Chapter Text
Jason Todd POV
The clang of a wrench against metal echoed through the shop.
Jason leaned over the half-gutted motorcycle frame, oil smeared down his forearm, the sharp scent of grease and gasoline thick in the air. A fan whirred lazily overhead, failing to do anything about the heat, and the shop radio was stuck somewhere between static and an early 2000s grunge playlist.
Perfect goddamn mood for the morning after a fever dream.
He twisted the ratchet and muttered under his breath. "Brooding on a rooftop? Sure. That’s standard night shit."
The bolt creaked, groaning in protest before giving way.
"But then—oh boy, because why the fuck not fate throws one flaming dog pile on me after another. Starting with number one: Random magic blue lady falls out of the fucking sky and lands on me."
He wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand and reached for a socket wrench. His jaw ticked, green eyes narrowing as he kept working. There was a thick layer of oil caked in the engine compartment, like whoever last owned the bike thought maintenance was a government conspiracy.
"Number two: Me pulling a gun on said lady—because what the fuck else do you do when someone with horns, claws, and a glowing stick stumbles outta the night and bleeds all over your Kevlar?"
The wrench slipped. Metal scraped metal.
Jason cursed under his breath. "Number three: She turns into a goddamn mouse. A fucking mouse. Scurries away like this is Tom and Jerry."
He sat back on his heels, running a gloved hand through his hair. The white streak in his bangs fell low, sticking to the sweat on his forehead. He grabbed a rag, wiped his hands down, then glared at the half-assembled carburetor like it owed him money.
"Then she made that green glowing circle with her magic stick—or staff, or whatever the hell she calls it. Even with blood on her side and barely standing, she looked me dead in the face like she wasn’t scared to die. Didn’t even blink."
That part… that part stuck with him. The look in her eyes. Not defiant. Not suicidal. Just… accepting.
Like she'd seen worse.
And fuck, that did something to him. Broke something in him, maybe.
He cracked his neck and stood up, grabbing a sip of bitter coffee from the dented thermos on his workbench. It tasted like metal and burnt beans. Fitting.
"Number five," he muttered aloud. "Left her on the rooftop for two minutes—two—and came back to find her talking to a pigeon. A pigeon named Crook."
Jason huffed a sharp laugh under his breath, the kind that didn’t touch his eyes.
"And then the little bastard jumped on my bike. Not even mad about it anymore. Just... Gotham."
He leaned over the bike again, using a flathead to adjust the wiring harness. It was delicate work, mind-numbing in its routine. Exactly what he needed.
Because if he stopped moving too long, he’d see her face again.
"Number six..." he gritted out, tugging on a connection until it snapped in. "Riding the bike with her behind me. Clinging like her life depended on it. And okay, yeah—she was scared outta her damn mind. But the way she held onto me?"
He groaned and dropped the wrench on the bench with a sharp clatter. "And don’t even get me started on those tits pressed against my back. I could feel every inch of her through that dress. Like a fucking fever dream wrapped in velvet and weird magic words."
Jason turned and sat on the stool by the bench, rolling his neck until it cracked.
His mechanic jacket hung open. Sweat clung to his collarbone. His undershirt had a faint smear of grease from where he’d wiped his hand earlier, but he didn’t care. He pulled out a rag and started wiping his gloves down, slower now.
"Number seven..." he muttered. "Had to carry her bridal style into my place because she could barely walk after that ride. You’d think she was made of feathers."
He sighed, long and deep, staring into the middle distance like the answers were hiding in the chipped paint on the garage wall.
"Number eight," he said more quietly. "She looked at me like I was some kinda miracle."
Jason leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled in front of his mouth.
"When I took off my helmet, she just... stared. Touched my face like it was holy. Like I was something worth seeing."
It hadn’t felt creepy. Or invasive. It felt like…
He swallowed. His chest tightened.
It felt like someone seeing him and not flinching.
Not cataloguing every scar, every callus, every sin.
Just seeing him.
"And then the cherry on top," he muttered, pushing up to his feet again. He walked back to the bike and resumed fiddling with the tail pipe, needing something—anything—to focus on.
"She refused to take the damn bed. Said she wouldn’t have me sleep on the couch. Like she actually cared."
He shook his head, mouth twisting into a dry, humorless smile.
"So we shared it. And yeah—Did I sleep better than I have in years… Maybe. But was I thinking about her up next to me in my shirt, looking like she belonged there…
He paused for a few moments.
“And now here I am talking to myself…”
Jason ran a hand down his face. "I’m so fucking doomed."
He finished reassembling the tail pipe, then leaned back, stretching his arms over his head with a groan. The shop buzzed around him—someone dropped a tray of tools two bays down, the sound of muffled yelling from somewhere near the break room.
But Jason was stuck.
