Archive of Our Own ^beta

Starting up we have Jason.

Name: Jason Peter Todd

Alias: Red Hood Role: Anti-Hero / Vigilante Universe: DC Comics - Earth-Prime Affiliation: Bat-Family (estranged), Outlaws Status: Alive (Resurrected via Lazarus Pit)

🧬 Basic Information

Age: Mid-to-late 20s

Height: 6'0" (183 cm)

Weight: ~225 lbs (muscular build)

Eye Color: Emerald Green

Hair Color: Black with a distinct white streak at the front (a post-resurrection trait)

Skin Tone: Fair to lightly tanned

Build: Broad-shouldered, lean muscular frame; athletic and combat-optimized

Scars: Multiple-chest, arms, back; includes faint marks from his death and training

🛡️ Combat Suit: Red Hood (New 52)

Helmet: High-tech red chrome dome mask with no visible mouth; HUD interface, bulletproof, encrypted comms, thermal and night vision

Jacket: Tactical brown leather armor jacket over a dark grey-black body suit

Chest Emblem: Bold red bat symbol-a nod (and jab) at Batman

Pants/Boots: Black tactical pants with reinforced kneepads, combat-ready boots with magnetic grips

Utility Gear: Belt holsters, smoke pellets, flashbangs, grappling gun, blades, tracking tech

🔫 Weapons Loadout

Dual Pistols: Custom .45 caliber handguns; Jason's signature weapons. He's ambidextrous and deadly accurate.

Combat Knives: Multiple-hidden in boots, belt, and gauntlets

Explosives: Sticky bombs, EMPs, flashbang grenades

Grapple Hook: Modified Bat-style grapnel gun for fast traversal

Optional Gear: Sniper rifle (for long-range missions), escrima sticks, suppressors

🧠 Skills & Abilities

Master Martial Artist: Trained in over a dozen fighting styles by Batman and perfected through League of Assassins brutality

Expert Marksman: Top-tier sharpshooter; excels in close-quarters gunplay and precision shooting

Tactical Strategist: Military-style tactics mixed with street-level instinct; plans ahead but adapts mid-fight

Stealth & Infiltration: Batman-level stealth capability, with a more aggressive edge

Interrogation Specialist: Less "good cop," more "get answers now" approach

Multilingual: Fluent in multiple languages including Arabic, Russian, and Mandarin

Resurrection Side Effects: Occasional rage surges, emotional volatility, increased pain tolerance

💬 Quote:

"You let the Joker live. After everything he did. That's all I needed to know."

Once the second Robin, and perhaps the most broken of them all, Jason Todd was never meant to walk an easy path.

He was a street kid-fierce, scrappy, and stubborn-caught trying to steal the tires off the Batmobile. That alone should've been the end of his story. Instead, it became the beginning. Bruce Wayne saw something in him: potential, pain, purpose. And so Jason was taken in, trained, and given the mantle of the Boy Wonder.

Then came the Joker.

Jason's death was brutal. Tragic. Final... or so it should've been.

But fate is rarely so merciful.

Resurrected by the League of Assassins-thanks to a guilt-stricken Ra's al Ghul, who had hired the Joker-Jason clawed his way back to life. But he did not return whole. Twisted by pain, grief, and betrayal, he emerged from the Lazarus Pit as something else: something angrier, something darker.

The Red Hood.

The real heartbreak wasn't just dying-it was waking up and learning Bruce hadn't killed the Joker. That, in Jason's eyes, he'd been replaced. Forgotten. Left to rot while someone else wore the Robin mantle.

Years have passed since then. Bridges have been burned, rebuilt, and burned again. Jason walks the line between outlaw and antihero. He may fight for justice, but his brand of it involves bullets and blood. He doesn't follow Bruce's rules, and he doesn't apologize for that.

He's accepted that he's the black sheep of the Bat-Family. He keeps his distance. Keeps his pain hidden behind sarcasm, leather jackets, and a loaded Glock.

But...

Maybe you can change that.

You-strange, otherworldly, kind to your core-may be the one thing Jason never expected.

Hope.

Jason Todd POV

This.

This was not how his night was supposed to go.

He was supposed to stop a few weapons runners, maybe intimidate a low-level thug into giving up intel, and then hit that grimy diner on 9th Street for a terrible cup of coffee and a sandwich full of regret. Simple. Standard Red Hood schedule.

Not…

Whatever the hell this is.

Jason revved the engine and took a hard turn, the bike growling under him like it wanted to bite the road. Trash flew up from the street corner, and the lights of Gotham blurred by in flickers of sodium yellow and neon blue.

And sitting right in front of him on the metal bar of his custom-built, definitely-not-designed-for-passengers bike?

A pigeon.

A fat, smug, slightly molting pigeon.

Just sitting there.

Crook, apparently.

The bird didn’t flinch at the wind. Didn’t budge when the tires screeched around a corner. Just fluffed up, looked left, then back at Jason like he was bored of going only 85 mph.

“Bird’s got a death wish,” Jason muttered, eyes narrowing behind the red lenses of his helmet.

Crook cooed, slow and nonchalant — like he agreed but wasn’t bothered.

Jason was going to lose his mind.

And then there was you.

You, clinging to his back like he was the last tree in a hurricane, arms locked around his chest. Your robes billowed out behind you like a kite about to be ripped in half. He could feel your breath against his armor — short, shaky, and very, very close.

Oh — and your tail?

It was wrapped around his ankle.

At first, he hadn’t noticed. Then he tried shifting his foot and nearly drove into a mailbox.

“What the—?!” he growled under his breath, looking down for a split second.

Yep. Still there.

Smooth and sinuous, a prehensile tail looped around the bottom of his boot, holding on like a seatbelt with opinions.

“This is insane,” he muttered, jerking the bike onto a side street. “This is so far past insane.”

But the pièce de résistance?

Your horns.

They’d scraped against his helmet at least six times now.

At first it was subtle — a bump as you leaned too close when he accelerated. Then it happened again. And again. And again.

Now it was just a whole situation.

Scrape.

Jason gritted his teeth.

You made a soft noise behind him — maybe an apology, maybe a prayer.

“Okay,” he muttered to himself. “So I’ve got a magical wounded blue lady with a giant stick, horns, and a clingy tail on the back of my bike. And her rat-with-wings pet is riding shotgun. Totally normal Gotham night.”

He swerved around a pothole the size of a small child and tried not to think about how warm you felt against his back. Or how even after getting shot and bleeding all over a rooftop, you’d had the guts to summon a literal bird to chat about the city.

Who was this woman?

Another bump — another horn tap.

Jason exhaled sharply.

“Lady,” he called over the engine, “I swear if you chip my helmet—”

“It is not my intention!” your voice called back, distressed. “I am very much holding on for my life!”

Another bump.

Scrape.

“…Yeah. I noticed.”

Another turn. Another horn scrape. Another little tail squeeze around his ankle. Jason had resigned himself to this chaos. This ride was cursed. Gotham was cursed. He was cursed.

And then, it got worse.

Or better?

No. Definitely worse.

You shifted, just slightly — a flinch maybe, when he hit a rough patch of road — and suddenly, Jason went rigid as he felt you press even closer to his back.

And not just in a clinging-for-dear-life way.

Oh no.

You had, as he was very suddenly and physically aware, a lot going on up front — and now it was all flattened firmly against his back armor. Jason clenched his jaw.

His grip on the throttle tightened.

Don’t you fucking think about it. 

The smooth curve of your body, the warmth of your chest molded against him, even through his suit—

“Focus on the road, Hood,” he growled to himself through gritted teeth. “Don’t die because of boobs. That’s not how you go out.”

You shifted again, clearly trying to stay stable — but your movement just made it worse, and your breath hitched right by his ear.

Jason swore internally.

Crook, still perfectly unbothered up front, turned his head and gave Jason a long, blank look.

“Don’t judge me,” Jason snapped.

Crook cooed. Judgingly.

Jason nearly took a turn too fast just to throw him off.

Behind him, you made a soft, pained sound — a little sigh, followed by a whispered, “Forgive me, warrior… I am most unpracticed in taming such violent beasts of iron and fire.”

Jason blinked. Violent beast of iron and—? Oh. The bike.

“It’s a motorcycle,” he said, loud enough for you to hear.

“My apologies… this ‘cycle’ doth snarl like a wyvern with a stone in its talon.”

Jason snorted before he could stop himself. “Wyvern. Right.”

You pressed even closer.

Jason stared straight ahead, absolutely not reacting.

“Are… are you alright?” you asked, voice a little weaker now, like your wounds were creeping back into your attention.

No. He was not alright.

But for very different reasons than you meant.

“Peachy,” he muttered.

This is fine. Everything is fine.

You loosened your grip just slightly to adjust your position, which only made things worse, somehow. Jason exhaled hard, cursed under his breath, and made the next turn fast enough to rattle even Crook’s feathers.

You yelped and clung tighter.

Jason’s helmet knocked forward a bit. Scrape. Scrape.

“God—” He let out a breath like a volcano that needed therapy. “Almost there. Just hold on.”

You nodded against him, voice soft and a little dreamy: “I… I am grateful, kind knight.”

Jason’s eye twitched.

He gunned the throttle.

Y/N POV

The beast roared beneath you once more.

A snarl of metal and fury, of clattering chains and grinding rage — you held on to the leather-clad warrior before you as though your very soul would be cast into the void should you let go.

Which, truthfully, was not far from what this experience felt like.

You pressed your cheek closer to his back — which, thankfully, was broad and solid — though the strange, armored leather made for an unkind pillow. Still, the sheer terror you felt outweighed the discomfort. Your arms clung around his middle, your clawed fingers digging into his chest, gripping him as tightly as you could.

The scent of metal and smoke bit at your sensitive nose. Your tail wrapped around his leg, squeezing with each wild turn. You feared you would be flung from this terrible creature of speed and fire.

And your body — oh gods, your body— You were far from composed.

Your bosom, ample and heavy from your kind’s generous form, had flattened firmly to the man’s back as you pressed in closer and closer for safety, and still he gave no reaction, only grunted occasionally beneath that strange red helm.

It was not as though you noticed. Not truly. Your mind was far too occupied with not dying.

Your breath came in gasps, your eyes squeezed shut, and your legs had — at some point — latched fully to his sides.

“By the stars,” you whispered, “I shall never ride such a beast again…”

The man — Jason, you recalled — made a strange, tight sound in his throat, something between a growl and a sigh.

You whimpered as the beast beneath you jerked again and you pressed even harder to him, your fangs clenched, one of your claws clinging to the edge of a strap over his heart.

“Please, great warrior,” you choked out, “may this torment end swiftly…”

You felt him stiffen.

“...or I shall surely perish of dread and shattered dignity both.”

He muttered something incomprehensible over the roar of wind, and you dared to peek one eye (e/c) open. Metal towers blurred by in streaks of gray and shadow. You saw great glowing signs, strange glowing runes you could not read, and the flash of lights like lanterns possessed.

“What manner of realm is this…?” you thought to yourself.

Whatever sort of place you were thrown into it was clearly a place of chaos and strange machines.

And you had fallen straight into the arms — and now lap — of one of its brooding armored warriors.

You gritted your teeth and prayed silently to whatever druidic spirits might hear you:

Please let the metal beast stop soon. Please let my stomach stop twisting. And please do not let this human notice how scandalously I cling to him…

The world continued to blur.

Not through tears — though surely, you were not far from weeping — but from sheer speed. Buildings passed like wind-blown ghosts, their shapes warped by velocity. Light flared and faded in dizzying flashes, and the monstrous thing beneath you howled its fury across the city’s steel veins.

You were quite certain your soul had left your body at least twice already.

“By the antlers of the Elder Stag,” you whispered breathlessly, your voice lost to the roar of wind and machine, “by the moss-woven throne of the Forest Queen—if I survive this madness, I shall never step foot on another of these cursed wheeled demons.”

The man—Jason—said nothing, but you felt his chest shake slightly beneath your fingers. Laughter? Or perhaps just the tremors of the beast you both rode. You dared not open your eyes again. The last time you had, your vision had been filled with streaking lights and a metal box on wheels that nearly scraped you in passing. Your shriek had surely drawn the attention of all nearby spirits.

