Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I didn’t mean to show up again.

Not this time.

Not tonight.

I was supposed to patch up in the warehouse off Kane and fifth—the one with the busted furnace and the mildew that smells like wet paperbacks. But my leg was shot through. Straight pass-through, upper thigh, clean but angry. I could’ve handled it. I’ve done worse. Hell, I’ve stapled my own shoulder in a drug den in Cairo once.

But it was raining.

And I was tired.

And your light was on.

That’s all it takes, sometimes. A little warmth at the end of a long night and a part of me—something soft and damn-near forgotten—pulls me toward it like a goddamn tide.

So I showed up.

Again.

Bleeding and stupid and heavier than I meant to be.

You opened the door like you were expecting me.

And maybe you were.

Maybe that’s the worst part.

“I’ve got peroxide and bourbon,” you said, stepping aside.

I grunted, one hand still clamped on the gunshot wound, the other pressed to the side of your doorway like gravity meant something. My helmet hung from my belt, cracked. My hoodie was a dark, wet mess. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

Your eyes just dropped to my leg, your mouth pressed tight like you were chewing down the part of you that cared too much, and you nodded toward the couch.

“Sit. I’ll get towels.”

And that was that.

Like I was a stray cat too mean to die and you were the idiot who kept leaving out food.

I didn’t speak until you started unwrapping the makeshift gauze around my thigh. My jeans were shredded—black denim soaked blacker with blood. You peeled the fabric back with careful fingers, your jaw tense. There were those little lines between your brows, the ones I always try not to stare at when you're concentrating.

“Could’ve just gone to a clinic,” you said after a beat.

“Too many questions.”

“You could’ve gone to the Cave.”

“Too many eyes.”

That made you pause. Just for a second. You didn’t look up. You just nodded, slow, and kept working.

You didn’t ask why I came to you.

But we both knew.

The bullet hadn’t hit anything major. A lucky break. I had a lot of those. The kind that keep you alive but not whole. You cleaned it out anyway. Irrigated it. Pressed gauze hard enough to make me hiss between my teeth.

“Sorry,” you murmured.

I shook my head. “Don’t be.”

“You’re allowed to feel things, you know.”

Yeah.

Sure.

Like hell I am.

When you wrapped the bandage around my leg, you used the thick white roll I left here last time. I remembered the way you’d looked at me then too—like someone trying to map a fault line with their fingers. Like if you found the crack fast enough, you could stop the break.

You can't.

You still try.

And that’s the part that gets me every goddamn time.

“Take the shirt off,” you said when you noticed the bruising on my ribs.

I hesitated.

Not because I was shy—Christ, the number of times I’ve been stripped on operating tables or dragged through triage half-naked could fill an entire goddamn horror novel. But because this was you. And you always looked at me like I was more than the damage.

I didn’t want to lose that.

Still, I peeled the hoodie off. Then the bloodied t-shirt. You didn’t say anything at first.

You just looked.

At the Lazarus scars.

At the burn along my side from that night in Blüdhaven.

At the way my ribs still caught weird when I breathed too deep.

“You look like you crawled out of hell,” you whispered.

“I did.”

You didn’t flinch. You pressed the cold edge of a washcloth to my side and started cleaning the grime from my skin.

“I wish you’d stop going back in.”

We didn’t talk much after that. You stitched the worst tear—just six neat little sutures under my collarbone—and I let you, because your hands were steady and warm and I trusted you more than most licensed professionals.

Afterward, you handed me a mug of something hot and bitter—probably the world’s worst tea—and curled into the far end of the couch like you were trying not to take up space.

“You can stay,” you said.

“I always do.”

“I know.”

And that’s when I realized how badly I wanted you to mean it. Really mean it. Not just tonight. Not just because I was hurt.

Because something in me—something lonely and rusted and starving—was starting to believe you might not be afraid of the monster under the mask.

And that scared me more than bleeding ever could.

I watched you tuck your legs up, wrap a blanket around your shoulders. There was an old western playing quietly on the TV—something grainy and full of men pretending to be harder than they really were.

I sank down beside you. Close enough to feel the heat of you. Close enough to notice how your hands twitched a little when they weren’t busy.

“You don’t have to patch me up,” I said. “Not every time.”

“Maybe I want to.”

I turned to look at you. You met my eyes, steady and unblinking.

“I know what you are, Jason. I know what you’ve done. And yeah, maybe it scares me sometimes. But I also know you come here. You choose this. That has to mean something.”

It does.

It means more than I’ll ever be able to say.

So I didn’t say anything.

I reached out instead—slowly, carefully—and let my hand brush yours. You didn’t pull away. You curled your fingers around mine like you’d been waiting for me to do it for months.

Maybe you had.

It’s raining harder now.

The city sounds muffled. Distant. Like it’s somewhere we don’t have to go back to yet. And for once, my chest doesn’t feel like it’s collapsing in on itself.

For once, I feel like I can breathe.

You fall asleep with your head on my shoulder, your hand still in mine.

And I sit there for a long time, watching the screen flicker, listening to the rain, memorizing the shape of your fingers against my calluses like a prayer I don’t believe in.

I don’t know how to be good.

But I know how to be yours.

At least for tonight.

Chapter Text

I wake up before you.

It’s still dark, that in-between hour where the city’s ghosts haven’t settled and the early risers haven’t started to stir. The kind of hour that tastes like old smoke and things left unsaid.