Stuck in the memory of your hands brushing his. The way your voice sounded saying his full name. The way your eyes held no judgment—just curiosity and warmth.
The way you giggled, holding that annoying little pigeon, still shaking from the horror movie on the TV.
She was too soft for this place.
Too sweet for a city like Gotham.
Too good for someone like him.
And yet…
He couldn’t get the image out of his head. You perched on his kitchen island, Crook in your hands, still trembling but trying to be brave.
Your laughter like wind chimes in a hurricane. Your eyes holding nothing but warmth and trust.
It didn’t make any sense.
Nothing about it did.
And that scared the shit out of him.
He tossed the rag onto the bench and grabbed another part to clean, eyes narrowing.
His forearms flexed as he worked the grime off, but his mind wasn’t on the job. Not really.
Before Jason could spiral into his thoughts even more a voice calls out to him.
“Yo, Jay! You done with that rebuild on the Valkyrie? We’ve got another job in bay three.”
Jason blinked once, grounding himself. He shook his head and grabbed a wrench. “Yeah, yeah. I’m on it.”
He stalked toward bay three, where a busted ‘94 Honda Shadow sat stripped of its dignity. The kind of rustbucket only a masochist would try to resurrect. Perfect.
He grabbed a socket wrench, slid onto the creeper, and rolled beneath the frame.
Only a few bolts in when suddenly—
He froze.
A scent hit him before a voice did—cheap floral perfume clashing with cigarette smoke and synthetic vanilla.
“Jay,” came the high, syrupy voice. “Seriously? You ghosted me again?”
Jason let his head fall back against the concrete with a dull thud and closed his eyes.
Fuck.
Sasha Vale.
He rolled out slowly, squinting up against the light.
She stood there, hands on her hips, long auburn hair pinned back into a messy bun that tried too hard to look effortless. Heavy eyeliner, red lipstick smudged just slightly from the heat, and a cropped leather jacket over a skintight tank top that left very little to the imagination.
Jason sat up, wiping his hands off with a rag, not bothering to hide the annoyance in his voice. “Didn’t know I was under contract to answer your calls, Sasha.”
She huffed, pouting. “We hooked up three times, Jay. That’s, like, a relationship in this century.”
He snorted. “No, that’s three bad decisions and an Uber ride home. Let’s not pretend it was more than it was.”
Her mouth dropped open slightly, then narrowed. “You’re such an asshole.”
Jason shrugged, rising to full height, towering over her. His expression didn’t shift. “Never said I wasn’t.”
Sasha crossed her arms, stepping into his space. “You said you liked me.”
“I said you were hot and that I was bored.”
“Rude.”
“You’ll live.” He turned away, grabbing a torque wrench and focusing on the Shadow again. “Now if you’ll fuck off, I’m working.”
Sasha didn’t move. “You know, you act like you don’t give a shit about anyone, but I’ve seen the way you look when you think no one’s watching. You want someone to care. You're just too chickenshit to let it happen.”
Jason’s jaw clenched. Hard.
He turned, his voice low and cold. “You don’t know me. You sure as hell don’t know what I want.”
She scoffed. “You think you’re so fucking mysterious, but you’re just another damaged bad boy with a savior complex and a horrible attitude.”
Jason stepped in, eyes sharp like broken glass. “Get the fuck out of my face, Sasha.”
The tension in the air crackled like static.
For a second, Sasha hesitated—then she scoffed, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “Whatever. Hope you enjoy jerking off to your attitude.”
She turned on her heel and stormed out of the garage, heels clacking against the concrete like gunshots.
Jason exhaled slowly and ran a hand through his dark hair. “Jesus,” he muttered, returning to the Honda. “Remind me why I ever dipped my dick in that.”
The smell of her perfume still lingered, making his stomach turn. He reached for another rag, trying to scrub his hands harder than necessary.
Jason continued to scrub his hands like he could erase Sasha Vale from his skin when the mechanic to his right—Briggs—sidled up with the subtlety of a dump truck.
Briggs was tall, broad-shouldered, with grease-stained overalls half-buttoned and a wrench tucked behind one ear like a cigarette.
His beard was patchy, his voice always too loud, and his habit of making every situation about sex had earned him the honor of being Jason’s least favorite human within a five-mile radius.
At his job at least.
The moment Jason saw him approaching from the corner of his eye, he braced for impact. The scent of engine oil and cheap cologne preceded him.
“Well, damn, Jay,” Briggs drawled as he sauntered up, tossing a microfiber cloth over his shoulder like he was about to deliver a sermon. “That Sasha chick’s got some serious fire in her. Loud, pissed off, smokin’ hot... just how I like ’em.”
Jason didn’t look up. He just scrubbed harder at the grease staining his palms, jaw clenched so tight it felt like his teeth might crack.