Jason—said nothing, but you felt his chest shake slightly beneath your fingers. Laughter? Or perhaps just the tremors of the beast you both rode. You dared not open your eyes again. The last time you had, your vision had been filled with streaking lights and a metal box on wheels that nearly scraped you in passing. Your shriek had surely drawn the attention of all nearby spirits.

Your claws digged into Jason's chest even deeper when a particularly hard tremor made the bike shake. You feared slicing through his strange armored leathers, yet you feared far more what would happen should you let go. 

You felt your heart lurch. You felt your horns scrape lightly against the back of his helm.

Again.

Gods help you, again.

“Crook!” Jason suddenly barked, clearly not to you. “If you peck my damn jacket one more time—!”

You blinked in confusion—your eyes still closed—then realized he was speaking to the pigeon.

Oh. Yes. Crook.

Somewhere in front of the warrior, the little bird must be making themself quite comfortable somehow.

Jason grumbled again.

“Stupid rat-with-wings… You got feathers in my damn visor. Know what I'm going to do, I'm gonna turn you into soup.”

You gasped. “He is only a humble creature of the sky!”

“Yeah? Well the humble creature of the sky just took a dump on my throttle hand!”

You would’ve laughed if you weren’t too busy contemplating death. As it stood, you merely let out a strained sound—half whimper, half broken prayer—and clung tighter to Jason's sides, your cheek pressed flat to his back, breathing in through your nose in shaky huffs.

It smelled like leather. oil. Sweat. And that sharp metallic tang of a strange smoke.

It was nothing like the pinewood groves or the clean air of the Everdeep Glades.

“Please,” you whispered, voice nearly lost to the rushing wind, “Oh gods of grove and stream, hear this frightened daughter of bark and star. I beg thee… still this beast of shrieking steel. Let me survive this trial, and I vow I shall kneel at every glade, plant a hundred trees, never mock the song of the wind again. I shall speak to no mushroom out of turn…”

Jason let out a sound—perhaps a grunt, perhaps a scoff—and shifted slightly beneath you. You took the movement as a terrible sign and braced harder.

“You know I can hear you, right?” he shouted over his shoulder, voice wry. “Mushrooms?”

You flushed, horror washing over you.

You had spoken aloud.

All of it.

Still clinging, you hissed through your clenched fangs, “You were not meant to hear my oaths! That was a sacred entreaty to the forces of nature!”

“Well tell the forces of nature,” Jason growled, swerving around something with expert precision, “that you’re squashing the circulation out of my ribs.”

You gasped and tried to loosen your grip. Immediately, the wind roared past your face harder, and you clamped down again.

Jason groaned. “Great. Back to koala mode.”

“I do not know what a ko-ah-la is,” you chattered, voice thin with panic, “but if it is a creature that clings in mortal terror to something it cannot understand, then yes. I am such a beast.”

Another irritated pigeon-squawk echoed faintly ahead, followed by Jason snapping, “Crook! I swear if you fucking shit on me again—!”

“I shall knit you a new tunic!” you cried over the wind, hoping to salvage peace between the man and bird. “One of woven vines and blessed moss!”

“Lady,” Jason shouted back, “unless it’s bulletproof, I don’t want it.”

You buried your face into his shoulder with a pitiful groan, your tail twitching as the monster-machine slowed.

At last—finally—the beast’s howl began to dim, the vibrations under you less violent.

You peeked.

You were descending into some dark alley, winding into a narrow corridor of stone and shadow, and the war-cries of the machine faded into a low purr.

Had you survived?

Had your prayers… been answered?

Jason eased the machine to a halt, boot touching the ground. You were still clinging like your life depended on it.

“We're here,” he said flatly.

You opened your eyes fully, blinking against the light of a distant flickering lantern.

“We… live?” you whispered in disbelief.

He snorted.

“Yeah. For now. You gonna let go, or you wanna stay glued to my spine the whole time?”

You felt it.

Air

Not the kind that rushed you and made you pray for safety.

 Real, unmoving, blessed calm air — met your lungs.

You gasped it down like water in the desert, your face still pressed to the armored back of the warrior who had become your unwilling anchor through this torment. Your knees gave a final wobble of protest as you released him, and before you dismounted the infernal hell steed, you slowly reached behind your back with stiff, clawed fingers and pulled your staff from where it had been lashed.

It hummed softly with the spirit-bound power within its ancient grain.

"Be still now," you whispered to the runes carved into its bark. “Thy mistress hath endured a grave peril… but still she draws breath.”

The spirit within flickered faintly in agreement. You leaned the staff gently against the side of the great metal beast, which still hissed and pinged with residual heat, then slid down from the seat—

And collapsed.

Crook let out little coos as he continued to stay perched on the red beast. 

The ground met you with a solid thud, though your knees had buckled long before that. You slumped down in a tangle of robes and limbs, your chest rising and falling with ragged heaves.

Your horns ached from clacking against his helm. Your tail had cramped from coiling about his leg like a desperate vine in a storm. Your ears still rang from the wind’s screeching cry.

You were, to put it plainly… undone.

"Oh blessed Mother of the Moonlit Canopy…" you groaned as you pressed your forehead to the earth. "Oh Windfather… Root-Keeper… Flame-Watcher... or whate’er divine ears may hear me—thank thee. Truly. I swear it, never again shall I scoff at the rituals of spring. I shall sing every dusk-song. I shall bless each sprouting acorn. Just—just never again allow me upon such a cursed creature as that."

You heard a low scoff above you.

Then, flatly: “You done?”

You peeled open one eye. Jason stood beside the demon-borne steed — helmet still on, arms crossed, stance relaxed in that infuriating way of his. As though the tempest you’d barely survived was nothing but a midday stroll.

Still sprawled upon the cold earth, you breathed out slowly, then gave a weak nod.

"Aye," you rasped. "I believe... I believe the storm has passed."

“Good,” Jason muttered. “Because this is the part where normal people get up.”

With a grunt, you tried.

You truly did.

But the moment your knees unbent and your weight shifted to your legs… they refused.

Completely.

The exhaustion, the adrenaline, the sheer spiritual offense you’d endured from the beast beneath you had left your limbs as stiff as timber. Your clawed hands splayed against the concrete for balance. You let out a whimper as you trembled, ears beginning to droop.

Jason watched.

“…Are you serious right now?” he asked, somewhere between exasperated and tired.

You cringed and bowed your head.

“I… I beg thy pardon,” you murmured. “Mine legs… betray me. It seems the fear hath rooted itself deeper than I knew.”

He let out a groan and dragged a hand down the front of his visor.

Crook, still perched on the handlebars of the beast, gave a self-satisfied coo.

Jason ignored him.

“You’re telling me you survived flying over Gotham’s skyline, clinging to me like a backpack, while the feathered menace, molested my visor and shit all over… and now you can’t walk?”

“…That is an accurate summation, aye,” you said, mortified. “I—I am grievously sorry for the trouble, sir knight.”

You flinched again as Jason sighed deeply. For a moment, he was quiet.

And then — with startling suddenness — you felt arms beneath you.

Strong ones.

Firm and sure, sliding beneath your knees and shoulders in a single smooth motion.

You gasped as your body left the ground, weightless once more — though this time not from a flying beast, but from Jason himself.

You startled, blinking up at him as your body curled instinctively into his hold. Your tail gave a twitch but did not grip. Your ears twitched as you tried not to stare. You had never been carried like this before — not even in your youth, when your people saw such displays as indulgent. Yet now…

Now, this mortal warrior of leather and metal cradled you with ease.

“You were never gonna make it up the stairs,” he muttered, his voice low and irritated, though there was no heat behind it. “You weigh less than my gear bag, anyway.”

You were certain your face flushed violet.

“I—I assure thee, I am stronger than I appear. I am simply… momentarily undone.”

He was already walking toward what you assumed was a stairwell carved into the building beside them. The alley was dark, the air heavy with the stink of rain-soaked stone and faint city oil. Yet in his arms, the shadows seemed… less cold.

“Yeah,” Jason said dryly. “Undone. That’s the word for it.”

You pressed your hands awkwardly to your chest, trying to steady your hammering heart.

“I am deeply shamed to burden thee thus. I… I did not mean to become so feeble.”

Jason’s grip shifted slightly as he adjusted your weight, making the climb up the stairs without strain.

“Relax. Not like you’re the weirdest thing I’ve ever carried.”

You blinked. “I beg thy pardon?”

“Had to haul Killer Croc’s tail outta the East End once. You? You’re a pillow compared to that.”

“…Who is this Killer of Crocs?” you asked, eyes wide. “Did he offend thee with his garments?”

Jason gave a soft snort of laughter.

“Something like that.”

You, dizzy and flushed from warmth, fear, and shame, dared to rest your head gently against his chest.

“I vow,” you whispered softly, “that when my strength returns… I shall craft for thee the most sacred of salves and soothing balms. No hero who bears a wounded soul should go unblessed.”

Jason said nothing for a moment.

Then, with a shrug: “Sure. Just don’t put mushrooms in it.”

You give the red helmed man a gentle smile. 

Jason walks a few moments getting farther and farther from the damp and dark alley and with a small amount of effort you lifted your head, your eyes — slitted and luminous in the darkness — settling once more upon the gleaming frame of the metal beast where it rested, exhaling heat and menace like some demon stabled for the night.

And near it your staff. The gem glowing faintly as it rests upon the floor.

“Oh—!” you breathed, ears flicking upright. “Wait, kind sir—my staff! I—I left it by the cursed beast!”

Jason paused mid-step, his boot resting on the first of the alley's winding steel stairs, forged more for utility than grace. He turned his head just enough to glance over his shoulder at the monstrous machine behind you both, and loosed a tired exhale.

“I’ll grab it when I come back down,” he said. “Right now, you and I need to get out of the streets.”

Your ears flattened with shame, and you gave a small, embarrassed nod.

“I… aye. I trust in thy word. Forgive me. The staff is precious to me — carved from the limb of a mother-tree in the Glen of Thisteldown, blessed by moonlight and the winds of home. But I shall leave it to thy safekeeping.”

Jason blinked once beneath his helmet, probably having understood only two of those words, then gave a grunt of reluctant acknowledgment.

“Yeah. Glen of Glitter-what-the-hell. Got it.”

And with that, the climb began.

The stairwell was narrow and of cold, rusted iron, bolted into the side of the brick building like a forgotten fire escape.

The metal creaked faintly beneath his boots, but his steps were steady, practiced. You watched the ground fall further and further below, the misted alley swallowed by the night air and the thick shadows of surrounding rooftops. From up here, Gotham sprawled like a slumbering beast — glittering eyes of streetlamps blinking through a haze of fog, veins of neon and car lights tracing its snaking roads.

Crook, ever brazen, flapped overhead and landed halfway up the stairwell, perched on the rails as if to mock your earlier terror. He gave a smug little flutter of feathers and let out a warbled coo, puffing his chest like a conquering king.

Jason muttered, “Yeah yeah, you’re so brave.”

Jason looks at your face for a moment before speaking once more. 

“Then again Crook wasn’t clinging to me and praying to mushrooms.”

You flushed and narrowed your eyes.

“I was not ‘praying’ to mushrooms, I merely prayed for safety to the spirits and deities of nature.”

“Uh-huh,” Jason said dryly, adjusting his grip on you without even breaking stride. “Sounded more like a whole lot like screaming and horn-bonking to me.”

“I wailed in accordance with ancient custom!” you said, indignant despite yourself. “To cry out is to honor the ancestors in times of dire peril!”

“You’re welcome, then. I gave ‘em a concert.”

You huffed and turned your face toward his chest to hide the heat prickling your cheeks. The slow climb continued, a winding spiral up the backside of the building.

Wind brushed your cheeks the higher you went, tugging at your hair and sweeping the lingering scent of oil and fire from your robes. The air carried hints of distant rain, of wet stone and ozone, of flowers in some unseen window box, wilting in the Gotham night.

Jason moved as though he’d done this a thousand times, unbothered by your weight or the climb. The rise of his chest was steady. His arms remained strong beneath you. His presence — though gruff, sharp-edged — had grown oddly comforting.

Finally, you reached the top of the stairs.

Jason moves quickly, briefly stopping before a narrow iron balcony, barricaded by a tall rusted gate with a flickering motion sensor light above it. He gave the gate a kick, and it creaked open with a groan.