You’re curled up next to me on the couch, legs tangled in the throw blanket, cheek pressed against the top of my arm. Your breathing is even, soft. A tiny crease in your brow that’s probably been there since birth. I wonder if it ever smooths out. I wonder if anyone else knows it’s there.

You fell asleep with your hand in mine.

You’re still holding on.

And that wrecks me.

Not in the dramatic, blood-in-the-street kind of way I’m used to. Not like an explosion or a knife to the gut or a scream in the night. No, this is quieter. A slow unraveling. Thread by thread. Like something inside me finally gave up pretending it didn’t want to be touched.

I let you sleep.

God knows you deserve it. After stitching me up like some half-dead animal you didn’t have the good sense to leave out in the rain, the least I can do is let you rest.

The mug from last night’s tea sits empty on the table. The smell of dried blood and antiseptic still lingers under the faint scent of your shampoo—citrus and something soft, maybe lavender. I breathe it in like it might ground me.

Like maybe I could stay here long enough to believe I belong.

But I never do, do I?

I shift carefully, trying not to wake you, and your fingers twitch against mine. Your nose scrunches, like your dreams are tilting the wrong way. I pause. Wait. Watch.

You settle.

Of course you do.

You always settle, even when I don’t.

I ease your hand from mine and tuck the blanket tighter around your shoulders. It feels wrong, letting go. Feels like tearing something out of myself. But I do it anyway, because that’s what I’m good at. Leaving before the light comes in. Slipping out while there’s still enough shadow to hide in.

The bathroom mirror is cracked—tiny web lines fanning from one corner. I stare into it anyway, peeling off the bandage on my collarbone. The sutures are neat. You always were good at sewing things back together.

Too bad I’m not.

My leg aches like hell. Stiff. Bruised deep. But manageable. I redress the wound, shove my ruined shirt into the trash under the sink. There’s an old one of mine hanging from the back of the door—forgotten or maybe left on purpose. Soft cotton, faded black. It smells like your dryer sheets. Like clean things I don’t deserve.

I put it on anyway.

I move through your apartment like a ghost. Quiet. Careful. I don’t touch much, but I see everything. The stack of paperbacks by your bed. The half-burnt candle on the kitchen counter. A photo tucked halfway behind a magnet on the fridge—your face, younger, happier, with someone who isn’t me.

It makes something sour crawl up my throat.

I shouldn’t be here.

I tell myself that every time. And yet, here I am.

I scribble a note on the back of a grocery list. Something short. Not enough. Never enough.

Didn’t want to wake you. Lock the door behind me. —J.

I fold it once and leave it next to your mug.

The sun hasn’t broken through the clouds yet. Gotham’s still steeped in that cold gray silence, the kind that clings to your coat like fog. I step out into it, hoodie zipped, helmet clipped to my belt, every part of me still sore in ways I’ll never admit.

I almost make it to the fire escape before I hear it.

Your voice.

“Jason.”

Soft. Drowsy. Pulled from the space between sleep and worry.

I turn.

You’re standing in the doorway, blanket still wrapped around you like armor. Your hair’s a mess. Eyes tired. Mouth soft in a way that makes me want to kiss it just to see if I can make it tremble.

“You weren’t gonna say goodbye?”

“I left a note,” I say, stupidly.

You give me that look. The one that sees through every half-assed excuse I’ve ever tried to live behind. The one that makes me feel like a boy again, bleeding out in alleys and praying someone might come looking.

“You could’ve stayed.”

I could have.

God, I wanted to.

But want has never been enough to save me.

I look down, fingers curling tight around the edge of my hoodie. “Didn’t wanna crowd you.”

“You didn’t.”

“I always do.”

You take a step forward, just one, and the city noise swells in the silence between us. Distant sirens. Tires hissing on wet asphalt. The heartbeat of Gotham rising with the sun.

“You came here bleeding,” you say, like it’s something holy.

I shake my head. “I always come here bleeding.”

“But you came here.”

You say it like that means something. Like it’s proof. Like the act itself is enough to fill the hollow parts of me I don’t even look at.

And maybe it is.

Just for a second, I let myself believe it.

“I’ll come back,” I say.

Your eyes flash. “Promise?”

It hangs there. Heavy. Honest.

I should lie.

I should say I don’t make promises.

I should say it’s better if I don’t.

But your voice is soft and the morning is still quiet and your hand is still holding the door open like maybe you’re not ready to let me go.

So I nod.

“Yeah,” I murmur. “Promise.”

You nod back, once, like you’re memorizing it. Like you’re giving me a piece of your trust wrapped in warmth and quiet hope.

And then you say it.

“Next time, stay a little longer.”

It knocks the breath out of me more than the bullet ever did.

Because I want to.

Because I might.

I give you one last look—just enough to burn the image of you in that blanket, bare-footed and unafraid, into my chest—and then I’m gone.

Back into the rain.

Back into the gray.

But this time, something follows me.

Something soft and stubborn and stupidly bright.

Something like hope.

And maybe next time, I won’t leave before the sun comes up.

Chapter Text

The thing about Gotham is, you never run out of monsters.

You cut down one and two more sprout up in its place, all teeth and gunmetal grins, all twisted loyalty and desperate eyes. They come out of the alleys like roaches when the lights go out. And I know them. I used to be them.

That’s the part that never leaves.

I’ve been off the grid for twenty-three days.