Briggs kept going, oblivious. Or maybe too stupid to care.
“I mean—shit, man—you gonna let her storm off like that?” He nudged Jason with a meaty elbow. “She lookin’ for rebound material or what? ‘Cause I wouldn’t mind takin’ her for a spin. You know what they say...”
He leaned in close, grinning, breath stinking of onion chips and monster energy drink. “The hottest ones are always the craziest.”
Jason’s hand stilled.
Briggs didn’t notice. Mistaking silence for agreement, he took it as his cue to go lower. “Does she scream? God, bet she’s got those little scratch marks and a mouth that—”
Jason moved.
Fast.
Deliberate.
The rag hit the workbench with a snap, and in one fluid motion, he peeled away from Briggs’ arm, turned, and stepped in—every inch of his six-foot frame unfolding like a weapon unsheathed.
His eyes were sharp. Ice-cold. Predator cold.
Briggs froze.
Jason didn’t need to yell. His presence said enough. The way his jaw set. The angle of his shoulders. The controlled, lethal tension that hummed through his body like a wire strung too tight.
“Say that again,” Jason said, low, calm,like a promise of violence dressed up in velvet.
Briggs blinked. His grin faltered. “Whoa, hey, man, I was just—”
Jason stepped closer.
Briggs immediately backpedaled.
“If you ever talk about a woman like that again in front of me,” Jason continued, voice deadly quiet, “you’ll be spitting your own teeth into a drain.”
Briggs went pale.
Jason’s eyes didn’t waver. Didn’t blink. His body language didn’t shout—it loomed.
It wasn’t bravado. It was intent.
The kind that came from someone who didn’t bluff. Someone who had broken bones, and taken lives, and knew exactly how many pounds of pressure it took to shatter a jaw.
Briggs laughed nervously, hands up. “Hey, alright, man—just joking. Jesus.”
Jason didn’t move.
He just stared.
Long enough for Briggs to feel it down to his bones. Long enough to make him sweat. Long enough to make it crystal clear–
Jason Todd didn’t tolerate that kind of man. Didn’t give a fuck if he “meant it.” Didn’t give a fuck if he was “just joking.”
Disrespect was disrespect.
Plain and simple.
Briggs swallowed, turned heel, and all but bolted back toward his workstation. If he were a dog, his tail would’ve been between his legs, ears pinned back, whining all the way to his crate.
Jason let out a breath through his nose and returned to his bench. He picked up the rag again and wiped his hands like nothing had happened—like he hadn’t just mentally gutted a man with his stare alone.
But his hands trembled as he thought about Sasha.
Yeah, she drove him insane.
But she was still a person.
Not a joke.
Not a conquest.
Not a punchline in some asshole’s locker room monologue.
Jason ran a hand through his hair, the sting of her perfume still haunting the air like a ghost.
He wasn’t a saint.
Hell, he wasn’t even a good man most days.
But he sure as shit wasn’t that guy.
He looked down at his hands—scarred, stained, twitching—and sighed.
This whole “Jay Smith” thing?
Yeah, it was supposed to be a break. His outlight from beating and killing the scum of the city.
But old habits die hard.
He glanced toward the garage doors where Sasha had stormed out, then down at his hands again.
And somewhere beneath the fury and the guilt and the restless itch in his bones, your face surfaced.
Eyes full of confusion and magic.
A pigeon glaring at him with their beady eyes.
Your voice whispering, “Thank you, Jason,” like it meant something.
He closed his eyes for a long moment.
“Get your shit together, Todd,” he muttered.
Then he grabbed the torque wrench and dove back into the Honda, trying not to think about how much you’d already gotten under his skin.
And failing.
Miserably.
Time Skip – Hours Later – 2:00 PM
The sun had shifted in the sky, casting the garage in warm gold that spilled through the cracked loading bay door.
The air was thick with oil and ozone, the clink of tools now sparse as most of the day crew filtered out for their own late lunches or smoke breaks. Only the rhythmic ticking of a cooling engine and the faint hum of a wall fan kept the quiet from going stale.
Jason sat on an overturned milk crate, his back leaned against the wall of the alley where he had his matte-black Yamaha he used for his day-to-day runs—not the one he kept for his more.. Bloody activities.
This one was a little scratched, a little dented, a little real. Much like him.
He unwrapped a sandwich with grease-smudged fingers, chewing mechanically, eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance. His muscles ached—not the good kind, not the "earned it" kind, but the dull, lingering soreness that came from too many hours spent chasing ghosts and dodging bullshit.
But then, mid-chew, you drifted back into his mind.
Not gracefully. Not slowly.
You hit him like a punch to the gut.
He blinked, mid-bite, and nearly dropped the sandwich.
Shit.