The balcony was long and narrow, affixed to the top floor of the building like a crow’s perch. Beneath you, Gotham’s rooftops stretched in patchwork formation, antennas and chimney stacks dotting the skyline. The chill air brushed against your skin, tugging your robes about you like phantom fingers.

Jason walked to the glass door at the far end of the balcony, reached one hand out without setting you down, and punched a short code into a security panel. A soft beep answered, followed by the metallic click of a lock disengaging. He slid the door open.

Warm, amber light spilled out like a sigh.

And then — with one quiet step — you were inside his home.

The change was immediate. Gone was the damp, flickering chaos of the alleyways below. Gone is the oppressive hum of the metal beast, the scent of burning oil and storm-wet concrete. Here, within this oddly still apartment, was a strange peace.

You blinked rapidly, eyes adjusting.

The space was open and lived-in, minimalist yet cluttered in curious ways. The walls were dark, exposed brick, partially covered by shelves of books, loose gear, and other foreign objects you have no name for.

This was a home built for one who never stayed long.

Crook flapped past and landed with a smug thud on a lampshade near the couch, ruffling his feathers proudly.

You, still cradled in Jason’s arms, stared wide-eyed at it all.

"This… this is thy dwelling?” you breathed, voice hushed.

Jason closed the balcony door with his foot and finally looked down at you properly, his helmet now casting only half his face in shadow.

“For now,” he said simply. “It’s nothing fancy but it's something at least.”

Jason stared at you fora beat longer. Then he stepped toward the couch, crouched, and gently set you down.

You sank into the cushions with a soft gasp, body still weak and limbs trembling from your ordeal, but grateful beyond words to be resting upon something soft — something real.

You looked up at him, blinking.

“…You have my thanks.”

He gave a grunt and stood back up.

“I’ll go grab your stick.”

“Staff,” you corrected faintly, already curling into the throw blanket Crook had now commandeered.

“Whatever.”

And with that, Jason was gone again — back down the endless stair to retrieve the sacred relic of your people… and perhaps steal one last glance at the infernal beast he had, against all odds, managed to tame.

Jason Todd POV 

Jason grunted as he took the first step back down the stairwell, boots heavy on the steel steps that creaked louder than they had any right to. The sound echoed in the alley below, like Gotham itself was mocking him. He adjusted his jacket, muttering under his breath.

"This night is goddamn cursed."

He pinched the bridge of his nose under his helmet. “Should’ve just gone to the manor like Alfred asked. At least then I’d only be dealing with Bruce’s passive-aggressive silence and not—whatever the fuck this is.”

Jason groaned, scowling at his own words. “Don’t be that guy, Todd. She’s injured.... Might not even be into humans.”

Finally at the last step and rounding the corner and stepping into the alley where his bike rested, he finally spotted her staff — still leaning against the side like some eldritch relic from a fantasy epic. Jason came to a slow stop, tilting his helmeted head as he stared at it.

The thing looked like it had been pried straight from the hands of a forest god who’d spent too much time hanging out with Tim Burton. Vines coiled along the dark wood like veins, shimmering faintly even in the dim alley light. Thorny growths twisted around the upper half, forming jagged loops and open floral carvings. A giant green crystal — at least, he hoped was a crystal — pulsed faintly as it was warped by limbs of the bark, embedded like bruised stars in bark. 

Jason gave it a slow blink. “...The hell am I looking at?”

Jason cautiously reached out and picked the staff up. It was surprisingly light, yet warm to the touch — like it had its own damn heartbeat. The moment his fingers curled around the carved shaft, the vinework twitched. Actually twitched. A leaf slowly unfurled like it was greeting him.

“Nope. Nope.” Jason pulled it back like it might bite him. “Okay. This thing’s alive. Great. Of course it is.”

He tilted it side to side, examining it closer. One side looked like the handle of a wizard’s cane. The other looked like it could summon birds, devour souls, or maybe open a juice bar in the Feywild. It was a cursed tree branch. It was a nature priest’s murder stick. It was... it was...

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “It’s like Gandalf and Poison Ivy had a baby. And that baby dropped acid.”

A spark of red flickered near the top, and Jason instinctively recoiled.

He pointed at it. “You do anything weird in my apartment, you’re going in the dumpster, you hear me?”

The staff didn’t respond.

Of course it didn’t.

It was a stick.

Sort of.

He twirled it slightly, testing its balance. “Light. Flexible. Could probably beat the shit out of someone with it. Guess that’s a plus.”

With a final glance down the alley to make sure he wasn’t being watched by any more falling druids, Jason sighed and turned back toward the building. The weight of the staff felt unnatural on his back as he secured it beside his gear. He could practically feel the thing pulsing against him — like a plant that really, really wanted to be friends. Or maybe invade his bloodstream.

This was fine. Everything was fine.

He trudged back up the stairs, muttering the whole way.

“I’ve got a pigeon with an attitude problem, a blue girl who speaks like she’s been summoned from a damn Renaissance fair, and a sentient stick that probably judges my Spotify playlist. I hate tonight. I hate tonight.”

The wind picked up as he reached the balcony again, brushing through the crimson tufts on his helmet. Crook — that little traitorous bird — was nestled comfortably on the druid girl’s shoulder, chirping like he owned the place.

Jason scowled. “Great. You made yourself at home.”

Crook gave a low, unimpressed coo and turned his back.

Jason held up the staff. “You forgot your overgrown toothpick.”

The Tiefling girl blinked slowly, eyes wide with relief and something close to reverence. She held out a hand for the staff like it was a long-lost lover returning from war.

He grunted and handed it over. “There. Now try not to pass out.”

The staff purred when it touched her fingers.

Jason took a step back.

“I need a drink.”

Y/N POV

Jason then sighed heavily as he turned toward the adjoining space he had named “the kitchen.”

You knew not what a “kitchen” truly entailed, but you supposed it to be some sort of alchemical chamber, where concoctions of this realm were brewed with heat and fire rather than mortar and pestle.

 He grumbled something beneath his breath as he departed, boots echoing faintly across the wooden floors.

You, meanwhile, remained sunk into the plush, uncomfortably soft contraption he’d called a “couch.” You had finally relinquished your stubborn clutch of his cloak, and now leaned against the backrest with a panting sigh, your ribs aching beneath your bindings and your legs trembling as though they had never known solid ground.

This world, this maddening realm of steel towers and roaring beasts, had tested you in ways your world never had.

Yet despite all the strangeness and exhaustion, your heart lifted as your (e/c) gaze found it—your staff.

Jason had, true to his word, retrieved it.

It now stood propped neatly against the side of the couch, precisely where he had placed it with a rough sort of care.

A small smile tugged at your lips—though your fangs ached from clenching them earlier—and your heart gave a steady thrum as you beheld it once more.

Ancient wood, dark and smoothed by centuries of your touch, curled upward toward its crown. The roots, gnarled and twisted as if frozen mid-reach, formed a cage about a singular green gem—the heart of your staff. The stone glimmered softly, pulsing in perfect synchrony with your breath, as though sensing your relief at its return. Magic lived in that rhythm—ancient, wild, and ineffably yours.

“My friend,” you murmured, reaching out with aching fingers to brush along the haft. The moment your fingertips grazed the bark, a wave of calm passed through you. A spark of primal recognition surged between the staff and your skin, and the pain in your bones quieted.

From your shoulder, Crook shifted his tiny talons and gave a pleased coo before leaping from your perch. His small wings fluttered as he alighted upon the staff’s roots. He gave an inquisitive chirrup, head tilting, then bent to tap his beak against the glowing gem.

“Tread gently, dear Crook,” you said, your voice still hoarse from pain but tinged now with fondness. “It is bound to me, however it’s power may yet startle thee.”

Crook puffed up his feathers indignantly, as if affronted by the suggestion he might be startled by anything. “I was just chekin it out doll,” he replied with an exaggerated fluff, his voice a soft whistle in your mind. “It’s hummin... Like a bee or somethin.. Is that normal.”

You chuckled, breath catching slightly at the motion, and placed a hand gently over your middle. “Aye. it sings again, now that it hath returned to my side.”

Crook nudged the gem again with more care this time, then nestled himself right atop the curl of roots as though it were his rightful perch. You watched him fondly, his head turning this way and that, tail feathers twitching. The tiny avian was curious to a fault, and you had grown used to his commentary.

“Gotta say, this nest is weird,” Crook commented. “Everything smells... stale, and burned.”

“‘Tis likely due to the fire-wrought lanterns,” you murmured. “The light here burns without wick nor flame. I know not how the mortals of this land have managed such feats, but they are resourceful—if mad.”

Crook let out a soft, amused warble, his beak clicking against the wood. “So... we stayin here with the Mr tin head?”

You sighed, allowing your head to tilt back against the couch. “Mayhap. At least for the eve. I am too battered to change mine own shape once more and too weak to walk the wilds of this city. For now, we will graciously accept his hospitality .”

Crook fluffed himself proudly. “ He's got issues... But I like his threads. Shiny. Reflects the sky… Still the dude seems weird.”

You smiled, eyes drifting closed for a moment. “Aye. He is as strange as he is grim... but he did not strike the final blow when he could have. I owe him that much.”

The staff pulsed again, a slow, warm thrum beneath the green gem. You reached out and rested your hand upon it again, allowing the rhythm to calm your soul. The ache in your limbs dulled slightly, and you felt magic begin to hum low in your bones—just a trickle, but enough to ease your breathing and lift the fog behind your eyes.

“I pray this sanctuary is true,” you whispered to the staff, to the gem, to the unseen spirits who had guided you across realms. “Let me rest without blade or fire at my throat.”

Crook let out a quiet coo, and you opened your eyes to see him nestled now entirely between the curling roots, his wings half-draped over the gem protectively. The green glow bathed his feathers in an emerald sheen.

Jason’s voice echoed distantly from the kitchen—a curse, a clang of metal, and what sounded like a loud gulp. You suspected he was consuming one of the realm’s strange elixirs—perhaps from that cold, humming box.

Your ears twitch as you hear movements and you turn your face toward the sound. 

Jason. 

His presence, dense and simmering like the calm before a summer storm. The air shifted as the man entered, and with him came a strange blend of scents: metal, bitter herbs, something sterile and alchemical, and a faint trace of leather and smoke.

 You blinked, your weary eyes adjusting to the low lighting, as he walked toward you, a small white box cradled in his gloved hands. Crook gave a suspicious squawk from where he perched atop your staff, still pecking absently at the glowing green gem.

Jason sank down beside you onto the wide, worn couch, his movements surprisingly gentle for a man who exuded danger like a second skin. He set the box upon his lap and began to unlatch it with quick, practiced fingers. You tilted your head as you peered at it, nostrils flaring as your keen senses caught the odd smells wafting from within.

“What is that?” you asked softly, voice still slightly hoarse from the pain and exertion of the evening. “It reeks of… potionless alchemy and strange salves.”

“It’s a first-aid kit,” Jason replied without looking up. His tone was dry but not unkind. “It’s got stuff for patching people up. Antibiotic ointment, gauze, antiseptics.”

Your brows knit. “Anti... biotic? That sounds as though it wars against life itself.”

“Close enough,” he muttered, pulling out a small bottle and a roll of bandages.

And then, for the first time, your eyes beheld his face.

Gone was the red helm, the hardened mask he wore into battle. In its place was a man.

And gods above, what a man.

You found yourself staring. Truly staring.

His skin was the shade of warm alabaster kissed faintly by sun—pale, but not sickly.

Upon his brow and just between his dark brows rested a faint scar, like a mark from a story you’d never heard. His jawline was sharp, as though carved from fine obsidian, and his cheekbones were high and regal. But it was his hair that first captured your attention—a mane of black as rich as raven feathers, falling in waves about his face, disheveled from the removal of his helm. And amidst all that darkness, a single bold streak of white—strange and enchanting—fell forward onto his brow.

It was the stuff of legend.

But nothing could compare to his eyes.

Green. Not the gentle green of springtime moss nor the playful gleam of forest light through the canopy—but sharp and vivid, like emeralds forged in flame. Those eyes stared down at the contents of the box, focused and unaware of the effect they were having upon you.

Your heart fluttered against your ribs.

You hadn’t even realized your hand had moved until it touched him.

