a/n:
(wrote this last december 2022 and completely forgot to cross post it here. story can also be found on my ao3 account under the same name)
i've been meaning to write an arkham knight!jason story for a while now and only got around to doing it now. i always knew it was going to be heavy so i'm not sure how to properly tag this story. if you find something that i should warn readers about, please let me know...
fair warning, and a spoiler for the fic but i feel it needs to be said, there's a part in this story where the reader blames jason for the pain she's been through even if it isn't his fault. i know this type of thing can be a sensitive topic so please tread carefully.
.
also. disclaimer.
i have like no medical knowledge whatsoever. everything i get is from google and, like, i write things that are convenient for the plot. so sorry if there're errors. same goes for like... therapy related stuff.
.
PS. title comes from "be kind" by halsey and marshmello
Before
It had brought you some solace, the words on your skin.
They appeared suddenly, the letters slightly ticklish, like a ballpoint pen gliding across your skin, maybe even just a feather with how light and gentle it was. You'd been in class when you first felt the sensation, saw a list of food and toiletries being jotted down the palm of your hand. By your wrist, a quick computation followed by a couple of snacks being crossed out.
It was confusing, alarming, but at the same time, comforting.
Because these words, no matter how simple, how random, how inconsequential, kept you company in your loneliest moments.
In the darkness of your room, the ink on your arms, sometimes drawings, other times quotes from books you've never read before, made you feel like you were seen, that someone wanted to let you in.
And even when the ink was replaced by wounds, cuts, and bruises that you watched heal and fade, you weren't scared. You felt the pain, the impact of the injuries, but instead of worrying about yourself, about how you were getting hurt without doing anything, you couldn't help but think that this, this is only a fraction of what it felt like on the other end.
Because you aren't alone in this. There's someone out there who used to write poetry for you, lyrics of songs that you'd hum to yourself on the school bus, and that person is fighting and hurting, and how can you feel anything but worry, sympathy, for the person whose scars now litter your own body.
There's a story out there of pain and suffering, maybe even triumph, and you can do nothing but read between the lines on your skin, piece together the clues it gives you, how the skin hardens to protect itself and how ugly it can get the more its torn apart.
…
You wake up in the hospital and for once, you don't panic. By now, it's a familiar, almost like home. The white walls, the steady beeping of a monitor, the murmured chatter. In a twisted way, you feel calm, relaxed, peaceful. Because no matter how isolated you are, how lonely it is when no one is there to welcome you back, at least you are no longer in pain.
Maybe it's the drugs they're pumping into your blood stream or maybe, maybe you've been out for so long that you've healed, come back to earth good as new, or as good as you can be. Chipped, cracked, but not broken beyond repair, not yet.
But you know it won't last long, that the pain always comes back.
If you didn't know the cause of it, you'd almost think you were cursed, that maybe you had offended some deity or witch. Because this pain is different from before. Before, the pain only took your breath away, stopped you in your tracks. Sometimes, it knocked you out, but you've only ever woken up with a headache after. Nothing some Advil couldn't fix. But now, now it feels like a joke, like you're somebody's plaything. The pain inflicted is like a test—a little experiment to see how much you can take, how far the human body can go before it gives up.
There were days when it felt like you were being electrocuted, your body crumbling to the ground, convulsing, and you're left with nothing to do but scream while the people around you call for help, watch in horror as you're attacked by an invisible force. Other times, you're knocked out of your seat, head flung back, nose bleeding, jaw aching.
And maybe if it was just that, shocks to your system, blows to your face, your gut, that would be okay, because if the scars on your body had anything to say, it would show that you've survived at least that much.
But this, this constant torture, makes you think that you only have so much fight in you, and you're tired and afraid. You're scared to leave your room, scared that some outside factor could hurt you, too. That maybe you'd feel a hit in the ribs so hard, so strong, that you'd trip down the stairs, fall into traffic.
And maybe the impact on your side would push the other person over the edge, aggravate what already fatal injuries they have, and it could be the last straw.
Because this, this phenomenon—blessing? miracle? voodoo? curse?—is rare, almost unheard of, a fairytale, and there's no telling how it works, the extent of it, the connection. What once was just simple doodles across your skin was now a black eye, broken bones, a burst appendix, internal bleeding.
And from the pain in your chest, the way it's become so obvious to you that you're breathing, that something that's supposed to be reflex, natural, now feels like a great effort to do, you think that this, this could be the end. That any more of this and you're not going to make it to tomorrow.
"Do you want us to call somebody?"
"It's alright. I can make it back on my own."
"No, I mean, should we get someone from the police to come? Are you safe at home?"
The doctors and nurses look at you in sympathy, concern, making up their own stories in their head. You tell them that you're clumsy, that you were probably born under an unlucky star, but there's only so many injuries that you can pass of as consequence of losing your balance, of not looking where you were going, of the natural misfortunes of living in Gotham City.
You don't want to get anyone involved, don't even know what to say to the police if they asked, even the doctors can't figure it out, how a person's body can just hurt itself the way yours does. How can you explain the scars around your chest, wrists, and legs, the way it looks like you'd been tied down with rope and barbed wire? The bruises on your back? The way it looks like you'd been beaten with a bat, maybe even something stronger, with sharper edges? The scar on your check, the raised skin spelling the letter J?
Even you don't know how to cover that up, in all sense of the word. You stare at it in the mirror and somehow it glares back at you as if it's supposed to mean something, remind you of something. It feels like a label of sorts, a brand.