You, standing in the middle of his apartment. Hair mussed from sleep. Legs bare to the thigh. Draped in his faded shirt like it was some kind of oversized, half-sheer tunic. You’d looked lost and curious and utterly lethal to his self-control.
His jaw clenched. He looked down at the half-eaten sandwich like it had offended him.
Why the fuck did he let you sleep in that shirt?
He could still see the soft stretch of the cotton against your chest—your ridiculous bust making the neckline dip in a way that nearly gave him a coronary. The way the hem hit so high on your thighs that one good gust of wind and—
He growled low in his throat, dragging a palm over his face.
“Nope. Not doing this,” he muttered to himself.
But the damage…
Already done.
His mind, the traitorous bastard it always was, had already picked the lock and kicked open the fucking door.
You, leaning over his kitchen counter to inspect something ridiculous—like how maybe the fucking magnets on the fridge, and the back of that shirt riding up to reveal the full stretch of your thighs, tail lifted slightly, twitching as you concentrated. The curve of your hips framed by the shirt sliding just high enough to give him a glimpse of—
“Snap the Fuck out of it Todd.” Jason thinks to himself harshly.
You, draped across his couch, half on your stomach, long legs bent at the knee. One foot lazily bouncing in the air. Your tail laying on the armrest. And his shirt, damn that shirt, riding up enough that the base of your spine was visible, the edge of your ass just concealed, your bare skin catching the glow of the TV.
The curve of your waist. The way your body moved even when relaxed—like a warning and a promise all at once.
Jason exhaled through his nose and pinched the bridge of it, hard.
He was going to die.
Again
No doubt about it.
Not from beating.
Not from a bullet.
From you.
From the sheer, torturous image of you—half-naked, barefoot, and oblivious to the slow-cracking fuse you were lighting in his head just by existing.
Fuck.
Jason needed to get you clothes, and fast.
Not just for your sake, but for his sanity.
With a sigh Jason looked down at the mangled remains of his sandwich, barely touched.
It mocked him. The mayo was already congealing. The bread soggy. The lettuce wilted like it had given up on life.
"Yeah. Me too," Jason muttered, and tossed the whole thing toward the alley behind the garage, where Gotham’s mutant sewer rats would no doubt appreciate the donation.
A plume of cigarette smoke wafted across the cracked pavement.
Blake.
One of the other mechanics.
Maybe the only one in the shop Jason could tolerate for more than five minutes without wanting to beat the ever loving shit out of them.
She stood near the edge of the loading bay, one booted foot kicked up against the wall, a cigarette dangling from her lips as she checked something on her phone.
Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, grease-streaked and tired but alert. Sharp eyes, smarter than she let on. Didn’t ask too many questions. Didn’t give a shit what anyone did off the clock.
And—most importantly—she was a woman who had functioning opinions about women’s clothing.
Probably.
Jason rolled his shoulders, groaned under his breath, and headed over.
Blake looked up as he approached, squinting slightly through the smoke. “Well well,” she said, lips curling into a crooked grin. “If it isn’t Mr. Sunshine himself.”
Jason grunted. “Need a word.”
“Already using them, Smith,” she drawled, flicking ash off the end of her cigarette. “You gonna ask me to prom or what?”
He ignored that. “You know where to buy… clothes. For women.”
Blake blinked. Once.
Then again.
“…Okay, back up. What kind of clothes we talking here, Jay? Lingerie? Funeral wear? Cute sundress with little daisies on it?”
Jason scowled. “Just clothes. Normal ones.”
She tilted her head, amused. “This for Sasha? You trying to fuck your way outta that mess?”
His jaw ticked.
Green eyes flashed.
Blake raised a brow, caught the edge of that heat and wisely lifted her hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright—easy, tiger. Just asking. No need to chew my head off.”
Jason didn’t answer. Just shoved his hands into the pockets of his coveralls and stared at the concrete like it had personally offended him.
Blake took a final drag of her cigarette before stubbing it out against the wall. She folded her arms across her chest and gave him a once-over.
“…Alright. You serious? You actually trying to buy clothes for a girl.”
Jason’s voice came low. “Yeah.”
“…Like, real clothes.. Not like, you know, a plastic bag or something.”
He rolled his eyes.”Yes.”
“Got it,” she said. “What size is she?”
Jason blinked.
Blake raised a brow. “Don’t tell me you didn’t check.”
“I wasn’t exactly holding a measuring tape Blake, how the fuck should I know.”
“I don’t know lets see… oh yeah you ask you dumb fuck.”
Jason merely narrowed his eyes at her.
“Jesus,” she muttered running a hand down her face. “Okay. What can you tell me about whatever it is she has on now?”
Jason glanced away, jaw tight. “Gave her a shirt. Real baggy. Hit her mid-thigh.”