Your claws—dulled, though still curved elegantly at your fingertips—curled ever so slightly against the line of his jaw. Your other hand rose, cupping his cheek as though sculpted by instinct alone. His skin was warm beneath your touch.

Jason froze.

Those brilliant eyes flicked to yours, startled.

You gasped softly, your cheeks heating in shame, but you could not pull away just yet. You studied the lines of his face, your breath catching as you whispered:

“…Thou art… beautiful.”

There was a beat of silence. Crook made a surprised little noise, something between a squawk and a strange burp.

Jason blinked.

Your clawed fingers—careful, reverent—were pressed against the sharp angles of his jaw, your thumbs brushing over the high plane of his cheekbones, as if you could memorize his face by touch alone. His skin was warm beneath your hands, it looked as though it was kissed by battle and Gotham grime, yet somehow still beautiful in a way you did not understand. You tilted his face gently, peering up at the streak of white hair that fell like a rebellious banner across his brow.

“By the stars,” you murmured breathlessly, “I had not realized mortals in this realm could be wrought with such artistry.”

His eyebrows twitched upward, and for a moment Jason looked genuinely bewildered. Then his lip curled, the smirk slow and sardonic. “Is this how you greet everyone from where you’re from?” he asked, voice low and rough from the ride. “Grabbing their face and ogling them like a statue in a museum?”

You blinked, reality returning all at once. Your hands shot away from his face like you’d touched a coal. “Oh! I—pray forgive mine overfamiliarity!” you said, ears drooping in shame. “I did not mean to transgress thy person. I was… thou art… exceedingly comely, and I was momentarily bewitched.”

Jason laughed. Not a harsh one, but low and genuinely amused, the sound rasping from his chest like gravel shifting underfoot.

“‘Bewitched,’ huh?” He shook his head, bemused. “You’re a weird one.”

“I am a Tiefling,” you replied earnestly, “we are oft called worse.”

He only gave a faint snort at that, opening the small white box—some strange Gothamian contraption—and pulling out unfamiliar tools and vials. The scent from within was sharp and alien. Astringent.

Your nose crinkled slightly, head drawing back from the bitterness of it.

“What is that?” you asked, eyes narrowing warily. “It doth smell like the bile of a wyvern…”

“It’s just the antiseptic,” he said, already pulling a piece of cloth from the box and soaking it. “Disinfectant. Gonna clean you up a bit. You’ve still got blood dried along your side.”

You gave a small nod and leaned back against the couch cushions, your staff still propped up, Crook, who had been watching intently from atop it, pecked the green gem gently and squawked.

“You touchin’ the pretty boy now, huh?” the pigeon snickered. “He's one’s got a nice face, I’ll give ya that. Can’t blame ya.”

You eye the pigeon on your staff. 

“Crook the way of your tongue is very strange.” 

Crook let out a soft coo as his thoughts flood yours. “Born and raised in Gotham, baby,” Crook replied with a puff of his feathers. “We all talk too much. Even the rats curse you out when you step too close.”

You giggled softly, the first sign of ease in your expression since you had arrived. But the moment of lightness passed as Jason lifted the hem of your tattered robe to examine the deep bruise blooming along your side.

His brow furrowed.

“This the worst of it?” he asked.

“Aye,” you said, voice quieter now. “Before the portal opened one of the thieves struck me with their dagger, luckily I did not detect any poison or fowl magic or enchantment from the blade."

Your voice held a hit of exhaustion as you recall the events that took place to your current predicament. " As you bore witness, I used what magic remained in me to stem the bleeding and soothe the pain. Come the morrow, I shall be mended fully.”

Jason’s eyes flicked to yours. “Your magic can.. Do that ?”

“I am a druid,” you said, lifting your chin slightly with pride. “Though my powers are diminished slightly with my wounds, my bond with the earth and it's rhythms remains.”

Jason let out a slow breath and began to dab gently at the drying blood on your side. “Well… Not the strangest thing as far as Gotham goes.”

“Truly?”

“Nope.” Jason was quiet for a moment, his fingers surprisingly gentle as he cleaned the wound.

You watched him through half-lidded eyes. “Forgive me for asking but… dost thou always carry such items in thine home?” You nodded to the med kit. “Art thou a healer of some sort?”

Jason scoffed. “Not even close. Just… been in enough fights to know what to have on hand.”

Crook flapped his wings briefly and muttered in your mind, “By the way broddy acts, thats an understatement of the year.”

You looked at the strange little box with a thoughtful hum. “Mayhap I should replenish my satchel… If I am to endure more of these Gothamian perils.”

Jason arched an eyebrow. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

Your tail flicks behind you as you reply to him.

“I shall endeavor to stay out of harm’s path,” you replied solemnly. “Though harm seems determined to find me regardless.”

Jason didn’t argue with that. His eyes flicked to your face again—drawn, tired, but still with that glowing, otherworldly edge. He cleared his throat, recapping the bottle of antiseptic and tossing the bloody cloth into the small plastic bin inside the kit.

“You’ll be alright,” he said. “Just… don’t go passing out.”

“I make no promises,” you said wryly. “Your strange realm yet turns my stomach and rends my senses. ‘Tis like being struck repeatedly with invisible hammers.”

Jason gave a snort of something between sympathy and amusement.

“I’ll be back. Stay there.”

You nodded. “I am not keen to rise again anyway.”

As he stood and walked toward the hall, Crook fluffed himself up on your staff and muttered, “You gonna kiss him next time?”

Your cheeks flushed violet. “Silence, Crook!”

“I’m just sayin Doll... You gotta admit, 'Thou are beautiful' sounds like a kiss watin to happen.” the bird chuckled as he mimics your words you said mere moments ago.

You buried your face in your hands and groaned.

Jason Todd POV

He let out a deep breath, the kind that dragged from somewhere behind his ribs and took a bit of the weight of the night with it. His boots padded softly across the hardwood floor as he made his way down the hall. 

He had no idea what time it was anymore—late, obviously. Gotham always felt timeless when the sky was black and the buildings swallowed up the moonlight. Just another absurd chapter in his already fucked-up book of a life: a wounded, blue-skinned tiefling druid now recovering on his couch... and a damn pigeon that wouldn’t stop staring at him.

He stopped by the linen closet first, yanking it open with practiced impatience. The overhead light buzzed faintly. He grabbed the softest throw blanket he could find—gray, thick, freshly washed—and then hesitated. 

The gown she wore looked like it had seen better days, and now that he thought about it, if she was going to be sleeping in his home, maybe she needed something a little less… ceremonial and “goddess emerging from a sexy fantasy game” and more “I won’t catch a chill in this freezing apartment.”

With another sigh, he veered off into his bedroom. It took him all of five seconds to root through the top drawer and pull out one of his smallest black shirts—well, small for him. Soft, a little faded, but still in decent shape. Would probably hang off her like a dress, considering his the height difference and… her more dramatic curves.

He glanced toward the mirror above the dresser and grimaced. Bloodstains dotted his Red Hood armor in a Jackson Pollock nightmare. His gloves were still smudged. His arms are sore. His entire torso felt like one tight knot. Without ceremony, he peeled off the armored suit piece by piece, grimacing as bruises announced themselves in livid colors. 

He shoved the pieces into the closet, shut the door, and grabbed a plain pair of black sweats and a tank top. He tugged them on quickly and rubbed a hand through his mess of black hair.

His single white streak fell forward over his brow. He debated cutting it off every few weeks. 

Never did.

Blanket in one arm, shirt draped over his shoulder, Jason left the room and padded quietly down the hall. The apartment was quiet now. Unnervingly so. A few clicks from the kitchen—probably that damn bird again. His Glock was still in reach if it tried anything funny.

He stepped back into the living room, adjusting the bundle in his arms—and nearly dropped the whole damn thing.

There she was, exactly where he’d left her on the couch… and yet, not. Her cloak had been removed and was folded neatly to the side, revealing the full shape of her figure beneath that silky, enchanted but slightly torn gown.

The light caught on the sheen of it— silk clinging to her in all the places that made heat crawl up the back of his neck.

Her chest, full and high, was barely contained by the neckline of the gown, her posture unbothered by the obvious reveal. Her tail flicked lazily off the edge of the couch like it had its own set of opinions about everything in the room.

Her horns gleamed in the warm light, her indigo skin shadowed beautifully in dips and planes. She looked like something carved out of a myth. A creature meant for stars and being worshipped like a god, not his dingy ass apartment in Gotham.

Jason coughed into his fist and forced his feet to move again.

She looked up, her bright eyes glowing faintly in the low light. Her expression was soft, a little tired, still clearly in pain—but she smiled when she saw him.

“Sir Jason” She called out cheerily. 

He tried not to look directly at her chest as he spoke. “Brought you a shirt,” he said, holding it out like it might bite him. “Thought maybe you’d want something less… uh, ancient temple chic.”

She blinked at it, gently taking the offering in clawed hands, turning it over curiously. “’Tis… not a tunic?” she asked, lifting it like it was some strange fabric riddle. “Soft… but strange of cut.”

“It’s just a shirt. You can wear it to sleep or whatever. It’ll be long on you, but… yeah.”

She nodded solemnly and folded it over her arm like it was sacred. “I shall treasure it.”

God, he hoped she didn’t mean that literally. It was just cotton. Like, Target clearance bin level stuff.

Jason rubbed the back of his neck. “I, uh… I’ll give you a minute if you wanna change.”

Crook the pigeon fluttered down from the staff she had leaned against the couch and landed squarely on the armrest beside her.

The Bird seemed to give him a look and if the little rat-with-wings had eyebrows they would be going up and down almost as if to say, ‘You gonna watch’.

Jason narrowed his eyes at the bird. “I’m leaving.” He turned and walked toward the kitchen again, letting Y/N have the space. 

In a few short strides he makes it into the kitchen where he grabs himself a bottle of water from the fridge. Once Jason does he moves to the sink and lets his head thunk softly against the cabinet door.

“She’s gonna be the death of me,” he muttered.

From the living room, he heard her soft voice: “Sir Jason?”

“Yeah?”

“I believe… I have successfully don’d the cotton tunic of thine people.”

Jason shakes his head and sighs and takes a slow sip of the water. 

He puts the water down and when he turns he nearly spits the water out of his mouth at the sight of you. 

He did not expect to see that.

You were perched on his couch once more, legs tucked underneath you like some mystical creature out of a fever dream, your long tail lazily flicking across the cushion. That wasn’t the part that threw him—he was getting slightly used to the horns, tail, blue skin, and claws and fangs (barely).

 No, it was the fact that you were now wearing his shirt. The smallest one he could find. And somehow, it still swallowed you.

The shoulders of the black T-shirt had slipped halfway down your arms, exposing a scandalous amount of collarbone, and—Jason dragged his eyes away—the generous curve of your cleavage where the shirt hung low. 

The hem nearly reaching your knees, but the way it clung to your body, the fabric pulled slightly over your hips from how you sat—hell, he felt like he’d walked onto the cover shoot of some medieval fantasy pin-up calendar.

He cleared his throat—sharply—and made a beeline for the coffee table, tossing the folded blanket onto it. “Alright, Sleeping Beauty,” he muttered, avoiding your eyes. “You look like you’re about to pass out. Time for bed.”

You tilted your head at him, blinking slowly, a soft yawn escaping you as you rubbed your eyes. “Bed…?” you echoed sleepily.

Jason nodded. “Yep... Your taking my room, it's just down the hall, You need real rest and couch of yours truly sucks.”

"Plus Alfred would have my head if he found out I made an injured person sleep on the couch… Especially if they are a lady." Jason thinks to himself and shivers as he pictures the glare of the Wayne family butler.

Your voice no longer holding sleep spoke in a surprised tone. “Thou wouldst have me sleep within thy chamber?”

"That's what I said." Jason answers as he crosses his arms across his chest.

The light shines off your horns as you gently shake your head.

“Nay… I could not ask thee to forfeit thine own resting place upon mine account. I shall sleep here.”

Jason paused.

Counted to three.

Then spoke.

“I’m sorry but you seem to be confused here. I’m not asking. I’m telling you. Couch. Sucks. You’re not sleeping on it, end of story.”

You straightened, blinking at him. “But thou hast suffered a great many wounds to thine own pride and body this eve. Surely—”

“I’ve had worse,” Jason cut in, throwing up a hand. “And I’ve crashed on worse. I slept on a concrete slab in a warehouse in Jakarta once. This? This is fine.”

