Jason stepped down onto the pavement, keys jangling in his hand. Sasha was at his heels, stuffing a sketchpad into her tote bag, brushing her crimson hair off her face with one hand. The sky was a brilliant shade of orange, streaked through with purple and pink as the sun approached the horizon. In the distance, though, there was the promise of rain to come, with dark and heavy clouds building up over the Gotham skyline.
"Go to the car," Jason said, turning back to lock the bookstore up for the night. "Think about what you want for dinner."
"Pirozhki," Sasha said immediately. Jason exhaled through his nose, feeling his jaw clench.
"Not tonight, Sash," he said, trying the handle to be sure the door was locked. "I was going to buy something."
Sasha made a face, making her way down the alleyway that ran down one side of the store. Jason followed, glancing down at his phone before tucking it back into the pocket of his jacket. The leather was soft under his fingers, though the smell of smoke clung to it with a vicious tenacity. Try as he might, he couldn't get it out.
It didn't bother him, for the most part.
Jason pulled his cigarettes from his pocket, bringing the packet to his lips and pulling one free, stuffing it back away as he patted down his pockets looking for his lighter. He dug it out from the back of his jeans and flicked it, bringing the little flame to the tip, exhaling slowly.
They made it to the car, parked behind their building. Jason's eyes roamed over the classic 1974 Camaro he'd picked up at a car yard in Bludhaven not long after getting out of Arkham. His car had been trashed, and this was the first thing he'd found that felt right. He was working on the damn thing every other week, but it kept his hands busy, kept his mind from wandering back into that place. Between the bookstore, the car, and the violent vigilantism, Jason was good, mostly.
"Boss," Sasha said, waving a hand in front of his face. "Stop brooding. I want to go home."
"I'm not brooding," Jason grumbled, pulling open the driver's door and climbing inside. He pressed his head against the steering wheel a moment, closing his eyes.
"Stop that," Sasha said, buckling her seatbelt. "You're getting ash on the seat."
Jason flicked the ash out the window and brought the cigarette back to his lips. Sasha pulled a face, pointedly winding her window down, one hand working the crank hard.
"What do you want for dinner?" Jason said, feeling the engine roar to life.
"Anything," Sasha said, staring out the windscreen at the setting sun. "I don't care."
Jason sighed and rubbed his forehead, putting the car into gear and pulling out onto the road. He couldn't help but feel like he fucked up with Sasha - like he was constantly fucking up with Sasha. He wasn't sure how much of her deal was teenage rebellion he could ignore, and how much was unaddressed trauma he needed to do something about.
He certainly had plenty of experience in that area, at least.
It wasn't a long drive between the bookstore and the safehouse, which was a partially converted factory just outside Crime Alley. The exterior was still hewn brick, and a faded, peeling sign above the door listed it O'Malley's Cobbler Services, but inside it had been fully renovated into something resembling an apartment.
Jason pulled the car into the nook between the two buildings, killing the engine and getting out, cracking his neck. He and Sasha made their way inside, his fingertips brushing the bottom of the O'Malley's sign above his head. He slid the deadbolt across on the door, locking it and locking it again, before turning to glance around their apartment.
On the far wall were the bedrooms, with a bathroom between them. Sasha slipped into hers, dragging her tote bag stuffed full of art supplies with her, presumably to change into something more comfortable than ripped jeans and a fishnet shirt. Jason's eyes roamed over the wall of firearms and blades, taking quick mental stock that everything was where he left it, that the safe full of ammunition that ran the length of the wall beneath it was still locked and undisturbed.
He adjusted the fruit bowl, counted the apples inside, and pulled out his phone to check it again. He looked up to find Sasha, now in her pyjamas and with a paintbrush tucked behind one ear, staring at him.
"What?" He said, a little defensively.
"Nothing," she replied. "When are you getting dinner?"
"Have you decided what you want yet?"
"I told you, I don't care."
Jason groaned. Why did teenage girls have to be so difficult? He opened the fridge, scanning the contents for a few moments - maybe they did have the ingredients to make pirozhki - before pulling out a bottle of soda and unscrewing the cap. He took a drink, glancing back at Sasha, who had curled up on the couch with her sketchbook and a watercolour palette.
"Use a cup," Sasha said, focused on her painting. "You are not an animal."
Jason gave her the finger with his free hand, swallowing. He capped the bottle and returned it to the fridge, wiping his mouth on his shirt sleeve, before turning back to the teenager, who'd settled into the couch comfortably.