“Like, big shirt baggy, or ‘you could fit a family of four in there’ baggy?”
Jason shrugged his shoulders. “Big. And…. she’s… busty.”
Jason grimaced as he pictured your large bust again, his shirt doing nothing to cover your beautiful skin.
As Jason imagined this a slight red hue painted his cheeks.
Blake let out a bark of laughter watching the usually oh so cold, bad boy of the shop blush like a fucking middle school boy.
“Oh my god. You poor fucker.”
He gave her a flat look. “You done?”
“Nope,” she said cheerfully. “But I’ll help anyway, because this is the most human thing you’ve done since you started working here.”
She reached into her back pocket and pulled out a pen, clicking it rapidly as she listed things off with her fingers.
“Alright. For basics—go to Savra & Sons, downtown. Sounds like a men's place, but they’ve got solid everyday stuff for women too. Hoodies, tanks, jeans with stretch. Especially good if she’s got some hips and thighs on her. And from the way you’re grinding your teeth, I’m gonna say she does.”
Jason said nothing, which was as good as a confirmation.
Blake smirked.
“Underwear—go to Arline’s Boutique in Park Row. Yeah, I know. Fancy name, but the ladies there are chill. They’ll help you figure out what to get without asking questions. Tell ’em you’re shopping for a girl who can’t try anything on and they’ll hook you up with stuff that’s comfy and decent quality. Cotton, lace, no scratchy crap.”
Jason folded his arms.
“What about bras?”
Blake let out a long whistle. “Boy, you’re in it deep, huh?”
His glare darkened.
“Right, right. Okay. Same place. Arline’s. Ask for Marcy. Middle-aged, pink streak in her hair, talks like your grandma but swears like a sailor. She’ll find something. Just… be vague. Say ‘full support’ and whatever you do do not get anything that looks like it’s held together with string and hope.”
He made a mental note of it all—burning each name into memory like a target list.
“Oh, and shoes,” Blake added. “Go to Rocket Sole. It’s this boutique near the river. Good mix of sizes. Flats, sneakers, boots. Stylish stuff, but not like, runway idiocy. Bring one of her shoes if you can. If not—guess and pray.”
Jason grunted.
Blake wasn’t done. “Accessories? Jewelry?”
He gave her a long, deadpan stare.
“You’re buying her clothes, Smith. That means you gotta go all the way. Earrings, bracelets, maybe even a necklace that doesn’t say ‘I got this at the gas station next to a Slim Jim rack.’”
He blew out a slow breath. “Where.”
“Flicker. Near Old Gotham. Real affordable, kind of artsy. Think street market vibes but with actual quality. Pretty stuff, simple chains, gemstone work. No hot-topic vampire chokers.”
Jason nodded. His eyes had lost the edge of pure panic now—shifting into focus, into control.
Blake tilted her head. “So. What’s the story with her?”
Jason didn’t answer.
Not a word.
Not even a twitch.
Blake held up her hands again. “Alright. None of my business. Just don’t show up with three shopping bags and forget the receipt, dumbass.”
Jason smirked slightly—more a twitch of the lips than a smile—but it was something.
“Thanks.”
Blake gave him a mock salute and walked off, fishing for another cigarette.
Jason stood there a moment longer.
He could do this.
He’d bought explosives in bulk, survived League assassins, and once spent twelve hours bleeding in a sewer with a broken rib and tetanus.
He could buy a damn bra.
And shoes.
And probably a pair of pants that didn’t make his blood pressure spike.
As he walked back to his bike, he started making a plan—mentally mapping out the city and figuring which stops he could make in one trip. He’d head out after his shift.
If he could survive without images of you in his shirt anymore.
Y/N POV
The screen flickered on, its pale light painting the dim apartment in soft blue hues. Creatures of fur and fang wandered across the television—a quiet pack of hyenas, tails swishing, eyes gleaming under the sun-split savanna. The narrator's voice was calm and measured, but you paid it little mind.
You had not touched the remote.
Why?
The reason quite simple.
You did not want to chance the TV putting another horrid screeching movie picture.
Once was enough.
It has been quite a few hours since Jason left, how many, you knew not, but the home was quiet, without the presence of the gruff man.
You now sat cross-legged upon his couch, arms around your knees, the strange comfort of Jason’s shirt brushing your bare thighs like a stolen tunic from a sleeping giant. It smelled of leather, steel, and smoke. Of him.
You blinked, slowly, the lingering sting in your ribs reminding you why you still needed time.
“…Right,” you whispered, finally exhaling. “To the task at hand.”
With gentle reverence, you drew your staff from where it had rested propped against the arm of the couch. The wood thrummed faintly beneath your fingers—ancient, gnarled, marked by years of wandering, of shaping the world rather than forcing it. The green crystal nestled at its crown pulsed faintly, reacting to your touch.