Long enough for my leg to scab over, for the bruises on my ribs to fade to a sickly yellow-green. Long enough for the caffeine in your shitty tea to burn out of my system and the scent of your shampoo to stop clinging to my hoodie.

Not long enough to forget the way you looked at me.

Like I wasn’t a walking grave. Like I wasn’t just passing through.

I should’ve sent a message.

Something short. Something quiet.

"Alive."

"Working."

"Don’t worry."

But I didn’t.

Because if I did—if I broke the silence—I wouldn’t be able to keep the distance.

And I need the distance.

For both our sakes.

Henchfuck Number Forty-Three hits the ground with a wet grunt, his pipe clattering across the cement. He’d been trying to sneak behind me. Rookie move. I don’t even pause. Just step over his body and keep moving.

Warehouse on the East Docks. Another meat grinder full of hostages, faulty wiring, and enough explosives to turn a city block into abstract art. Classic Gotham bullshit. I should’ve seen it coming a mile away.

Three weeks ago, I got a tip from an old contact in Blüdhaven. Something about a weapons shipment that wasn’t on any of Penguin’s books. I tracked it back here—black market ordnance, chemical dispersals, experimental crowd suppressants. The kind of shit you don’t sell unless you’re planning a war.

I’ve been tailing it since. Sleeping in rat-infested safehouses. Showering in gas station sinks. Eating protein bars until I want to die. The usual.

But it wasn’t until tonight that everything came together.

The hostages are tied up in a back room—eight adults, one kid. They’re scared. One guy’s already piss-soaked his pants. The kid’s maybe nine, skinny, gap-toothed, face smudged with soot and blood. She sees me first. Doesn’t scream. Just stares.

Big blue eyes.

Too familiar.

Too much like the mirror I try not to look in.

I crouch in front of her, voice low. “You okay, kid?”

She nods. Swallows hard. Her lower lip’s trembling, but she holds my gaze.

“Bombs?” I ask.

She jerks a thumb toward the wall behind her. “Three. Wired to the timer box in the corner.”

Smart kid.

I work fast.

Snip the red wire last—because that’s the cliché—and slide my blade under the binding on her wrists. Her fingers are raw from struggling. I don’t ask how long she’s been tied up. I don’t need to.

“You got a name?”

She nods again. “Janie.”

“Alright, Janie. Let’s get you out of here.”

She grabs my hand without hesitation. No questions. No fear. Just trust.

It’s the kind of thing that makes my chest twist sideways.

I lead them all out—back door, through the shadows. One by one, they scatter into the night. A couple of them mumble thanks. One guy throws up in the alley. I don’t stop moving until I spot the kid’s mom barreling down the sidewalk like she’ll drop dead if she doesn’t get her daughter back in her arms.

She sees us and screams.

Runs. Grabs Janie like a drowning woman grabs breath. She’s crying, sobbing, kissing her kid’s hair. Janie holds on, tiny fingers twisted in her mother’s jacket.

I should leave then.

I usually do.

But I just stand there like an idiot while the mom looks up, eyes wide and wet.

“Thank you,” she says. Voice cracking. Hands shaking. “Thank you. I don’t—I don’t know who you are, but…”

I shrug, suddenly too heavy for my own skin. “Just doing what I can.”

She wants to say more. I can see it. But she doesn’t. Just hugs her kid harder and starts back toward the flashing lights and sirens a block away. I watch them go until they disappear into the chaos.

And then I finally exhale.

I sink onto the curb, muscles trembling under the armor. The adrenaline’s starting to fade, and with it comes the ache behind my eyes. The kind of ache that’s not from fighting. The kind that comes from thinking too much.

I press a hand to my forehead, helmet still clutched under my arm.

I should go back to the safehouse.

I should check in with Roy.

I should patch the gouge in my side where Henchfuck Number Thirty-Six got a little lucky.

Instead, I think about you.

I think about your hands, steady against my skin. About the line between your brows when you’re focused. About the way you say my name—soft, like it’s not a curse.

You still don’t know the half of it.

You know I bleed. You know I break. But you don’t know what I do. Not really. You don’t know that some nights I choose the kill shot. That some days I let the line blur because justice and vengeance stopped being separate words a long time ago.

And yet… I want to tell you.

I want to.

Because every time I pull a kid out of a cage, every time I stop the countdown with one second to spare, every time I drag another corpse away from becoming someone’s tragedy, I think—

Maybe this matters.

Maybe I matter.

Maybe if you knew, you wouldn’t flinch.

Or maybe you would.

Maybe you'd look at me the way the rest of them do. Like something broken pretending not to be.

But God, I want to risk it.

I stand, armor creaking, and drag a bloodied glove through my hair. My comm's been off for days. Bruce is probably foaming at the mouth. He’ll get over it. Or he won’t.

Either way, tonight’s done.

I head for the bike I stashed two blocks out. My side protests the movement. My head pounds. But I know where I’m going.

Not the safehouse.

Not the Cave.

You.

The streetlights blur past me in streaks of gold and shadow as I ride. The city fades behind me, distant and howling.

And somewhere under the roar of the engine, I think—

Maybe this time, I’ll tell you everything.

Chapter Text

I almost didn’t come up.

Not because I didn’t want to. God, I wanted to. My hands were shaking from it. From the way your name kept echoing in the back of my skull like it was the only goddamn word I remembered how to say.

But I stood there—boots on the rusted fire escape, one flight below your apartment window—just pacing. Like some nervous teenager instead of a full-grown man with blood on his knuckles and a body count under his belt.