"I'm going to get dinner," he said. Sasha barely acknowledged him, just gave him a vague hum and returned her focus to her work. Jason sighed and swiped up his keys from the counter, heading back outside. He locked the door behind him, glancing around the darkened streets with caution. It wasn't that he thought Sasha couldn't defend herself. It was more that this was Gotham, and Gotham was a nightmare of a place.
In the drive-thru, Jason cast a furtive glance down at his phone, sitting on the passenger seat with the screen facing up. He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel and shifted gears, creeping forward behind the long line of cars that had also decided fast food was the way to go for tonight's meal. Jason's phone remained stubbornly silent, nary so much as an Instagram follower or a call, but most certainly not what he was hoping for most.
A text.
Just one text. He didn't think he was being unreasonable, in hoping for a message. There had been something between them! Something electric and undeniable, at least in his eyes. Something he wanted to shout from the rooftops. He wanted to say to the world, look at this woman! She's stunning, she makes Shakespeare references, and so far, so far, she hasn't missed a beat when I throw obscure literary references at her!
It was undeniably attractive.
Jason handed a wad of bills to the cashier, accepting his bucket of fried chicken and bag full of sides, depositing them on the passenger seat. The food obscured his view of his phone, and he didn't check it again the whole way home, focused instead on getting back before Sasha got bored and took it out on the target set up near the armoury.
After a round of gymnastics with his keys, the lock, and the food bundled in his arms, Jason made it back inside the safehouse, where Sasha had not moved from the couch in the whole forty minutes he'd been gone. She barely even looked up when he called out, "Hey, Sash, food," but she did set aside her sketchbook and paints when he started unloading the bag onto the kitchen counter.
Sasha looked at the bucket of fried chicken with something resembling disdain, but she threw a few pieces onto a plate. She started scooping mashed potato and gravy beside it, before reaching out to steal a handful of Jason's fries.
Jason didn't even bother admonishing her, preferring instead that she eat.
"Did you get bread rolls?" Sasha looked up expectantly. Jason dropped the box of rolls onto the counter, and she dove upon it, tearing the bread apart and adding it to her plate. She made her way back over to the couch, plate piled high with food.
Shaking his head, Jason added some chicken to his own plate, watching as Sasha dug into her food with wild abandon. He brought his plate over to the couch and skirted the table, taking a seat on the other side of her, setting his plate down on the table.
He reached for his phone, and swiped it open, checking his messages. His inbox remained stubbornly empty. Jason sighed, taking a bite of his chicken and chewing slowly, setting his phone down beside him.
Sasha watched all this in silence with a knowing gleam in her eye.
When he glanced at his phone for what felt like the hundredth time, she finally spoke up, saying, "You know, boss, you could always text her first."
"I'm not texting anyone," Jason grumbled. "Eat your mashed potato."
"You're not texting anyone, but you could be if you made the first move," Sasha teased, and a rare smile broke out on her face.
"Shut up," Jason said. He cast a sidelong glance at her. She was still looking at him with that shit-eating grin.
"I'm just saying," Sasha said.
"You don't even like her," Jason replied. "You're caustic."
"I'm a bitch, what can I say?" Sasha gave a rare laugh. "It doesn't matter if I like her, boss. You like her. So text her."
Jason fell silent, running his thumb along the side of his phone. He could text her. She'd given him her number, and he looked down at his screen, and those little words taunted him:
What light through yonder window breaks?
After a moment, and with some hesitation, he quickly typed:
Parting is such sweet sorrow.
He hit send, closed his eyes and groaned.
"Good job," Sasha said. The little shit was laughing at him. "Now you just have to wait for a reply."
Jason bit his tongue so he wouldn't tell her to shut up again. Instead, he settled for ruffling her hair, and saying, "Go pack the dishwasher. It's your turn."
Sasha rolled her eyes, but gathered the plates, throwing the scraps into the compost bin and rinsing them off. She loaded the dishwasher methodically with the stack of dishes sitting beside the sink, closing it with a thrust of her hip and turning it on. Jason smiled, leaning back into the couch comfortably. He wasn't sure what he wanted to do with the rest of the night.
"Are we going out tonight?" Sasha asked, flopping down beside him and picking up her sketchbook. The page it was open to was beautiful, of a woman painted in melancholy blues and greys, her expressive eyes dark and heavy.