“Crook,” you murmured aloud, not needing to raise your voice. “I sense thy watchful gaze.”
The pigeon, perched with disdain upon the window frame like a tiny gargoyle, ruffled his feathers. Mental communication was preferable to speech, but he rarely observed propriety.
“Y’know, for someone who talks like a forest ghost, you sure like dramatic silences.”
You tilted your head, unoffended. “Silence oft reveals more than sound, dearest feathered one.”
Crook gave a low coo and hopped from the sill to a nearby lamp. “Yeah, well, yer magic’s makin’ the room smell like wet moss and peppermints. Not complainin’—just sayin doll’.”
You lifted your hand, palm glowing faintly green, and placed it over your side. Soft warmth flared, your skin glowing beneath the thin fabric, knitting any lingering pain from your ribs, gently persuading bruises to vanish like morning dew.
It was the second time today you’d used your magic.
The first being when you shape changed.
Crook cocked his head, squinting at the glow. “That how ya do it, huh? No weird chants, no weird plant? Just touch it and boom, fixed?”
“Nay,” you said softly. “There is always cost. The Grove taught me balance. Life given must come from somewhere. Even should I pull from within. But yes… the touch helps. Connection matters.”
The crystal on your staff flashed once more, brighter this time. Crook hopped closer to the couch and blinked up at you, head tilted.
“You really are from a different damn world.”
You smiled gently and extended a finger toward him. “Yet here I remain. In Gotham, your realm of tall towers of glass and crystal. 'Tis a strange fate, to be healed and housed by a brooding man in leather and a helm of crimson.”
Crook cooed again. “Heh. Brooding’s one word for that guy. Y’know he growls in his sleep.
You chuckled softly. “Yes.. I too heard it last night… It was oddly comforting.”
A beat of silence passed, broken only by the TV narrating a zebra migration. Your spaded tail swayed gently behind you, curling over the armrest with slow, contented rhythm. You kept your staff close, fingers absently tracing the carvings in its bark. Each notch held a memory. A vow. A scar.
You whispered the words of your people—not spells, but a soft incantation of focus and thanks. A prayer to the old spirits of bark and stream. As your magic flowed, you took comfort in the ritual, the structure, the grounding it offered in this foreign metal city.
And still, Crook watched.
“So, what now? You gonna keep sittin’ here, watchin’ lions and fixin’ yourself up while lover boy’s out playin?”
You pressed a clawed hand to your chest and looked toward the door.
“You missin’ him or somethin’? You got that look. The one birds get when their mate’s out scavengin’ too long.”
You hesitated. “He… is strange to me. Rough-hewn. Like a blade forged too hot. But kind, beneath the soot. I owe him my shelter. And…”
You looked down at the fabric of his shirt, the way it rested against your skin. Too large, too soft, too… him.
Jason Todd POV
Time Skip – Hours Later – 4:20 PM
4:20 PM. The shop bell had barely finished its final pathetic ding before Jason was gone.
The sky above Gotham was the color of tarnished silver—one of those murky, humid afternoons where the clouds hung low and restless like the city was holding its breath.
He swung a leg over the leather seat of his bike and exhaled once, slow.
The engine hadn’t even turned over yet, and already, his brain was moving.
Mission time.
And that mission… was clothes.
For you.
It still sounded absurd in his head, even as he reviewed the mental checklist Blake had helped him build. Clothes. Comfortable ones. Not armor. Not gear. Not tools. Just soft, mundane, normal-ass clothes for a stranger from another fucking dimension who wore his shirt like it was the last safe harbor in a storm.
Jason exhaled slowly.
His hands twitched as he held the handlebars.
He closed his green eyes and imagined you.
Your bright smile and warm (e/c) eyes and looking at him grateful.
your strange and pointed fanged smile stared back at him.
He imagines you still on the couch still watching animal planet and awaiting his return.
And so with a clenched jaw and steeled eyes, Jason kicked his bike into gear, gunning the engine, and started down the route he’d made with the precision of a battlefield map.
First Stop: Savra & Sons – Downtown
The shop looked like an old barbershop from the outside—smoky glass, a dingy awning, and a carved wood sign half-hidden by pigeon droppings. But inside, it was quiet, neat, and warm.
Muted jazz hummed from an old speaker. Shelves of folded flannels and tanks lined the walls beside hanging racks of denim, cotton, and soft jersey in every imaginable cut and shade. A stocky woman behind the counter glanced up and gave a polite nod as Jason stepped in, still in his oil-smeared coveralls.
He moved with quiet focus, methodical. Grabbing armfuls of essentials in every damn color and variation he could find.