I’d made it all the way to your block before I started doubting myself.

Maybe I should’ve turned around then.

Spared you the weight of me.

Spared me the look in your eyes if I got this wrong.

Because the thing is… I know how I feel about you.

I’ve known it for a while now, festering somewhere deep in the part of me that doesn’t know how to speak unless it’s through bruises or bullets. It’s not the kind of feeling you can shove down with bourbon or distract from with adrenaline. It’s just there. Persistent. Hungry. Raw.

And I’m starting to realize that scares me more than anything.

I’ve stood face-to-face with men who’ve carved children apart and smiled about it. I’ve yanked triggers with shaking fingers and broken bones with nothing but fury to guide me. I’ve died, for fuck’s sake. Died and clawed my way back out of my own grave.

But this?

This moment—standing outside your window, wondering if the man I am is too much for the kind of love you deserve—this kills me in a whole new way.

I rest a hand on the railing. My gloves are off. Skin raw and cut from the last job. There’s still blood under my fingernails. Some of it’s mine. Some of it’s not.

I should clean up.

I should go home.

But I want to be here.

And wanting things… that’s dangerous. For someone like me.

You don’t know the whole truth. Not yet. You know pieces. You’ve seen me bleeding on your couch and half-conscious on your floor. You’ve stitched me back together more times than I can count, and you haven’t run. Not once.

But you haven’t seen what I look like in the field.

Not the blood spray.

Not the bruised knuckles.

Not the part of me that likes it sometimes.

That feels the snap of a rib and breathes a little easier afterward.

What kind of man does that make me?

What kind of man do you need?

Because I’m loud. In everything. I fight loud. I bleed loud. I feel loud. Like every emotion in me is a bullet I haven’t fired yet. I don’t know how to sit still. I don’t know how to love quietly.

And I think you deserve quiet.

You deserve someone who leaves his shoes by the door and reads next to you in the morning sun. Someone who remembers anniversaries and birthdays and the exact way you like your coffee. Someone who doesn’t wake up from nightmares with a loaded pistol in hand and a prayer caught in his throat.

I grip the railing tighter, jaw clenched.

The window’s glowing softly. Warm yellow. I can’t see your face, but I can see the outline of you in motion—crossing the room, probably in those soft socks you always wear when you think no one’s watching.

You have no idea I’m out here.

No idea that I’ve been pacing back and forth for twenty goddamn minutes trying to decide if I’m brave enough to climb this last ladder.

If I’m worthy of what’s behind it.

Because love is easy to fake. I’ve seen people weaponize it. Twist it. Use it like a blade. But real love? The kind that asks you to stay, even when it’s messy? Even when it’s me?

That’s something I don’t know how to deserve.

The last girl who looked at me like you do wound up screaming when she finally saw beneath the mask.

She said, “You don’t have a soul anymore.”

Maybe she was right.

But then I remember the kid in the warehouse. Janie. I remember her hands gripping mine, steady and sure, like I was the only safe thing in a world full of monsters.

I remember her mom’s tears. The thank-you she barely got out.

And I remember the way your fingers curled into mine the last time I sat on your couch, bleeding all over your throw pillows like a stray you forgot to kick out.

You didn’t ask me to go then.

You didn’t look away.

And maybe that means something.

Maybe it means you see me. Not just the scars. Not just the blood. But me. The man beneath it all, cracked ribs and all.

I exhale through my teeth. Drag a hand down my face. My heart is pounding. Too loud in my ears. I feel like I’m about to breach a building, not climb a fire escape.

I glance up again.

You’re sitting down now, curled into yourself with a book in your lap and that same shitty tea I pretend to hate but always drink anyway. You look peaceful.

And I want to ruin it.

God help me, I want to ruin it.

I want to knock on your window and fall into your space like a storm. I want to tell you everything. What I do. Who I am. Why I haven’t slept since Tuesday.

I want to let you decide if you can still love me after.

Because I can’t keep hiding behind half-truths and quiet exits.

I’m tired of being a shadow on your doorstep.

I’m tired of pretending that this isn’t the most alive I ever feel.

So I step toward the ladder.

One hand on the rung.

Then another.

And I climb.

Quietly. Carefully. Like maybe if I move softly enough, the world won’t catch me reaching for something I want.

I reach your window.

And I knock.

Not loud.

Just enough.

Your head turns. Your eyes meet mine. And even from here, I can see the way your expression cracks open—surprise, relief, and something warmer than anything I’ve ever earned.

You move toward the window.

You open it.

And I say the only thing I can get past the lump in my throat.

“…Hey.”

God help me, if you let me in—I might not leave.

Chapter Text

I knew it was coming the second you opened the window.

There was something behind your eyes—something heavy. Something that said this time wasn’t like the others. And I’d barely swung my legs over the ledge before I felt it crash between us like a stormcloud too big to ignore.

You didn’t smile. You didn’t reach for me.

You just stepped back.

Arms crossed.

Wall already halfway built.

I moved inside slow, like a soldier clearing a minefield, not sure what I was going to step on.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” I said.

You didn’t answer right away. Just looked at me, eyes tired and red-rimmed like you hadn’t slept much. Like maybe I was the reason why.

Then you said, “You didn’t.”

And the silence after that?

Sharp enough to cut bone.