"Not tonight," Jason replied. "You've been working hard lately, and we could use a night to recuperate."
"I'll check the armoury," Sasha moved to get up, but Jason caught her by the hand, tugging her back down onto the couch.
"No," he shook his head. "No, I want you to relax. Work on your paintings. I'm going to read a book."
Sasha shrugged, reaching for her sketchbook, while Jason got to his feet and made his way back to his room.
His room was, in his opinion, the safest room in the safehouse. It just felt that way. In the centre of the room, the headboard up against the window, was his bed. The comforter was a deep indigo, his pillows an assortment of black and blue, with a single brightly coloured knitted cushion on the top, striped yellow and red. The bed was Jason's haven, but it was not what made his room feel like his.
Lining the whole left-hand wall was floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, stuffed full of everything imaginable. There was a whole shelf dedicated to the classics, various sci-fi and fantasy titles scattered amongst the shelves. There was a healthy contingent of contemporary fiction, including a well-read, battered copy of The Secret History. Jason's fingers trailed the shelves, searching for the perfect book to settle in with on his night off.
"Aha," he said softly, his fingers brushing soft pages. He pulled free a long-loved copy of Romeo and Juliet from the shelf, and made his way over to his bed, kicking his shoes off and climbing onto it. He shifted around uncomfortably, realising he should've changed out of his jeans and t-shirt if he had intended to settle in.
With a groan, he kicked off his jeans and rolled over, swiping a pair of tracksuit pants from the floor. He pulled them on, shimmying into them while remaining prone on the bed, before settling back into his nest of pillows and his downy comforter, opening the thin little book, punctuated by a rose on the cover.
Romeo and Juliet was certainly not his favourite of Shakespeare's plays. He'd read a lot of them, and the one that had resonated with him most had been Hamlet, though he had a soft spot for A Midsummer Night's Dream. However, something about the idea of two kids in love, succeeding despite it all - it called to him, tonight, and he wanted to read this play, this tragedy and comedy in equal parts, to completion.
He glanced at his phone, but it remained resolute in its silence.
It was just after nine-thirty. He'd read for an hour or two, check on Sasha, and then get ready for bed. That was what he told himself - but as he read, he became absorbed. He turned each page slowly, savouring every line, every witty repartee and each confession of love. He smiled, he laughed, and as he neared the end, a single tear rolled down his cheek.
It was amazing, the power literature had over him, even still. Even after everything he'd been through.
Jason closed the book, bringing it up to his face and inhaling the scent of the pages. It was a delicate scent, papery and faintly sweet, and to him, it smelled like home. He checked his phone; it had taken him an hour and a half to read Romeo and Juliet, so he figured it was time to check on Sasha.
When he made his way back out to the open space they called a living room, he found Sasha curled up on the couch, dozing lightly. He grabbed a throw off the back of the couch and placed it over her, tucking it around her sleeping body. His fingers glanced along her chin, for just a moment, before he pulled back with a smile.
"Goodnight," he murmured, and reached up to flick off the buzzing fluorescents overhead. He left the kitchen light on - it was dimmer, easier to handle when just waking up. Jason left Sasha sleeping on the couch and made his way to the bathroom, where he washed his face and brushed his teeth. He pulled his phone from his pocket, but it hadn't so much as buzzed, hadn't done anything at all. He sighed and tucked it away, spitting toothpaste foam into the sink.
He made his way back to his room, stroking the cover of Romeo and Juliet before returning it to its place on the shelf. He scanned the books again, not quite ready for bed, hesitating over The Bell Jar before pulling free his copy of Wuthering Heights. The spine was cracked, but he had only read it a handful of times; it certainly was not as well-loved as the copy of Pride and Prejudice he kept at the bookstore.
Jason curled up in bed, book in hand, and allowed himself to become absorbed in the story of the tortured Heathcliff. He read and he read until his vision was blurring and his head became heavy until finally, his phone gave a sharp trill from beside him.
He blinked, wiping at his eyes, rubbing them with one balled-up fist. He set his book aside and picked up the phone, unlocking it. Two-thirty in the morning. He should've been asleep hours ago, but awaiting him was a text.
A text from Steph.
I shall say goodnight till it be morrow.
Jason clutched his phone to his chest with a grin, closing his eyes and exhaling slowly.
"For you," he said aloud, though no one, and certainly not Steph, could hear him, "I can wait until tomorrow."