Your eyes narrowed, indignant. “If thou thinkest me some fragile blossom to be coddled—”

“Oh my god,” Jason muttered, running a hand down his face. “It’s not about coddling—it’s about logic. You’re the one who got yeeted by a portal and landed on me bleeding to death.”

“Yeeted?” you asked, brow furrowed.

He saw you blink in total confusion while the rat-with-wings bird gave a look like he was watching a soap opera.

Jason set his jaw. “Point is—you’re the one with magic rib bruises. You need a bed.”

You stood up—well, rose gracefully like some kind of moon priestess with zero concept of personal space—and crossed the room to face him. Even in his too-big shirt, you moved like a noble about to duel a prince. Your chin lifted, (e/c) eyes silted and glowing slightly, tail whipping in agitation behind you, and blue skin glowing under the hallway light.

“Then let us barter, o armored one,” you declared, hands folded before you. “I propose we share the bed. Surely it must be large enough—”

Jason made a sound so offended it could’ve passed for a dying animal. “Absolutely not.”

You stepped closer, now toe-to-toe with him. Jason refused to look down. Refused to notice the way your shirt had shifted again. Refused to acknowledge the internal screaming happening in his frontal lobe.

“I insist,” you said firmly, tail flicking. “This is thy abode. I am but a guest, lost and stranded within thine realm. I could not usurp thine comfort.”

Jason threw his arms up. “It’s not usurping!” he cried, and for a moment he truly felt like he was losing a court trial. “It’s called being a decent person! You’re hurt, I’m not! You take the bed!”

“Then let me repay thy kindness by allowing me the couch.”

“That’s not happ—”

“Then once more I offer the previous proposition!”

Jason groaned and gestured at the hallway. “Go. To. Bed.”

You folded your arms across your chest, and Jason had to literally look away because your cleavage was now center stage and demanding full attention. “Nay,” you said, chin lifted defiantly.

“Nay?” Jason echoed, baffled. “Did you seriously just ‘nay’ me?”

“I did, indeed.”

He glared.

Your (e/c) silted eyes glared back.

The silence stretched.

Jason Todd POV-Current Location (Bedroom)

Jason lay rigid on one side of the bed, facing the wall like it owed him money. His arms were crossed. His jaw was locked. Every muscle in his body was pulled tighter than his last set of batarangs. And behind him, with your back also pointed stubbornly toward his, you were a warm, silent presence that made him want to scream into his pillow.

He regretted every choice in his life that led to this moment.

The bed wasn’t small, exactly. It was a decent queen. But the woman beside him was not a small person. Between your curvy figure, the way you radiated a surprising amount of heat for someone with blue skin, and your enormous cloud of (h/c) curls sprawled across half the pillow, Jason felt like he was trapped in some magical hostage situation.

And your tail.

That was the real enemy.

Every few minutes, it would move. Subtle. Innocent. A little flick across his lower back. A soft twitch brushing his leg. Once, it curled near his thigh and Jason nearly levitated off the mattress.

He gritted his teeth. “...you’re doing that on purpose,” he muttered under his breath.

From behind him, your voice floated softly through the dark. “I do naught but rest. If my tail offends, take it up with the gods who made me thus.”

Jason’s eye twitched.

He glanced toward the nightstand. Crook was there, already asleep, head tucked under one wing, looking like the world’s most judgmental paperweight.

“Little bastard.” Jason grumbled.

You sighed, a soft, weary sound. “I do not comprehend how a mattress so grand may still feel as though it is carved of stone.”

Jason scoffed. “That’s probably just your ribs. You hit the roof like a wrecking ball.”

“And yet thou art the one who curses and fidgets like a man atop nails.”

“I’m not fidgeting,” Jason hissed. “You keep whipping me with your tail.”

“My tail is not under my control whilst I dream,” you huffed. “Blame thine proximity.”

Jason turned his head slightly—just enough to glare into the darkness. “Maybe if someone had let me take the couch like a reasonable person—”

“Silence you stubborn fool of a man and sleep.” you shot back primly.

Jason groaned and flopped onto his back, staring up at the ceiling like it held answers.

And that was when your tail—traitorous, smug little thing—drifted again. Light as a whisper, it brushed against his side. His ribs jerked in surprise.

“Seriously?!” he hissed.

A long pause.

Then a sleepy murmur from your side. “Perchance the tail likes thee. It acts of its own will, oft led by instinct…”

Jason blinked at the ceiling, his face burning. “You’re telling me your tail has a mind of its own?”

You gave a drowsy hum. “Aye. Much like thine own pride, methinks…”

He glared into the dark again. “Was that an insult?”

“I am far too tired to insult thee properly,” you mumbled.

There was another silence.

Jason slowly turned his head again. You were still facing the opposite way, your back a soft silhouette against the moonlight spilling through the window. Despite everything, despite the bruises and the chaos, you looked… calm. Peaceful, almost.

The warmth of you beside him—your strange scent like moss and moonlight, the way your body curved softly beneath his shirt—it was doing things to his brain.

Jason groaned and rolled back toward the wall. “I’m never going to sleep,” he muttered.

From behind him: “Then perhaps I shall cast a spell of slumber upon thee.”

Jason chuckled softly. “Is that a real thing?”

“‘Tis possible,” you said vaguely, already halfway to dreamland.

Jason sighed. 

The room quiet again.

Your tail had stilled.

Your breathing had deepened. 

His body had started to relax, if only a little. The bed was warm, smelled like pine and woodsmoke and that soft, mossy scent that clung to you. There were still bandages taped under your borrowed shirt, and he could feel the rise and fall of your breath every so often from beside him.

But he wasn’t quite ready to close his eyes yet. Not with you here. Not with a literal horned druid lying in his bed, perfectly calm, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“…Hey,” he murmured quietly, not turning his head.

A pause, then your voice drifted up behind him, husky with the edge of sleep. “Mm?”

“How is it…” He hesitated. “How’s it comfortable? Sleeping. With horns.”

Another pause.

Then you exhaled slowly, voice soft and matter-of-fact.

“Mayhap thou shouldst ask thyself how it is comfortable to sleep without them.”

Jason blinked.

You continued, faintly amused, “For thee, ‘tis strange. For me, it is all I have ever known. I was born thus. Grew with them. Lived beside them, atop them, beneath them. Mine horns are of me—as thine skull is to thee.”

Jason stared at the ceiling, lips twitching slightly. “…Fair point.”

“‘Tis no great mystery,” you added. “My kind rest easy in such forms. We do not jab ourselves with our own heads in the night.”

Jason tried not to chuckle. “Didn’t say you did.”

“Mmm.”

He closed his eyes finally, nestling a bit deeper into the pillow, feeling the warmth of you behind him again.

Silence stretched. A peaceful one.

Until another thought nagged at him.

“…Okay but—” he turned his head just slightly, voice thick with near-sleep, “how the hell did you get that shirt over your head?”

Behind him, a quiet beat.

Then:

“…Sleep now, mortal.”

Jason smirked into his pillow.

“Right.”

A soft flick of your tail brushed his calf.

He let out a long breath… and finally, finally let himself drift.

Y/N POV

A thin silver stream crept between the slats of the window, brushing across your closed eyes like a soft kiss. Somewhere beyond the glass, the city murmured its eternal song—low rumbles, far-off horns, the occasional cry of a gull disturbed by Crook’s cousins. But within these four walls, all was still.

You stirred.

Your eyes blinked open—slitted, catching the morning light like cut amber. For a moment, you knew not where you were, only that the bed beneath you was warm, and the scent in the air was not earth and bark and leaf—but leather, metal, sweat, and soap. Mortal scent. 

Jason’s scent.

You drew a soft, startled breath.

You had expected to see his back—broad and strong, turned politely away, as it had been the night before.

But it was not so.

He faced you.

And worse still—so did you.

And worse than that—

Your hands… were touching.

Not held. Not grasping.

But laid there, face-down. His large, calloused hand resting lightly atop your own clawed one, as though it had drifted there by some quiet instinct in the dark. His fingers curled slightly around your knuckles, as if seeking warmth.

 A mortal man.

A cursed creature.

Your breath hitched and you dared not move.

Your tail, traitorous thing that it was, gave a sharp flick behind you, betraying the sudden rush of feeling that bloomed in your chest.

You flushed—a deep purple blooming across the soft blue of your cheeks and nose.

“By the roots of the World Tree…” you whispered in your thoughts, too awestruck to move. You swallowed hard, your throat dry as your eyes greedily drank in the sight of him.

You drank him in slowly, your eyes tracing his face now that morning light had changed the canvas.

Jason. 

Mortal man. 

Unreasonably handsome.

His black hair, tousled now with sleep, fell in sharp contrast against the pale of his skin. That strange white streak—like a comet through ink—had slipped down again, brushing against his forehead in a manner both unruly and unfairly endearing.

You studied his mouth. Relaxed. Lips slightly parted. He was lost in slumber, brow unknitted, the angles of his jaw softer now, younger somehow without the strain of wakefulness. Without his helm or scowl or sarcasm.

And those lashes—long, dark—fanned against his skin like crow feathers.

You knew not if it was lawful, or right, or wise to admire a man so. But you could not stop.

Your clawed thumb twitched beneath his palm. You marveled at how warm his skin was.

You did not even know when it had happened—that shift in the night. You had fallen asleep with a space between you, had you not? Back to back, like strangers with a truce.

And yet now… you were facing him. So near you could feel the soft rise and fall of his breath.

Was it your tail that betrayed you once more? Had it tugged you closer in the dark like a vine reaching toward heat? Or had he turned to you, seeking the same warmth?

You swallowed hard.

He is so beautiful.

No longer a warrior wrapped in leather and steel. No longer a hunter of the dark. But a man—flesh and scar and soul.

There was a faint nick at his brow—some old wound that had not healed clean. A thin line beneath one eye. Faint bruising at the jaw mayhaps from last night's ordeal. His lips were cracked just barely.

And still… he was beautiful.

“Cease thy foolish flutterings,” you chastised yourself silently, willing your tail to stop betraying you with every flick. “Thou art no blushing maiden.”

And yet… you squeaked. Actually squeaked.

The contact of your hands, so soft yet unbearably intimate, was too much. Slowly, carefully, you began to ease your body from the bed. You did not want to wake him—not now, not with your face a raging shade of purple and your heart galloping like a spooked deer.

His fingers slipped from yours as you retreated, and you winced at the loss.

Barefoot and clad in his oversized shirt—you padded softly from the room, careful not to let the door creak as you closed it behind you.

The moment it clicked shut, you bolted to the couch, your steps as silent as a cat’s despite the turmoil brewing inside you.

You landed on the cushions and immediately curled into yourself, both clawed hands slapping over your burning face as you let out a helpless, high-pitched squeal of girlish delight, tail whipping once behind you like an exclamation point. A deep, soulful purple continued to bleed across your cheeks and spread to the tips of your ears, your heart doing somersaults in your chest.

You were not a stranger to intimacy. 

In fact, your people did not fear it the way humans did. You had known pleasures of the flesh, had shared them with reverence. But this… this feeling… It was altogether different.

No one—no one—had ever made your heart stutter like Jason. No one had looked like a carved statue of war and poetry combined. No one had touched you in sleep and made it feel like the universe had stopped spinning just to accommodate that simple contact.

You let out a deep breath and flopped onto your back, tail curling beside you on the couch.

Your staff still stood where you had left it, propped gently against the armrest, the ancient wood smooth and warm in the golden light. The curling roots that capped the top of it gleamed faintly, and the green gem nestled between them pulsed in rhythm with your breath—calm now, but still quickened with the aftershocks of your morning revelation.

Eventually you pulled yourself from your embarrassed state. 

The tangled emotions within your chest steadied enough that curiosity took hold.

 You rose from the couch, careful of the still-tender wounds on your arms and side. Though the worst had healed overnight—thanks in no small part to your druidic magic and Jason’s unspoken care—you moved with the deliberate slowness of one who knew pain was never far off.

You wandered softly through the strange den, claws clicking lightly on the floor. Jason's lair was unlike any place you had ever known. Stone and steel, glass and strange devices. 