I swallowed, uneasy. The kind of uneasy I don’t feel on rooftops or in firefights. Just here, in your apartment, where the air feels like it’s holding its breath around your anger.

“You okay?” I asked, even though I knew it was a goddamn stupid question.

You let out a bitter laugh. Short. Cracked. Like you were trying not to break when you said it.

“No. No, Jason. I’m not okay.”

And that? That was when I knew I’d fucked up.

You turned away then, walking across the room like you couldn’t stand still, like you had to keep moving or you’d unravel completely. You wrapped your arms around yourself like armor and faced the window again, your back to me.

“You can’t keep doing this,” you said, voice too quiet to be anything but dangerous. “You can’t just show up out of nowhere, bleeding, half-broken, look at me like I’m the only thing holding you together—and then disappear for weeks.”

“I had to lay low,” I muttered, guilt twisting low in my gut. “There was a case—”

“It’s always a case.” You turned then, fierce and hurting and done. “And I’m not stupid, Jason. I know what kind of work you do. I know what kind of life you lead. But I’m the one left worrying every time you vanish. I’m the one staring at the news, hoping I don’t see your body under a goddamn tarp.”

My throat felt dry. I took a step forward. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You did.” Your voice cracked. “Maybe not on purpose. But you still did. You made me fall for you. You made me believe this—us—meant something. And then you left. No message. No call. Just gone.”

You blinked hard. Shook your head like you were mad at yourself now, not just me.

“And the worst part is? I get it. I get why you don’t tell me things. Why you don’t stay. I know you're a vigilante. The signs are too obvious. You're Red Hood. I know the mask. I know about Bruce. I know what he did to you. Or what he didn’t do.”

I froze.

That name. That wound.

You didn’t stop.

“I know he lost a son and didn’t even flinch. I know that son was you. And that’s not just shitty—it’s monstrous. Because I feel it. I feel what he refused to. And you deserve someone who’ll rage and ache and cry for you. You deserve someone who sees you.”

You wiped at your cheek roughly.

“But y’know what?” you said, voice trembling now. “So do I. I deserve someone who doesn’t make me wait in silence. Someone who doesn’t vanish without a word and think that’s okay just because he’s hurting.”

I didn’t know what to say.

Didn’t know how to say it.

You laughed again, but it was hollow. Shattered.

“So what is this, Jason? What am I to you? A safehouse with tea and peroxide? Some warm place you crawl back to when you’re bleeding?”

“No,” I said, sharp enough to cut through it. “God, no. Don’t say that. You’re not—fuck, you’re not just a stopover.”

“Then what am I?”

You looked at me, tears slipping down your cheeks now, one after the other like they’d given up asking for permission. And you were still mad, I could see that—but underneath it, you were scared. Vulnerable in a way that gutted me.

Because you’d let me in.

And I’d left you in the dark.

“I’m tired, Jason,” you whispered. “I’m tired of feeling like I’m the only one standing still while you keep running off to some part of your life I’ll never be allowed to see. So tell me now—before this hurts any more than it already does—are you in? Or are you out?”

And for a second, I swear, my heart stopped.

Because this was it.

The line in the sand.

The moment that would either save me or end us.

You were crying.

God, you were crying, and I’d done that. Me. The guy who swore he’d protect you from the world but couldn’t even protect you from himself.

I crossed the room in three steps. Fast. Fierce.

And I pulled you into my arms like it was the only thing keeping me from falling apart.

You didn’t fight it.

You just shook against me, fists curled into my jacket, breath hiccuping into my chest like you were trying not to completely fall apart.

“I’m in,” I said, voice low and raw against your hair. “I’m so fucking in.”

You went still.

And then I felt your breath hitch.

I tightened my arms.

“I know I’m a mess. I know I don’t say what I should, when I should. But this—you—you’re not some emergency contact or safehouse I crash in when shit hits the fan. You’re home, and I’m sorry it took me so long to say it.”

You pulled back enough to look at me, eyes swimming with emotion.

“I don’t want you to disappear again,” you said.

“I won’t.”

“You promise?”

“I swear. If I go dark again, it won’t be without warning. No more ghosts. No more drive-bys. I’m yours—if you’ll still have me.”

You nodded, slow. Like maybe you weren’t sure, but you wanted to be.

And maybe that was enough.

I kissed your forehead, your temple, the salt of your tears. And when you buried your face against my collarbone, I let you stay there as long as you needed.

The city was still roaring outside. Sirens. Thunder. That endless Gotham growl.

But here, in this moment?

All I could hear was the sound of you breathing.

And the steady thud of your heart against mine.

I hadn’t earned you.

Not yet.

But I was going to try.

Chapter Text

You swapped out the sheets.

Didn’t tell me. Didn’t make a big deal out of it. Just one day, I came in—through the front door, like a person instead of a problem—and there they were. Dark blue. Soft as hell. Smelled like you. I stood there for a stupid amount of time, just staring at the bed like it was a question I didn’t know how to answer.

Because you didn’t have to do that.

But you did.

You’d made room for me.

Not just in your apartment. Not just in your bed. But in the rhythm of your life.

My favorite books started showing up on your shelf. Dog-eared, used copies of shit I used to read tucked into the spaces between your poetry and your mystery novels. I ran my fingers along the spines like I was checking for proof that it was real.

You even bought protein powder.

My brand.

