 

"Yeah," you answer, tallying up your day's tips in your head. 

"Let me walk you home," he offers. You pause, and look over at him. A small smile tugs at your mouth. 

"Yeah. Okay. I'd like that."

You finish up and clock out, hanging up your apron and collecting your day's tips, putting them in your purse. Pulling in a hoodie, you smile at him, a little nervous. "You all good?"

"Yeah," he smiles back and gets up, his bill already paid. He opens the door for you.

Your footsteps are quiet on the asphalt sidewalks, but his are quieter. For such a tall, imposing man, he's oddly silent, managing to miss the broken glass and gravel that your own feet crunch down on. 

"How long's your walk, usually?" he asks, filling the silence with his warm timbre. 

"Forty-five minutes?" you hedge, putting your hands in your hoodie pockets as you walk. 

"Long time," he comments. 

"Feels like it, sometimes," you agree, your hands wrapped around themselves to warm them. 

You walk in comfortable silence for a while, elbows brushing. His presence is like warm honey seeping down your spine, an almost tangible thing that feels more like home than your box of an apartment. 

You ruminate on it, soak it in. It burns brightly within you and you exhale it like the tail end of a meteor. 

"You ever seen the big Batman mural?" he asks suddenly, and you think for moment, take your hands out of your pockets to rub them together and breathe fog over them. 

"Nah, I don't think so."

"C'mon," he says, and grabs your hand. 

He drags you along, and you're struck by the sheer heat of his palm around yours, the strength in his grip. You can feel the callouses on his hands and your fingertips brush against scabbed and scarred skin on his knuckles. There's a softness between the rough patches, and you absentmindedly rub your thumb against the web of his thumb as he pulls you through alleys. 

"Is it like, cool or somethin'?" you ask, curious as to why you're taking a detour. 

"Yep," he replies, and something about that tumbled rock style of speaking puts you at ease. 

Your sneakers crunch on gravel and the alleys smell a little like piss and whatever else Gotham filth has in its scent profile, but you're more focused on him. Something in you wishes you could bottle his essence, see if his innards glowed like starlight the way his blue eyes light up when he likes talking. 

He's a eclipse, all sun-moon-warm, and you wonder if the reason he casts such a big shadow is because no one else could be so sunny. 

Whatever it is, you wish he'd never let go of your hand. 

The city orange light casts across his face, making shadows under his cheekbones as he looks back at you and lights up on eye, and for a moment, you're breathless. 

"Just a little farther," he reassures you, and you're wanting it to be a lot longer. If only to absorb more of his hallowed sunshine. 

"Alright," you find yourself agreeing, and his hand squeezes yours. Your heart skips a beat in your chest. 

The weather bites at your cheeks and turns them rosy, but the warmth in his hand turns it balmy. 

He keeps leading you, and you watch his shoulders as they move beneath his hoodie. A few minutes later, he leads you into an alley far back from the main streets. A streetlight flickers on weakly and you look at the mural. 

"Oh," you say, and take it in. 

It's beautiful, shades of orange and purple streaked like taxicab taillights on rainy streets, like a reflection, Batman's cape stretching above it all. Your hand tightens slightly on Jason's on instinct. 

You turn to look at him. 

He's backlit by the orange of the streetlight, but as you look at him, it might as well be an aureate halo. He smiles at you, and your heart stops and starts again. 

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" he asks and you gaze at him, at those blue eyes shining like stars. 

"Yeah," you agree, your expression soft. "It is."

Before you can overthink it, you tilt up on tiptoe and kiss his cheek. It's slightly clumsy, your nose squishing, but he's warm beneath your lips and his body presses against yours slightly. You could swear that your body thrums with energy, like a lightning bolt had struck. 

"Thank you."

"You're welcome," he breathes out. His cheeks tint pink, and you think he's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.

His hand squeezes yours. 

Chapter Text

There's a rattle on your bedroom window.

You look over from where you're lounging in bed in your sleep shorts and tank top, comforter pulled up to your hips as you read some Target romance novel you hate the cover art of. 

Jason gives you a crooked little half smile from your fire escape, and your heart skips a beat. There's something about him that makes your chest and cheeks warm. You slide out of bed, peel open the window. 

"Hey," you say breathlessly, smiling up at him from where he crouches. 

"Hey," he says back, and you laugh, soft and airy. 

"What're you doing here, it's like midnight," you ask, hoping he doesn't mind your rumpled clothes and mussed hair from lounging around on your day off. 

"Got somethin' you might wanna see," he replies, smiling at you in that way that lights you up inside. He's all kerosene warmth, instant and making you feel it from your chest to the tips of his fingers. 

"Right now?" you laugh. "Alright."

You get your longest coat and pull on shoes, slipping out your window. The air is cold on your legs, but Jason takes your hand and pulls you along. 

Distantly, you wonder if this is the core of your relationship. Jason pulling you to unknown destinations, his hand in yours. You think about it for a moment, and your hand tightens in his. 

It's cheesy, but you know deep down you'd follow him anywhere. 

"Where we going?" you ask breathlessly as he leads you down the fire escape and through the streets. 

"You'll see," he says cryptically, before he pulls out a cloth. "Do you trust me?"

You pause. Trust isn't often given in Gotham, yours harder to earn still, but he's got that bright glow in his eyes that makes you melt.

"Yeah," you say softly. 

He ties the cloth around your eyes and wraps an arm around your waist. You turn bright red, your senses on overdrive. All you can see is cloth, but there's a rustle of fabric. "Hold on."

There's a distant thwip and a clang from somewhere up above before the ground leaves your feet. 

You shriek, gripping onto him as tightly as you possibly can. "Jason!"

He laughs, warm in your ear, and beneath the running train of "I'm gonna kill him" in your head, your chest warms up with the amusement in that sound. You feel horrifyingly weightless for a moment before there's another thwip and air rushes past your ears.

Wind flows through your hair, making it messier, and you try to retain just enough dignity to not wrap yourself around Jason like a frightened koala. Barely. 

"You suck," you grumble at him as you feel yourself falling, trying not to scream like a frightened child. He laughs again, his arm tightening around your waist, and you blush again. 

It's a few more adrenaline-filled minutes later when your feet touch something solid. Jason steadies you, and you grumble at him. "Never do that again."

He laughs and gently unties the blindfold, his warmth pressed up behind you. The cloth comes off and your breath catches in your throat. 

The expanse of Gotham lies before you from your perch on a high rise, all orange-gold-black. The cars seem so small on the streets, the people smaller still. Your breath catches.

"It's not the Rockies, but it's pretty cool, right?" Jason asks behind you. 

You turn and look at him, and he's got this hopeful little half-smile, a shine of anxiety in his eyes. You take him in, the way he's lit up by the lights of the city. The planes of his cheekbones, the curve of his mouth, the gentle tilt of his brows. The slightly crooked nose. The most beautiful thing you've ever seen.

Your hands wrap around his neck and you kiss him, words failing. His mouth is warm under yours, lighting you up. You feel weightless in his arms, his body like the feeling of coming home. 

A little victory from a waitressing peon in the worst city in the world. 

He holds you tighter, and you beam into the kiss, into him.