The first place your wanderings took you was the kitchen.

You recognized it vaguely from last night—Jason had come here to fetch his strange box for healing—but now, in the quiet morning, it looked entirely different. You padded softly across the tile floor, admiring the clean, cool surfaces. Strange black and silver objects lined the counters—some squat and boxy, others with glass windows or red glowing lights.

But the object that drew your attention most was the tall, silver box tucked in one corner. It hummed with a low energy. Curious, you reached out and gently tugged on its handle.

A woosh of cold air greeted you, curling around your face and making you gasp softly. Inside, neatly stacked and cluttered in strange order, were items both familiar and unknown. Bottles of milk and orange liquid sat side by side with jars of dark red sauce and strange sealed containers with vivid images printed on them. One box held eggs—eggs!—but these were perfectly shaped, all matching in size and color, unlike the varied, speckled ones from your forest home.

You touched one of the glass jars carefully, noting the label: Pickles. The word made no sense to you, though the briny smell was oddly familiar. You trailed your fingers across bottles and boxes, breathing in faint notes of sweetness, salt, and sourness, each mingling with the faint chemical coldness.

Then something caught your eye on the floor—small, odd metal casings, scattered near the threshold between the kitchen and hall. You bent and picked one up delicately between your claws. The casing was smooth, copper-colored, and faintly warm from the lingering heat of the apartment.

It reminded you of the remnants of fire-blossom seeds back home, the way they ejected shells after blooming. But these—there were so many. Some long and slender, others stubbier, heavier. You found more trailing toward the hallway, and a few beneath the little counter where Jason had rested his hips the night before. You tilted one toward your nose and inhaled. It smelled of oil and smoke and a whisper of blood.

You stared at the pieces for a while, quietly understanding something primal: these were tools of war.

And yet they littered his home like stones on a forest path.

Shivering faintly—though not from cold—you left the kitchen behind and followed your feet into the hallway where you found another room.

A washroom of sorts.

It was small, but clean, and the mirror caught your attention first. You peered at your reflection, tilting your head slowly. Your horns, curved, tall, and proud, glinted faintly. Your skin, still tinged blue-violet from your earlier flush, had calmed slightly but still held a residual warmth. You noticed a faint mark near your temple—a smudge, likely from the pillow.

The room had strange scents—sandalwood, mint, something that reminded you of a stormy forest. You opened a cabinet and found small tubes and bottles of mysterious potions—gel, balm, aftershave—and closed it with reverence. A folded towel hung nearby, thick and fluffy like the pelts of sky wolves.

After stepping out again, you wandered toward the glass doors that led to the balcony.

You didn’t open them—you didn’t dare. 

But you stood there, eyes wide, taking in the strange realm beyond. Gotham stretched out in smudged layers of metal, stone, and sky. 

Towering monoliths rose in all directions, some glittering with glass, others dark and bruised with age and soot. The air shimmered with distant motion—tiny dots of flying machines, flocks of birds, and blurs of light from faraway vehicles.

You placed a hand on the cold glass. “How strange your world is,” you whispered.

And yet… how strangely beautiful, too.

Eventually, you returned to the main living room and found yourself standing before a curious object. The tall black mirror-like rectangle atop a console. A sigil glowing faintly on the bottom. It had not been glowing the night before.

"What manner of enchanted glass art is this?" you murmured aloud, pressing a single clawed fingertip to the surface.

It was cold.

You tilted your head and tapped again, more insistently. Nothing. Frowning, you squatted before it, your tail flicking, and explored the underside. There—tiny buttons. The glyphs meant nothing to you, but your curiosity demanded resolution.

You pressed one.

The world exploded.

Light and sound burst from the mirror—no, the box! You yelped and fell backward, tail flaring. A horrible screech filled the air as the glowing window revealed a ghastly face drenched in blood. A roar of agony rang from the creature on the screen, and your eyes went wide, your claws dug into the floor.

A scream escaped you—a loud, undignified squeal of terror as you scrambled backward.

WIth your less than gracefall retreat you changed.

Your form shimmered and contracted, bones twisting with familiar magic until you were small, furred, and feline—a sleek (h/c) toned cat with (e/c) slit pupils stretched wide in fear.

You darted beneath the couch, your tail puffed and curled tight. From the shadows beneath, you watched the glowing horror in front of you, unable to tear your wide eyes away.

Your entire form trembled.

As you watched the horrible terrifying box you barely registered the sound of a door slamming open and with it a loud and familiar voice. 

"What the fuck?!"

Jason's voice was a thunderclap, low and alert, edged with the kind of violence that could melt a battlefield. You heard the rushing of heavy feet and the sharp metallic snap of a weapon of some sort.

And in a few seconds Jason was in the living room. 

Crook, half-asleep and disgruntled, gave a loud coo and was perched atop Jason's head.

Jason blinked and all but ignored the bird.

His eyes tracked the direction of the horrible screeching and turned toward the glowing screen.

He lowered the gun.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered, running a hand down his face. "Of course she found the TV."

Then he noticed the slight flick of fur and a trembling tail beneath the couch.

"You gotta be fucking kidding me," he said aloud, peering underneath.

There you were. Small. Cat-shaped. Shaking like a leaf.

WIth a huff he made his way over where he crouched slowly, voice shifting from sharp alarm to something softer. "Hey. You good under there?"

You meowed pitifully.

Jason sighed, reaching under the couch and gently scooping you up into his hands. Your claws dug into the fabric of his shirt but you didn’t resist. Your eyes stared up at him, wide and mortified.

He cradled you awkwardly, your feline form pressed against his chest as the TV continued playing some grotesque murder scene behind him.

"So... let me guess," Jason said, dryly. "You hit the power button on the TV,  then got a front-row seat to Freddy Krueger."

You meowed again.

"Right. Of course you did."

Crook fluffed up on Jason's head, let out a sleepy squawk, and then promptly dozed off again, balancing with expert ease.

Jason turned and used his foot to tap the power button on the remote, and the screen fell silent.

"You really are new to all this, huh?"

He placed you on top of the couch and waited. 

After a moment, your cat body shimmered again, and you returned to your normal blue form—now sitting upright, hair disheveled, face flushed in dark purples of embarrassment, and Jason’s shirt even more askew from the transformation.

You did not speak immediately. You wrapped your arms around your knees and looked down, mortified.

"Forgive me," you said finally. "I did not mean to disturb... whatever that was. I believed it to be an enchanted mirror."

Jason chuckled, slow and deep, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Yeah, it kind of is, you just got unlucky."

You gave him a withering look. "Unlucky? The demon on that box tried to eat mine eyes."

Jason smirked. "Next time, try cartoons."

You narrowed your eyes. "Are the creatures kinder?"

He laughed aloud at that, and you found yourself smiling despite the lingering adrenaline.

Crook shifted on his head again and peered down at you both, looking completely unbothered by the chaos.

Jason ruffled your hair once before stepping back toward the kitchen.

"C'mon, scaredy-cat. Let's get some coffee in you before you turn into a mouse again."

You huffed, cheeks still glowing, as you watched Jason turn away.

And after a few moments of calming your racing heart down you rose from the couch and followed. 

As you make your way over you watch as Jason swats Crook off of his head. 

“Rude” You hear the thoughts of Crook as he flies to your shoulder. 

Jason muttered again under his breath as he turned toward a strange small black box with a glass pitcher inside and began pouring something from a bag that smelled bitter and deep.

The giant stone island was cool to the touch as you hopped up lightly onto it, curling your legs beneath you in a loose cross-legged seat. The shirt shifted with the movement, and the air caressed your skin.

“Thy home is a realm of metal and chaos,” you murmured, gaze drifting over the unfamiliar devices. “This… lair of yours, it hums with strange life.”

Jason chuckled as he leaned against the counter across from you. The morning light cut through the blinds and dappled across his arms and chest — he still wore loose dark pants and a black tank that clung to the carved ridges of his torso like it had been born for him.

 His hair was tousled and rebellious, a single silver-white streak refusing all gravity, and his green eyes, still sleepy, glowed against the shadows of his lashes.

You look down into your lap and for a few seconds no one speaks. You feel the Crook shuffle against your collarbone and let out a coo, but this time, you sensed he was trying to soothe you. Your hands trembled a bit.

Your tail giving a way what your words don’t. 

The tip tapped on the counter every few seconds as if waiting for something. 

Jason noticed.

“Hey,” he said, his voice dropping, softening like the edge of dusk. “You okay? Really.”

When you finally look up from your lap Jason pauses. 

Your eyes, while unnatural, are beautiful, but behind them he sees something. 

Something he knows all too well. 

Fear. 

The cold from the strange light-box still clung to your spine. That horror—whatever that blood-stained wailing on the screen had been—was something else entirely. You had seen demons, you had spoken to tree-spirits, but that?

“'Twas… unlike anything I have seen,” you said at last. “And I have witnessed battlefields. I have seen the madness of corrupted dryads, the withering of the sick moon. But this—this realm’s nightmare made flesh in a box—”

“It’s fake,” Jason said quietly. “None of it’s real. Just actors and red corn syrup and special effects.”

You frowned deeply. “I do not know what half of those words mean.”

“I know.”

You tilted your head again and stared at him for a long moment. His kindness was steady now—not overwhelming, not loud, but real. Like a stone that would not shift no matter how hard the river rushed around it.

The only sound that broke the silence was the gentle hissing and sputtering of the strange black box upon the counter. It wheezed and clicked, a rhythmic gurgle echoing as it produced a bitter, acrid-smelling liquid that made your nose wrinkle slightly.

 Whatever this concoction was, it did not smell pleasant to you, though Jason seemed to lean toward it with faint anticipation. He rubbed at his eyes and ran a hand through his messy black hair, the white streak now sticking up more prominently in the front.

Crook, meanwhile, had relocated himself to your lap, his small, warm body pressed against your stomach as you sat on the cold stone surface of the kitchen island trying to will your tail to stop it’s anxious twitching. 

Jason glanced your way as he poured himself a cup of the foul smelling liquid, and watched the way you stroked the pigeon. 

You adjusted Crook gently and peered at Jason, who leaned one arm on the counter and took a sip of his bitter-smelling drink. Steam curled upward, veiling his face briefly, and the orange light spilling in from the high, narrow windows carved golden edges into the angles of his jaw and the white streak of his hair.

The silence stretched.

Then Jason glanced over, lips tugging at a half-smirk. “So… you wanna ask me anything?”

You tilted your head again. “Thou are offering?”

He shrugged. “Figured it’s only fair. You introduced yourself to me, bleeding out, and all.. I introduced myself with a gun and a bad attitude. Kinda one-sided.”

You considered this. “Thou has a valid point.”

You lowered your gaze, brow furrowing faintly in thought. Crook gave a tiny sneeze and tucked himself under your elbow as you thought aloud.

“…I already know thy given name,” you said slowly. “Jason. But not thy full name.”

Jason blinked, not expecting that as your first question. “Oh. Uh… Jason Peter Todd.”

You repeated it under your breath, letting the sounds roll on your tongue like a sacred invocation. “Jason… Peter… Todd.”

You said it again, slower, like a ritual. Jason shifted under your gaze.

“…Why do you say it like you’re about to write it in blood under a full moon?”

You blinked innocently. “It is customary among my people to memorize the full name of one we owe a life-debt to.”

Jason choked on his coffee.

You frowned. “Art thou well?”

He coughed into his sleeve, then wiped his mouth. “Peachy. Just wasn’t expecting the whole life-debt thing before I finished my first cup.”

“Would you rather I not honor the sacred laws of my people?”

“I’m not gonna tell you what to do,” he muttered. “I’m just not used to being someone’s ‘sacred protector’ or whatever.”

You blinked. “You did aid me and bear me to thy den, heal me, and share thy bed.”

Jason froze. “Okay, first off, I didn’t share my bed in that way.”

Your tail flicked in amusement. “I did not imply carnality.”

Jason muttered, “You’re gonna be the death of me,” and took another long sip.

You let your legs dangle off the counter, bare feet swinging lightly. “What other questions am I allowed?”

He raised a brow. “Allowed?”

“Well, I would not wish to stumble into secrets,” you said earnestly. “I can tell thou fights, and fight well. You have scars, more than I have ever seen. And Crook likes you… begrudgingly so he says. This tells me more than you know.”