Not that chalky nonsense they sell in gas stations or the dirt-flavored crap I used to survive on in safehouses. You researched it. Read the ingredients. Learned how to cook with it. And somehow—somehow—you managed to make pancakes that didn’t taste like sawdust and war crimes. I bit into one and nearly proposed out of sheer culinary awe.

You smiled, watching me chew with suspicion and delight. “See? I told you I’m good at experiments.”

And I believed you.

I believe a lot of things when I’m around you.

It’s not just the big stuff. It’s the way you fold my clothes without asking. The way you memorize my coffee order and start keeping an extra mug just for me. The way you know when to press your fingers to my wrist and not ask what I saw on the street that day.

You never make me talk.

But you always make me feel heard.

That’s a hell of a magic trick.

And somehow, the strangest part? I start using the key.

The one you left on the hook by the door. Labeled with a tiny red tag that just says J. Like it’s always been there. Like I’ve always belonged here.

So now, most nights, I don’t climb the fire escape. Don’t creep in through the window like something feral looking for warmth.

I walk in.

Boots off at the door. Helmet shelved. Holsters set on the table where you don’t flinch when you see them anymore.

You don’t ask where I’ve been.

You just ask if I’m staying.

And the answer’s always yes.

It should terrify me—this comfort. This peace. This normalcy. But it doesn’t.

What does throw me, though, is the way you don’t push.

Not with sex.

Not once.

We kiss. We make out, and holy hell, do we make out. Up against the wall. On the couch. In the kitchen, once, with the oven still on. You’re warm and soft and real, and your mouth tastes like everything I never thought I could have, and you color check me like softness is your only kink, because you know what she did.

But it never goes further than that.

You don’t ask.

You don’t touch me like you’re waiting for the next thing. You just hold on. Trace my scars. Run your fingers over the muscle and the memories and the pieces of me I don’t let most people see.

And you wait.

Like you know I’ll get there when I can.

Like you already understand that something in me—something old and bruised and buried—is still trying to untangle what was taken.

Because sex isn’t simple for me.

Not after Talia.

Not after being resurrected with hands that weren’t mine on my skin. Not after being trained to weaponize every part of myself, even the ones that were supposed to be sacred. Especially those ones.

There are nights when you kiss my throat and I shudder, not from arousal, but from memory. And you feel it. You know. You slow down, pull back, press your forehead to mine and breathe with me until the ghosts stop screaming.

You never ask me to explain.

You just make space for me to exist.

And that fucks me up in the best way.

Because I’m used to people taking.

I’m built for people taking.

That’s what I was trained for—first on the streets, then in the League.

But you?

You give.

You give and give and give, and the only thing you ask in return is presence. Not performance. Not perfection.

Just me.

And I’m still learning what that means. Still learning how to touch you without bracing for control, how to kiss you without the urge to disappear before you see too much.

But I’m trying.

You make me want to try.

And somewhere along the way, I start doing things I never thought I’d do again.

I laugh. Real laughs. Stupid ones. The kind that crack my ribs a little. You say something sarcastic while brushing your teeth and I lose it. Snort like a teenager. You grin like you’ve won the lottery.

I sleep through the night.

Not always. But sometimes.

And that’s more than I ever expected.

I let you touch me in the morning, slow and soft, while the sun’s creeping in through the curtains and the city’s just starting to wake up. I let you press your cheek to my chest and trace your fingers across the scar over my heart.

You ask nothing.

You just listen to it beat.

And on one of those mornings, when the silence between us is full of something holy, you say, “You don’t have to be anything for me.”

I blink. Swallow.

“What if I want to be?” I ask.

You look up at me. Smile that gentle, devastating smile. “Then be yourself. All of it. Loud. Messy. Honest. I can take it.”

And I believe you.

I believe you even when I don’t believe myself.

Because you see me—not the vigilante, not the failure, not the Lazarus freak. Me. Jason.

And when I kiss you

again, it’s not about what comes next.

It’s not about control or expectation.

It’s about choice.

Mine.

And it feels like freedom.

Chapter Text

Six month into what was honestly probably the healthiest relationship I'd ever even seen, something shifted. 

I wasn't supposed to be home yet.

Roy handled the bust faster than I thought he would, for once not blowing anything up. Intel was weak, muscle was weaker. I didn’t even have to bleed for it. Kind of felt cheated, honestly.

So I got back early. Quiet. Helmet under one arm, gloves tucked into my belt. Planning to raid your fridge, maybe pass out beside you in that tangled mess of velvet sheets you pretend isn’t a nest. You’d be asleep. Peaceful. That thing you never used to be before we got good at sharing the dark.

I wasn’t expecting to hear you.

Not like that.

I paused, halfway down the hall. At first I thought maybe you were crying—soft, broken sounds—until I heard my name.

“Jay...”

I stopped breathing.

Could’ve turned around. Could’ve knocked. Could’ve made noise.

Didn’t.

Didn’t want to.

Your voice hit me low in the gut, rasped over the syllables like you were scraping them from your soul. My name—half-whimper, half-prayer. And then again.

“Jason.”

Fuck.

I pressed my back to the wall, heartbeat banging against my ribs like a war drum. You weren’t talking to me. You were alone. You didn’t know I was here.

But you were saying my name like it was holy.

And then I heard the gasp. That last stuttered breath of a woman falling apart in the best way. We'd kissed, but not much else. I was still too broken, just yet. I'd definitely never heard you make that sound.

My knees almost gave out.

I don’t know how long I stood there. Long enough to feel every part of me ache. My hands itched to reach for you. My mind screamed at me to back off. Give you privacy. Act like I didn’t hear.