Loose tanks. Fitted tanks. V-necks, scoop necks. Long-sleeved thermals and soft oversized hoodies that reminded him of the kind you’d wrap yourself in beside a campfire. Jeans with stretch, high-waisted ones he remembered Blake mentioning, and a few pairs of joggers for good measure.
He didn’t know your favorite color.
So he picked them all.
Forest green. Burgundy. Sky blue. A weird shade of mustard yellow. Even a tie-dyed one that made him scowl at himself but throw it into the basket anyway.
Somewhere in his head he could already hear your voice—curious, unsure, delighted. “Oh, this one… the color reminds me of the bee-flowers from the whispering glade. Have you ever seen bees sleep, Jason?”
He shook the image off with a grunt and made for the register.
The clerk didn’t comment. Just rang him up, bagged the pile neatly, and sent him on his way with a faint, amused, “Good luck, man.”
Second Stop: Flicker – Old Gotham
Flicker was easy to miss if you didn’t know what to look for. Its entrance was tucked between a wine bar and a shuttered bookstore, the sign overhead a rusted, hand-painted thing strung with old fairy lights.
Inside, it smelled like sandalwood and copper polish.
Jewelry cases glimmered beneath dim lights. Wire-wrapped gemstones, hand-beaded necklaces, rings carved with moon phases and vines. It reminded him, almost painfully, of something otherworldly.
Not Gotham.
Not Earth.
The kind of place you might actually pause to touch every stone and ask what plant the beading twine came from.
Jason moved slow through the space, fingers ghosting over displays as he took stock. He avoided anything too flashy. Too cheap. Too obviously fake. He picked a simple silver chain first—sturdy, small polished charm at the center shaped like a leaf.
Then a pair of earrings: twisted bronze loops with green stones set like droplets.
Finally, a cuff bracelet made of hammered copper, etched with whorls that reminded him faintly of vines curling along old stone.
They weren’t expensive. But they felt... right. Like pieces you’d choose, not because they sparkled, but because they hummed with some quiet weight.
The clerk, a pale man with a shaved head and long painted nails, smiled faintly as he bagged the purchases. “You’ve got good taste,” he said, voice soft. “Lucky girl.”
Jason didn’t reply.
He just paid. Nodded once. And walked out into the dying light of Gotham, the bags heavy in one hand.
Final Stop – Arline’s Boutique, Park Row
By the time Jason pulled into Park Row, his bike was riding a little lower from the weight strapped to it.
The rear compartment and panniers were crammed with bags—flannel and denim from Savra & Sons, a jewelry box or two from Flicker, and enough loose tops, soft hoodies, and joggers to clothe a small militia.
Miraculously, none of it had fallen off during the ride.
That fact alone felt like a minor Gotham miracle.
He parked a little down the street from the boutique, half because the curb was crowded, half because he wanted an extra thirty seconds to steel himself before he walked in.
Killing gang members? Fine.
Going toe-to-toe with Slade Wilson? Bring it.
Going toe to toe with the dark night? That's just another night for Jason.
But stepping into a woman’s boutique to buy bras and panties—alone—was a whole other kind of battlefield.
He cut the engine, the bike settling into silence.
The street noise took over—traffic hum, a siren in the distance, footsteps on the cracked pavement.
Jason reached up, cracked his neck, exhaled sharply through his nose.
“Alright,” he muttered to himself. “Let’s fucking go.”
And slowly Jason made his way over.
The boutique’s window gleamed like it had been scrubbed with rosewater and elbow grease.
Soft pink lettering curled across the glass: Arline’s: Everything a Girl Deserves. In the display, a headless mannequin wore a silk slip the color of champagne, flanked by neat pyramids of pastel bras folded like origami.
There were lace gloves on a little ceramic hand, a ribbon-bound box with a bow so perfectly tied Jason suspected witchcraft.
He could see his reflection in the glass—broad-shouldered, helmet tucked under his arm, scuffed boots, and a face set in the same grim determination he usually wore to stakeouts.
A few teenagers loitered half a block down, passing a vape pen between them.
On the opposite corner, a uniformed cop leaned against a lamppost, coffee in hand, scanning the street without looking like he cared about anything on it.
Jason ignored them both.
He took one last breath, squared his shoulders, and walked in like he was storming a safehouse.
The smell hit him first.
It wasn’t overpowering—just a subtle layering of rosewater, lavender sachets, and the faint must of old books, like someone’s grandmother had taught them how to keep a shop’s soul intact.
The air was warmer in here, softer somehow, with a kind of stillness that pressed in close.
Every surface was part of some calculated display.
Silk and lace hung in carefully spaced racks, color-coded from the softest blush pinks to midnight blues.
Delicate ribbons fluttered in a slow turn from the ceiling fans.
Somewhere deeper in the store, a hushed voice laughed, followed by the rustle of fabric.