Crook ruffled indignantly. “I tolerate him at best, doll.”

Jason leaned on the counter again. “Ask what you want. I’ll deflect if it’s too personal.”

You gave a slow nod and tapped a claw against your chin thoughtfully.

“…Why doth thou have white in thy hair? Is it a mark of age or of sorcery?”

Jason glanced up at the offending streak and shrugged. “Gray from stress. Got it when I came back from the dead.”

You stared. “You… what?”

Jason said nothing. Just took another sip, eyes on yours.

You waited.

He didn’t elaborate.

You frowned. “Thou cannot say something so cursed and then remain silent.”

Jason’s lips tugged at the edge. “You said nothing too personal. That one’s definitely too personal.”

You huffed. “Very well. Another, then.”

You looked down at your hands, curling gently around Crook’s small frame.

“…Why here? Why stay in such a place that scars the soul and poisons the air?”

Jason blinked slowly, caught off-guard by the shift in tone.

“…Because it needs people who can fight,” he said finally. “And because I was born here. Can’t shake it. City’s in my bones.”

You tilted your head again, watching him.

“You do not fight for the city, do you?” you asked softly. “You fight because no one else will fight the way you do.”

Jason didn’t answer immediately. He looked out the kitchen window at the skyline of Gotham — gray, jagged, broken and alive.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “That’s pretty much it.”

The coffee machine gurgled its last breath. The silence wrapped around you again, but this time, it felt earned.

You looked around his home once more. The strange things scattered throughout — tiny casings of brass and dull copper. They reeked of smoke and oil. Weapons, you realized. Remnants of his battles. His den was not just a sanctuary — it was a place of preparation. A fortress made not of stone, but of will and grit and brokenness.

You slid down from the counter slowly, tail swaying behind you. You stepped toward him once, cautious, and laid one clawed hand over his wrist. He stiffened slightly but didn’t pull away.

“You carry much, Jason Peter Todd,” you murmured. “More than most mortals could bear.”

His eyes met yours, green meeting silted and slightly glowing (e/c) ones. 

And for a moment. 

Time ceased to exist. 

Jason Todd POV 

Jason had been shot.

 Stabbed.

 Blown up more times than any normal person could or should be able to count.

 Stared into the hollow eyes of men who’d slit throats for spare change, into the muzzle flashes of guns that barked with the weight of decades of blood and rot. And still, nothing had made his damn heart kick the inside of his ribs like the moment her clawed hand landed softly on his wrist and she said—

“You carry much, Jason Peter Todd. More than most mortals could bear.”

Her voice had weight. Not volume—no, she didn’t need that. It had gravity. Like stone circles in the middle of ancient forests. Like moonlight filtering through ash. 

Jasons was by no means a poet.

 He wasn't soft. But the way she said his name—his full name—like it was a psalm instead of a scar, made something old and bitter in you… twitch.

He didn’t move. Not right away. Her hand was warm. The claws didn’t scare you—they were careful, reverent. Like she knew there was something fragile despite the armor he wore, the literal and the metaphorical.

Her eyes—the slit-pupiled kind you only saw in beasts and nightmares—looked at you like you weren’t a ghost. Like you weren’t a walking grave. Like you hadn’t died once already and dragged yourself out of the dirt.

Jason hated it.

And he couldn’t fucking deal with it.

So he pulled back—not forcefully, not enough to hurt her. Just enough to shift the world back into something he could control. He muttered, “I should get ready,” and brushed past her with all the grace of a kicked alley cat.

He didn’t look back, but he could feel her gaze as he headed to the hallway.

Y/N POV

You remained still in the kitchen, bathed in pale golden light as the morning continued its slow crawl across the realm's fractured skyline. The scent of the bitter brew still lingered, curling in strange ways through your nose. You blinked, long and slow, your clawed hand still lifted from where it had rested upon his wrist—as if the ghost of the moment had lingered in your flesh.

Your ears twitched. Your tail swayed, unsettled.

The silence stretched again, but it was no longer stifling. It was heavy. Thick with something unspoken. A pressure that reminded you not of the crushing depths of the sea, but of something more sorrowful. Like fog curling through the bones of a dead forest.

You slowly turned your head.

Crook had settled atop the edge of the kitchen island, puffed up slightly and blinking with one eye squinted. His feathers looked mildly disheveled—likely from being scared awake from your earlier screams of terror. 

The little pigeon fluffed his wings, gave a dramatic huff, and muttered in your mind with a snort of psychic static:

“What’s up his butt?”

You blinked once. Twice. Then a soft, breathy sound escaped you—a sigh. Or something very near to one. Your ears gave a faint twitch, tail curling behind you as you turned to fully face your winged companion.

“I… cannot no for certain,” you murmured, your voice soft and formal, as though speaking in reverence before a sacred grove. “His moods are like forest storms—fleeting, sudden, and oft accompanied by thunder.”

Crook tilted his head to the side, beady eyes gleaming. “Yeah, well, someone’s got thunder wedged where the sun don’t shine.”

Your lips parted again. This time, a laugh escaped you. A quiet trill that left your throat, clawed fingers resting against your lips. The laughter helped. It did not mend the ache in your chest, but it softened its edges.

You stepped back from the counter, gaze drifting once more toward the hallway Jason had vanished through. The shadows there remained undisturbed. Still. Silent.

Then, you said it aloud.

“Jason Todd is a haunted soul… a creature of sharp edges and deep hollows.” Your voice wove like wind through tall grass. “Wounded beyond what even time may fully mend. He walks through shadow with armor of wit and steel, but inside…”

You hesitated, brow furrowing.

“There is a boy who died and was reborn, still clutching the pieces of himself.”

Crook was quiet for a moment, feathers rustling as he adjusted his stance. Then, with surprising gentleness for a Gotham pigeon, he murmured:

“Yeah. I figured that out when I watched as he held a gun to your face and didn’t shoot. That’s trauma-boy language right there.”

You gave a solemn nod, your expression strangely peaceful.

“I do not understand this place. This realm of metal and noise. But I know pain when I see it. I know the weight of grief. I know the shape of ghosts.”

You walked slowly back toward the couch, staff still gleaming faintly in the morning light. The green gem pulsed softly in rhythm with your breath once more. Calm. Measured. But beneath the stillness, your mind stirred like leaves before a coming storm.

You did not know what path the fates had placed you upon, nor why Jason Peter Todd stood at the center of it. But you knew this:

You would not turn away.

Not from the shadows that clung to him.

Not from the story written in his scars.

Not from the heat that bloomed in your chest every time he looked at you like he wasn’t sure whether to fight you or shield you from the world.

Your tail flicked, curling loosely behind you.

You would not run. You were not prey.

You were a daughter of grove and storm.

And Jason Todd, haunted as he was, had caught your interest in a way no one ever had.

Jason Todd POV

Jason shut the bathroom door harder than necessary, just to break the silence.

Jason leaned over the bathroom sink and looked down, his hands clutching the ceramic so tightly it could shatter at any moment. 

It wasn’t her fault. He knew that. 

She didn’t know how raw everything was.

 She didn’t know how fragile the glue holding him together had gotten in the last few years.

 And she sure as hell didn’t know what it meant when someone touched him gently.

Violence, Jason could handle. Threats? Bring it on. 

He’d been sharpened by it all his life. Bullets, knives, fire. Whatever life threw at him he never went down without a fight. 

And Jason always made a fight worthwhile. 

He could flirt, seduce, fuck, maim, kill. 

All these things are familiar, he knew the language of threats. The dance of gunfire. The hum of adrenaline coursing through fractured veins.

He could deal with bruised ribs and underground fights and gunfire echoing down alleyways.

But kindness? That word didn't even exist on his tongue anymore.

It just wasn't Jason's way. 

Especially when it came from someone who looked as soft and as warm as Y/N did. 

The way her strange eyes all but seem to haunt him. 

He shut his eyes, trying to shut it out. The touch of her clawed fingers pressing gently on his wrist. The way her eyes looked at him—soft, forgiving, curious.

That look said: you are worth more than you believe.

He clenched the sink harder, white-knuckled, and something deep in his gut burned—anger, shame, fear. He pulled his hands back, rubbing them over his pants as though the friction could ground him to the earth again.

Jason turned away and stepped towards the shower.

The hot water roared to life when he turned the valve, scalding his skin as he leaned into the shower in a motion honed by muscle memory. He yanked off his shirt, the fibers clinging to bruises and old scars beneath.

A single white streak in his hair—the souvenir from Lazarus—fell over his forehead like a comet’s tail. His reflection in the fogged mirror cracked for a moment. He didn’t need to look closely to see how hollow the emerald of his eyes had grown.

He turned on the shower full blast and stepped beneath it, letting the heat burn away the residue of darkness.

Flashback

He was dead. He remembered that.

Or… something like it.

Death had a texture. It wasn't silence—it was weightless noise. It was the hum of the world moving on without you. No breath, no pain. Just the taste of blood on your tongue, still lingering in memory. Cold stone beneath your back. A crow screaming above.

Then nothing.

Not peace.

Just absence.

But resurrection—resurrection had teeth.

It hit him like a freight train made of fire and screams.

His lungs convulsed before they breathed. Like they'd forgotten what air even was and had to claw it back molecule by molecule. His eyes burst open underwater, saltless and green-lit, and everything around him was wrong. Too bright. Too hot. Too loud.

The Pit boiled like a witch’s brew around him—bubbling, churning, alive. It wasn’t water. It was some twisted imitation—thick like blood, slick like oil, glowing from the inside like green fire.

And it hurt.

God, it hurt like being born inside out.

He gasped, not for oxygen but to scream, only no sound came. Just choking, bile, a guttural roar that shook the chamber. He thrashed—fists slamming against the rock walls slick with condensation. Every nerve in his body had been hooked to a lightning rod.

He was drowning in fire. Dying again, maybe. The Pit didn’t heal—it rewrote. And whatever soul he had left was getting pulled apart and stitched back together like a shredded page being taped into a new language.

Memories surged through him in shattered images:

His mother. Lying. Crying.

A crowbar.

Joker’s grin. That awful, awful laugh.

The last look in Bruce’s eyes, that moment before everything exploded.

Silence.

Then—

BOOM.

His heart restarted like a thunderclap.

His body arched in the Pit, muscles spasming. His fingernails tore bloody grooves in the stone.

He tried to scream again. This time it came out inhuman—a howl, a snarl, an animal mourning its own rebirth.

He clawed his way from the pool, soaking wet and steaming like a corpse dragged from hell’s boiler room. His skin glowed faintly under the sick green light, veins pulsating as if the Lazarus itself still ran through them instead of blood.

He collapsed on the edge of the stone, retching, coughing, gagging. Naked. Shaking. His fingers dug into the earth like he didn’t trust it to stay still beneath him. And his mind—his mind—was a shattered mirror. Too many pieces. Not enough glue.

Footsteps. Voices. None of them real.

He thought he saw Ra’s. Or Talia. Maybe just shadows. All speaking in languages older than Gotham, talking about rebirth and purpose and vengeance.

He couldn’t hear them.

All he could hear was that crowbar again.

Whack.

Whack.

WHACK.

He punched the stone floor until his knuckles split open. Until the rock cracked. Until he remembered his name.

Jason. Jason Peter Todd.

His voice, when it came, was broken glass in a hurricane.

“Where’s… Bruce?”

Not “Where am I?”

Not “What happened?”

“Where’s Bruce?”

Because that was the only name that mattered.

The laughter in his skull didn’t stop.

It echoed. A laugh he’d heard just before he died. Before bones broke and blood splattered the floor of that warehouse.

And it hadn’t stopped since.

Jason dragged himself upright, dripping, burning, vibrating with a fury that wasn’t entirely his own. Something in him howled for blood. For justice. No—not justice.

Retribution.

His rebirth wasn’t clean. It wasn’t holy. It didn’t make him whole again.

It made him a weapon.

When he looked in the mirror later, all he saw was green—green in his eyes where blue used to live. Green in the veins. Green under the skin. And red in his mind.

The Pit hadn’t saved him.

It had unleashed him.

Flashback Over

Back in the shower, he scrubbed violently at himself. Each stroke felt like a confession. Each bead of water washing away, but more of him stayed behind.