But my body?

My body knew what it meant when a woman says your name like that. Knew what it meant when you did.

You’ve never asked me for more than I can give. Never touched me without permission. Never made a single thing feel owed.

But this wasn’t about that.

This was you. Wanting me.

Not my skills. Not the Red Hood. Not some mask.

Jason.

When I finally peeled myself off the wall, my hands were shaking. I needed to do something normal. Anchor myself.

So I made coffee.

Stood barefoot in the kitchen, leaning against the counter like it could hold me up while the storm passed.

You walked in fifteen minutes later, wet hair clinging to your collarbones, skin flushed pink from the shower. Wrapped in one of my shirts. Your legs bare. That little sleepy smile you wear when you’re too relaxed to be defensive.

Then you saw me.

And I saw the way you paused.

A flicker of something passed over your face—like you knew. Like maybe you'd left the bedroom door ajar and were wondering what I'd heard.

You didn’t say anything. Just moved to the cupboard like it was any other morning.

I let you take a sip before I said it. Quiet. Low.

“You were thinkin’ about me, weren’t you.”

You didn’t look up.

Didn’t deny it.

Didn’t flinch.

Just smiled—this small, wicked, soft smile—and said:

“Always.”

I swear to God, it wrecked me.

I moved to you before I even thought about it. Didn’t touch you. Just stood close enough to feel the warmth coming off your skin. Close enough to breathe you in.

“You have no idea what that does to me.”

You met my eyes then. No shame. No apology. Just a kind of fierce honesty I don’t think I’ll ever stop chasing.

You wanted me.

Me.

And somehow, that didn’t hurt.

It didn’t feel like pressure. It didn’t feel like expectation. It felt like... like standing in the sun after years of cold.

You didn’t press closer. You didn’t tease. You just held my gaze, one hand on your mug, the other resting at your side—like you knew I’d come closer if I wanted to. Like you were waiting, but not asking.

And I swear to every God I stopped believing in the day I woke up in a coffin—

I wanted to kiss you.

Not because I was hard -I was- or because I was aroused -definitely that, too-.

Because I was seen.

And wanted.

And safe.

We didn’t have sex that morning. You didn’t try to make it anything it wasn’t.

But I kissed you slow. Deep. The kind of kiss that tells you I felt it. That I’ll be thinking about that sound you made, the one with my name in it, until the day I stop breathing.

And maybe…

Maybe next time, when you whisper my name like that, I won’t be outside the room.

Maybe I’ll be with you.

Maybe I’ll let myself.

Because for the first time in my whole goddamn life—

I want to be wanted by you more than I’m afraid of being touched.

And that?

That means something.

It means everything.

Days later, the bedroom smells like your shampoo.

It's in the pillows, the blankets, my hoodie you stole three weeks ago and claimed I "accidentally" left. I’ve got the window cracked open and the city humming like a prayer outside, and even though I’m back from patrol and my muscles ache like they've been dragged across gravel, I can’t sleep.

You’re not home yet.

It’s not worry. Not really. I know where you are. You told me. It’s just—fuck. I’ve been thinking about you.

Thinking about the way you kissed me yesterday morning, just barely awake, hair a mess and voice all soft with sleep. Thinking about the way your hands never grab me, just find me. Gentle. Curious. Not expecting more.

It drives me insane.

So yeah. I give in.

I’m in our bed—the black-and-midnight-blue one you built to be half mine, like a battleground where no one loses. No armor here. Just that firelit lamp, the one with the old Tiffany shade and the quiet hum of the world outside. I’ve got my hand down the front of my sweats and my eyes closed, and I’m breathing like I’ve been running rooftops all night. Only this time? It’s not pain making my pulse spike.

It’s you.

It’s always you.

You moaning my name like a prayer the night I walked in on you. God, I could’ve died. I almost did. You were glowing, flushed and shaking, whispering Jay with your head tipped back like my name was blessing. You didn’t see me—didn’t know I was there. But I saw everything.

And now I can’t not see it.

I don’t hear the door until it’s open. Don’t know you’re back until you freeze in the threshold, and our eyes meet.

You see me. Really see me. And there’s that moment—that split-second shift in the air where shame could slip in, that raw-boned part of me ready to flinch.

But you don’t laugh. Don’t recoil. Don’t joke it away or make it weird.

You just pause.

And I say, voice low and fucked and shaking with the effort of not panicking:

“You can stay… if you want.”

Your breath catches.

You know what that means. How big that is. You’ve waited so long for me to let you in like this—not just into my heart, but into the parts of me I never thought could be safe. The broken, scarred, hungry parts that Talia twisted and Bruce ignored and the Pit almost turned to ash.

You step inside.

Shut the door behind you like it’s church and we’re already praying.

You don’t touch me at first. You just sit beside me, slow and reverent, and I can feel your warmth like sunlight through linen. You look at me—at my bare chest, my flushed face, the hand I haven’t moved—and then back into my eyes.

“Only if you want me here,” you whisper.

“I do.”

I take your hand. Put it over mine. Guide your fingers around me. I’m trembling, but I don’t stop. And neither do you.

Your eyes don’t leave mine.

You don’t joke. Don’t tease. You worship.

You move with me—gentle, steady, and so fucking honest I think I might break. You kiss my cheek, my temple, the corner of my mouth when I pant your name. You press your forehead to mine like it anchors us both.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” you whisper, and God help me, I believe you.