Jason immediately felt like a bull in a glass shop.
He was aware of every step he took, the subtle creak of the wooden floor under his boots.
He kept his hands close to his sides, like touching anything without permission would trigger an alarm and a SWAT team made entirely of elderly ladies with sharp knitting needles.
From behind a counter at the far end, a short, round woman with hair streaked pink looked up over her glasses.
This must be the woman Blake told him about.
Her hair was twisted into a knot, held in place by a pair of hairsticks tipped with tiny beads. Her gaze flicked over him—taking in the biker build, the tired green eyes, the helmet tucked under one arm—and one corner of her mouth quirked upward.
“Can I Help you, sweetheart?”
Jason set the helmet down on the nearest counter with deliberate care.“Looking for… underclothes,” he started. “For a woman… She’s not here…. Can’t try anything on.”
He felt like a fucking idiot with how many pauses he was taking.
The woman’s brows rose, but she didn’t laugh.
Didn’t even smirk.
She studied him for a heartbeat, then stepped out from behind the counter with the measured calm of someone about to guide a lost soul through uncharted waters.
“Well, bless your heart for trying anyway. I’m Marcy. Let’s get to work.”
Jason gave a short nod. “Jason.”
No need to use his alias.
Work was over afterall.
She waved him along, weaving between racks like a seasoned tour guide. “Alright, Jason, talk to me. What’re we working with?”
He gave her the facts, stripped down and tactical: Tall-ish. Broad hips. Big bust. Likes to move.
Probably doesn't like anything scratchy.
Probably won’t know what a zipper is.
Marcy didn’t miss a beat. “Shirt size?”
He answered best he could.
She nodded like she’d just unlocked a cipher, then plucked a few bras from a rack and held them against her own torso for reference. “So—she’s at least a double D. We’re gonna go full support. Soft band, wide straps, no underwire unless you want her to murder you.”
Jason grunted. “Noted.”
They moved like tacticians preparing for war.
First came the neutrals—black, cream, soft grey. Marcy explained why each was practical, why some were better under light shirts, others under dark. Jason listened, nodding, committing the details to memory as if he’d need to brief someone on the operation later.
Then came what Marcy called the “morale boosters”—pieces with lace trim, leaf-like embroidery, or colors richer than anything in the neutral palette. “Girl like that,” she said, sliding a wine-red bra into the basket, “she’s gonna like feeling pretty, even if she don’t admit it.”
Jason didn’t argue.
In fact, in a moment of pure stubbornness, he reached past her and tossed in a deep forest
green one.
He had no idea why.
It just… felt right.
And after a few seconds Jason paused and realized what came next.
Panties.
Marcy led him through a wall display that looked like a color-coded filing system for every possible cut of underwear in existence.
Jason stood there for a long moment, just staring, before muttering, “Jesus Christ.”
Marcy chuckled. “It’s not that bad. These are your workhorses—cotton briefs. These are your fun days—boyshorts. And these…” she picked up a silky high-waisted pair with vintage stitching, “…are your date-night specials.”
Jason didn’t ask what counted as a “date night” in this context.
He just loaded the basket—matching tones, complementary tones, and a couple that didn’t match anything else because why the hell not.
By the time they reached the counter again, Jason felt like he’d run an entire recon op in enemy territory without backup.
Marcy rang up the haul with a speed that made him suspect she’d done this dance for a lot of bewildered men before him.
When the last bag was filled, she reached under the counter and pulled out a small wrapped package.
“Free sample soaps,” she said. “Honey and lavender. Figured she might need a little kindness.”
Jason hesitated.
Not because he didn’t want to take it, but because the word kindness landed in his chest like a quiet punch.
He gave her a tight nod. “…Thanks.”
Marcy just smiled, sliding the bag across. “You’re welcome, sweetheart. And good luck.”
The bell over the door jingled as he stepped out into the Gotham evening, the weight of the bags tugging at his fingers.
The sky above the rooftops had gone from gold to deep violet, the first pricks of starlight barely visible through the haze.
Somewhere nearby, a car alarm blared briefly before cutting off. A breeze off the river stirred the edges of the paper bags, carrying with it a faint trace of rosewater from inside the shop.
Jason walked back to the bike, the bags balanced in one arm, helmet in the other.
It felt like a small victory—not the kind you celebrated with champagne, but the kind that kept the wheels turning.
He had done it.
Every stop on Blake’s list, except the shoes—those would wait until he knew your exact size. He wasn’t about to risk buying the wrong pair and have you look at him like he’d just brought home shackles.
As he loaded the bags into the compartments and bungeed the rest, he muttered under his breath. “This felt like a fucking final boss.”
But even he knew—he’d just survived a battlefield of silk, lace, and rosewater.
But for you.
He’d do it again.