He shut the water off and stepped back, breathing hard. Steam wafted around him, hugging the bruised planes of his torso like a ghost that wouldn’t fucking leave.

He toweled off slowly, like his skin had gone too tight to move quickly. The towel smelled like bleach, and something leather-soft underneath—the same detergent he always used, the one he'd picked because it didn’t smell like Wayne Manor. He’d tested a dozen brands before settling on that one.

He didn’t want to smell like that house.

Didn’t want to smell like Bruce.

Didn’t want to smell like a past he kept nailing shut like a coffin lid every fucking day.

With the towel wrapped around his waist, he stepped out into the hallway, steam still clinging to his frame. The apartment was dim in the morning light, shadows slanting through the blinds. Quiet. Too quiet, now that she wasn’t in the kitchen anymore.

That woman—the tiefling, or whatever magical term fit the blue-skinned, clawed and fanged mystery woman curled up in his space—she had touched him.

And worse, she’d meant it.

Jason exhaled, slow and rough, like it might push the memory out.

Her fingers had been soft where they curled around his wrist. Careful. Gentle. Not like a weapon. Not like she was testing his strength or trying to claim him.

She’d just… offered warmth.

And it had cracked something inside him.

Fucking hell.

He reached his bedroom, the towel damp and clinging to his hips.

His room, sparse and simple, had very little in it. And now with the light of day more could be seen. There were Weights in the corner, a battered dresser with a cracked vanity mirror next to it, a nightstand with a gun under the drawer and a bent dog-eared copy of The Count of Monte Cristo on top. The bed was still messy from when he heard your terrified screams and booked it to the living room. 

Nothing in this room said anything of who he used to be. 

Except one thing.

A single photo tucked in the frame of the mirror.

A family photo of the Waynes. 

Bruce, in a suit as always, Alfred dapper and without a single hair out of place, Ace laying down, Dick and Jason shoulder to shoulder. Dick with a smile on his face, Jason with a scowl that simply radiated fuck off.

Back when things still made sense. When he still had a chance of becoming something other than this broken, angry, undead man walking around in a stranger’s skin.

Finally with a final glance to the photo Jason let the towel fall and stood in front of the mirror.

Pale tan skin. Faint scars running along his ribs, his jaw. Bullet hole over his heart. The mark of the crowbar still faint on his shoulder if he twisted just right.

His reflection didn’t flinch.

 But he did.

“Fuck,” he hissed under his breath and slammed the drawer open.

He dressed quickly, like if he moved fast enough, he could outpace the memory.

Underwear. Jeans, dark denim, stained with grease and motor oil from weeks of wear. His old grey Henley—the one that was soft from too many washes and clung to his chest just right. Socks, black. Boots—combat style, worn laces, steel-toed. Still had a scuff mark from when Crook had tried to divebomb him that one night on the fire escape.

He paused at the closet and grabbed the work jacket.

Black canvas. Slightly frayed at the edges. No logos, no bats. Just a simple name patch stitched in white:

“Jay Smith.”

His alias.

His life.

The job didn’t pay shit. The hours were crap. His boss was a grumpy ex-marine who hated everything newer than a ’97 Chevy. But the shop smelled like coffee, grease, and freedom.

And most of all?

Nobody knew who the hell he was.

He wasn’t the dead Robin. He wasn’t Bruce Wayne’s wayward corpse. He wasn’t the Red Hood, scourge of Gotham’s underbelly, feared by cartel, gang, and rogue alike.

He was Jay Smith. A quiet, sarcastic grease monkey who knew how to rebuild a carburetor blindfolded and flirted just enough to keep people guessing.

He didn’t need the job.

He made more shaking down Gotham’s criminal elite than he'd ever make at the shop. Half the time, he’d find duffel bags of drug money just lying around, and he never felt bad about emptying them. Not like the bastards were gonna pay taxes.

And if things ever got really desperate, if Gotham turned to shit and the crime dried up and the safehouses were empty?

He could ask Bruce.

But he wouldn’t.

He’d rather die again.

His jaw clenched hard at the thought, and he tugged the zipper on his jacket too fast, catching the edge of the hem. He cursed and yanked it free.

No fucking way he was taking Bruce’s charity.

Not after everything.

Not after being left in the ground like rot while Bruce picked up a new Robin like Jason had been a goddamn temporary fix.

He grabbed his duffel bag off the floor—already packed. Lunch in foil wrap. Gloves. Extra shirt. A Glock hidden in the side compartment, just in case. A burner phone in the inner pocket, and a cracked Walkman he hadn’t been able to let go of since he was thirteen.

He paused at the bedroom door.

Took a breath.

You were probably curled up somewhere in the living room.

Jason recalls how you’d touched his wrist.

How you spoke so softly.

Told him he carried more than mortals could bear.

And somehow, instead of brushing it off, he’d let it settle. Let it breathe in his chest like it had a right to live there.

He shut his bedroom door with a dull thunk and scrubbed a hand through his still-damp hair, leaving it messy and pushed back. A few strands of the white streak fell forward again, as if defying any attempt at order.

The hallway felt quieter now, like the whole apartment was holding its breath. He adjusted the cuff of his jacket absently and started toward the living room, boots thudding gently on the hardwood.

The smell hit him first—herbs and something floral, earthy, like a greenhouse and a spice shop had gotten into a drunken brawl and made peace over tea. It was coming from you.

You were curled on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, your horns catching the faint morning light that spilled through the sliding glass balcony door. 

Your tail swayed gently, not the anxious flicks from earlier, but a slow, distracted rhythm. In your lap sat that worn, leather satchel—one he vaguely remembered from the rooftop when he came back from grabbing his bike and found you feeding the rat-with-wings. 

Who was still in his home for some reason. 

And speaking of. 

Crook, the very pigeon from hell, sat perched like a smug gargoyle atop your fancy stick, which leaned against the couch’s armrest.

Jason stopped just before you noticed him.

You were staring into the open flap of the satchel, clawed fingers gently pulling aside layers of woven cloth and dried leaves. There were vials, stoppered and glowing faintly. Tiny leather pouches. Knotted roots. A few rings glinting silver in the folds of fabric, and a string of tiny polished bones.

It looked like some weird-ass potion vendor’s bag from one of those fantasy games someone had tried to drag him into years ago.

He cleared his throat softly, but you’d already sensed him.

Your eyes lifted, wide and lambent gold, like a deer catching sunlight between the trees.

Jason sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “You make a habit of carrying around a whole damn apothecary in that thing, or is this just a special occasion?”

You gave a soft smile and placed a corked vial back in its nest. “Tis not unusual. In the Verdant Lands, one must always carry healing at their side… or at least enough to soothe a snake bite or a bruised heart.”

“…Right.” He crossed the room slowly, standing behind the other end of the couch. Crook gave a low, irritated coo, shifting his feathers like a grumpy old man.

Jason pointed a warning finger at the bird. “Don’t start, You're lucky I let you stay the night.”

The bird simply lets out a coo and Jason watches as You choked back a giggle, covering your mouth quickly.

Jason narrowed his eyes. “He said something, didn’t he?”

You nodded, the amusement tugging at your lips. “Aye. He claims thine very being here is rude.”

Jason let out a dry laugh, low and scratchy. “Carful rat, making you into soup is still an option.”

After your laugh settled the mood shifted awkwardly, and Jason glanced toward the door and then back to you. You were still watching him like he was something… safe. 

That look made his skin itch. 

“I’m headed out.” he said, scratching the side of his jaw. “Work.”

Your brow furrowed. “I see.“ and tilted your head, horns catching the light. “And this… work. You must leave for many hours, one would assume?”

“Yep. I’ll be gone most of the day. Should be back around five, maybe six if the new kid fucks something up again.” He hesitated. “That’s… like when the sun starts to fall, okay?”

Your tail curled tightly at your side. “And thou… would leave me alone?”

Jason didn’t miss the tension in your voice. The way your claws curled slightly against the satchel’s fabric.

“I’ll only be a few blocks away,” he said gruffly. “You’re safe here. No one knows you’re here. No one’s coming for you.”

He shoved his hands in his jacket pockets, shoulders stiff. “But yeah. I can’t stick around all day. Gotta keep up appearances.”

You nodded once, slowly, clearly trying to understand the strange ritual of "work" in Gotham.

Jason shifted again, then blew out a sigh. “Okay, so... a few things.”

You perked up, listening intently.

“First—don’t open the door. At all. Doesn’t matter who it is. You don’t know ‘em, you don’t answer. Got it?”

You nodded solemnly.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Second, don’t touch any of the weapons. Some are loaded. Some aren’t. Doesn’t matter. Just don’t.”

“Understood,” you said, voice steady.

“And last… just don’t burn the place down or open a portal to hell or whatever it is druids do.”

You looked vaguely insulted. “I am a druid of the Grove, Jason Peter Todd. I heal and ask nature for aid.. I do not open portals.”

He raised his hands. “Alright, alright. My bad.”

Crook flapped his wings once, then resettled.

Jason scratched his neck again. “There’s food in the fridge—cold box in the kitchen. I think I saw some damn apples in there. Eat if you’re hungry. And water’s from the sink, it’s fine.”

You gave him a small nod and Jason watched the tip of your tail sway from side to side and he watched as you turned your face to stare at the TV. 

He rubbed at the back of his neck again. 

Eventually he sighed and he moved.

His boots thudded lightly on the worn wood floors as he walked to the middle of the room where he picked up the remote. 

You meanwhile still staring at the TV like it might come alive and lunge at you. Jason didn’t blame you. As he was sure you were still traumatized from your earlier exploration.  

Jason paused, thumb hovering over the power button.

“Relax. It won’t attack you,” he muttered. “It’s not like... that screen from earlier.”

You looked at the TV warily. “Thou swear it?”

He exhaled through his nose, flicking the screen on with a dull click. Color flared to life. The screen came alive with swaying yellow grass, blue sky, and strange lithe creatures grazing in the open fields.

“There. Animal Planet.” He dropped the remote into your lap. “It’s not some horror show. Just... weird Earth animals doing weird Earth animal things.”

You studied the screen as a herd of deer-like creatures bounded through the grasslands, their delicate legs barely touching the earth. 

Your brows drew tight.

Jason watched your face as a lioness appeared on-screen, belly low to the dirt as she slunk through the brush. The camera zoomed in on her golden eyes, feral and focused.

“That one’s called a lion,” Jason added. “She’s the boss out there. Queen of the plains. Kills what she eats, protects what’s hers.”

Your eyes were glued to the screen now, entirely absorbed.

Jason let the silence hang for a few beats. He could almost feel the whirring in your head—the slow knitting together of what you did understand and what still confused the hell out of you.

“And if this thing—” he pointed at the remote, “—starts playing something else and you get spooked again, just press this.” He guided your fingers to the power button, firm but not unkind. “This turns it off. Dead. Silent. No more... demons screaming.”

You nodded, biting your lip slightly. “A simple charm, then. Press to bind the spirit. Press again to banish it.”

Jason blinked. “...Yeah. Sure. Let’s go with that.”

Crook ruffled his feathers, looking as smug as ever.

Jason moved toward the door, grabbing his key ring from the wall hook. His jacket rustled with the motion, the name patch—“Jay”—catching the light.

You stood carefully as he reached for the handle.

“Will thou…return safely?” you asked softly.

Jason froze for a half second. The weight of that question was heavier than it should’ve been. People didn’t usually ask that. Or if they did, it wasn’t like that—like you meant it.

He turned halfway, green eyes catching yours again. “Yeah,” he said. “I always do.”

He hesitated, then nodded to Crook. “Keep her company, you little feathered bastard.”

Crook puffed his chest proudly.

Jason opened the door. The city’s noise filtered in faintly—sirens, traffic, the buzz of Gotham being Gotham.

He paused for a moment and turned back to see you, still watching him as he stood in the doorway. 

“Hold down the fort till I come back, you hear.” 

You tilted your head, solemn. “ I vow upon the Verdant Mother’s grace—no man, or beast shall lay harm upon your home.”

Jason blinked. “...Okay. That was… Dramatic, but I appreciate it.”

He didn't say anything else, just shook his head and muttered under his breath as he stepped into the hallway and locked the door behind him.

“Gods, saints, hell—whatever’s listening. Just let my apartment still be standing when I get back.”

And with those final words the day of Jay Smith begins.