When I finish, it’s with you. Not just beside you. Because you’re there, grounding me. Loving me in the quiet. Letting me feel wanted without shame. Letting me breathe.

Letting me be.

And when I collapse against you, chest heaving, hand still tangled with yours, you don’t move. You just hold me. Kiss my hair. Say,

“Thank you for letting me stay.”

And I almost laugh, because—fuck, babe.

“I don’t want you to leave. Not ever.”

You smile. And I think:

Maybe someday just got a whole lot closer.

Chapter Text

Gotham, Lower East End.

Normal night, not so normal occurrence. 

It was the hair, at first.

That color. That length. The way it moved when she turned too fast. I caught it out of the corner of my eye, standing on the roof of a tenement near 3rd and Wycliffe, where the sodium lights make everything look like it’s underwater and dying.

I shouldn’t have been looking that close. Should’ve kept moving. I was on recon—low-level gang shakeup, weapons moving through new hands, none of them smart enough to do anything with them yet. Bruce was probably tailing the kingpin, if he even gave a shit. I was working the street level. Where the blood puddles.

But she stepped out of the liquor store in that threadbare jacket, bag clutched tight to her side, and something in me stopped. Just for a second.

Because it looked like you.

Not in any obvious way. Not really. Her shoulders were sharper, her build thinner. She moved like she was expecting to be chased. You don’t move like that, not anymore. I watch you walk around your kitchen barefoot like you’ve never been hunted a day in your life, and that alone could kill me.

But from behind—from a distance—it was enough.

I kept watching. Something in me itched.

She made it ten steps before they came out of the alley.

Three of them. Tall, broad, stupid. The kind of men who learned violence from their fathers and never learned when to stop. I saw the glint of a blade in one hand, the casual bounce of a bat in the other. Their mouths were already moving, slow and smug. The third one reached for her arm.

She bolted.

Didn’t even scream. Just turned on her heel and ran.

They laughed.

Fucking laughed.

I moved.

Dropped two stories into the next building’s scaffolding, boots landing without a sound. The cold bit under the edge of my helmet, sweat already pooling at the back of my neck. I was across the street before they even caught up to her—two dragging her into the alley while the third checked the perimeter like he thought he had a clue.

He didn’t.

He never saw me coming.

The first bullet shattered his kneecap.

He dropped like a ragdoll, screaming before his head even hit the pavement. The other two turned, confused, one pulling the girl harder into the dark while the second dropped the bat and went for his waistband.

He got halfway out before I broke his arm.

Didn’t even slow down. Just moved—all momentum and muscle memory, years of violence coiled into instinct. My boot hit his chest. He hit the wall. The brick cracked before he did. His scream died in his throat.

The last one made the smart call. He ran.

Took the girl’s purse with him.

I almost let him go. Almost.

But then I saw the girl—the not-you—slumped against the dumpster, shaking, trying not to cry while blood trickled from her lip. And I saw you.

I saw you on the couch, fists curled in that throw blanket, begging me not to vanish again.

I saw you the night I bled on your floor and you didn’t flinch.

I saw the woman who made space for me in a world I never thought I’d be allowed to rest in.

So I followed him.

He didn’t get far.

He hit the chainlink fence at the end of the alley and looked back too late. My fist caught his jaw mid-turn. His skull hit metal. He slid down with a grunt, bag clutched in shaking hands.

I picked it up. Slung it over my shoulder.

Then I turned back to him.

“You thought she was alone,” I said, voice low, the vocoder thick and venomous. “You thought she wouldn’t fight back.”

He tried to talk. I didn’t let him.

My boot connected with his ribs. Once. Twice. I lost count after four. When he wheezed, I dragged him upright by the collar and pressed the barrel of my pistol under his chin.

“She isn’t alone,” I growled. “Not anymore. You pick another woman on a dark street, I’ll know. You raise your hand again, and I swear to God, I’ll take more than your teeth.”

He nodded.

Or tried to.

It was enough.

I dropped him. Turned. Walked away.

By the time I got back to the girl, she was sitting up, wiping blood from her mouth with the sleeve of her jacket.

I crouched beside her. Lowered the gun.

“You okay?”

She nodded, eyes wide. “You’re the Hood.”

“Yeah.”

“You saved me.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

I just held out her bag.

She took it with shaking fingers. Whispered thank you like it cost her something.

I told her to take the long route home. I told her which alley to avoid. I gave her the name of a clinic where she could get stitches, no questions asked. And when she asked why I cared, I didn’t answer.

Because I couldn’t tell her the truth.

I couldn’t tell her that every time I see someone like her, I think about you. That every time I snap like that, it’s not because I’m unhinged—it’s because I finally have something to fight for.

Loving you hasn’t dulled me.

It hasn’t made me soft.

It’s made me precise.

It’s made every punch, every bullet, every choice more focused. More furious. Like I’ve finally stopped swinging in the dark and started aiming at something that matters.

Because the world is still cruel. Still broken.

But I’ve got skin in the game now.

You.

You’re in this city. You’re in my orbit. You sleep under sheets that match the color of my eyes, and you cook pancakes with my protein powder, and you kiss me like you mean it. Like you know the weight of what I’ve carried and still think I’m worth touching.

So yeah.

I’m still the Hood.

Still angry. Still violent.

But now?

Now I’m not just fighting for vengeance.

I’m fighting to make it home.