And of all the stories the scars on your skin can tell, this is the one you want to hear the most. And yet, you're scared to know what's behind it. Because it can't be good. Surprisingly, it's the worse of the marks on your skin, worse than the gash down your leg, the new bullet sized one on your chest.
Because this, this simple letter, somehow carries a weight to it. It's heavy on your face, distorts your features. And maybe that's why it's ugly. Because it's taken something from you, made it difficult to recognize yourself, to remember the person you were before it was forced upon you.
And it's this stupid J that made a connection that once brought you comfort, made you feel less lonely, dirty, tainted it in ways that you feel like it will never be clean again, never be the same, never be beautiful again.
After Part I
Jason knows what to expect with cheap apartments in Gotham City—a shitty living experience.
The shower water is cold, if there is even any coming through the pipes at all, the floorboards are creaky, and the walls are thin. Which is fine. Jason prefers that he knows what the people around him are doing anyway, would hate to be caught by surprise. And, he won't admit it, but nowadays, silence unnerves him, leaves him with his thoughts, which, haven't been good to him recently, for a while now.
And frankly, it's entertaining, listening to the petty squabbles happening in the apartment to his right, how they argue over the trash piling up, and why the TV only seems to be broadcasting porn. The drug dealers living above him were a talkative bunch, too, always laughing, bragging about some kid they recruited last week, how fast he was, how easy it was for him to get away from the cops. There were talks about bringing along his sister, someone less inconspicuous. At least, that was before Jason took care of them.
Again, there is some benefit to the lack of privacy his apartment building provides. In this part of Gotham, people tend to keep to themselves anyway, have learned that it's better to mind your own business. So, the other tenants may choose to ignore the kind of activity that happens in the back alley, turn a blind eye at sketchy neighbors, the kind that walk funny, smell a little weird, but Jason's always been able to handle himself, always knew how to fight people so much bigger than him.
All things considered, after everything, Jason has been doing okay for himself.
Sure, he isn't great. He still has his nightmares to keep him company at night, still has this rage bubbling inside him, the feelings of hurt and betrayal still leave a bad taste in his mouth, but he's okay. He's alive, at least.
It helps that he can keep himself busy. That the criminals on the street, no matter how many guns they carry on them, no matter how much armor they have on, are still scared of things that go bump in the night. And Jason has been trained to work in the shadows, knows how to use them to his advantage.
…
It was like a mouse was living next door.
Jason knows that the apartment to his left is occupied, hears the quiet signs of life through his living room wall, but he's never seen them. They shuffle around their room, their footsteps light, careful, almost deliberately silent, the music they play is always just a soft hum, gentle vibrations that lulls Jason to sleep when he's staying on his sofa, beat from the night out. Sometimes he hears them when they're about to cook, pots and pans being placed on the stove. Other times, he hears them rearrange the books on their shelf, the sound almost therapeutic, and in the early hours of the morning, he can hear the typing of a keyboard, the clicking of, well, a mouse.
But other than that, Jason's never heard them speak, never heard the front door open the entirety of his stay. Chances are their times have never matched up, that they leave and come back while Jason's out, but still. If Jason didn't know better, he would think that maybe the apartment next door was haunted by a ghost cursed to go about the motions of its previous life.
Which is why, he's uncharacteristically caught by surprise when he sees his neighbor in the hallway, arms wrapped tightly around a brown grocery bag. It's late, Jason's just about to head out to follow up on a lead, and his neighbor, a girl no older than he is, is just coming in.
She looks up at him when she feels his stare and the first thing he notices is that half her face is covered by a surgical mask. The light blue fabric somehow highlighting the dark circles under her eyes, the fading bruise on her temple. Jason thinks he should probably avert his eyes now, go back to what he was doing, leave before she does something he'll regret, like strike a conversation.
But something about her keeps Jason in his place.
It's probably because she's looking him over too, her tired eyes studying him from head to toe. And Jason has to wonder what she sees. Because like everyone else, she looks at him warily, sees his large size, the scowl on his face, the bruises on his knuckles, and knows that he's bad news. There's this aura about him that tells people that they should keep their distance, to mind their own business. And somehow the scar on his face helps seal the deal, makes him look like someone you don't want to associate with.
And people in the halls, on the street tend to look away once they see the pale, puckered flesh, their eyes twitching to look at anything but him. And he waits for her to do the exact same, waits for the widening of her eyes, the sharp intake of breath before she scrambles to get back into her apartment, away from him.
But she doesn't.
Instead, the moment her eyes land on the J, a series of emotions play on her face, and none of them fear. He doesn't have much to go on, the mask obscuring most of her tells, but her eyes, her eyes are expressive despite being worn out. They're sad at first, almost weepy, and Jason knows this look, loathes being pitied, but in the next second, there's a fire in them, anger. And that's familiar, he's seen that same look in the mirror more than once, which is probably why he should have seen it coming.
But honestly who would have expected his mouse like neighbor to attack? To go absolutely feral?
…
There was so much you wanted to say, to ask, and you always thought that when you meet them, you'll know the exact words that would come out of your mouth. You figured you'd introduce yourself, maybe even explain this connection you have, ask if they want to be friends because something as special as this cannot be ignored, dismissed.
But what comes out is a snarl, a sort of inhuman noise that perfectly fits your actions.
You didn't think you could actually take him down, he's so much bigger than you and obviously stronger, but if you could maybe get a scratch in, wrinkle his clothes, rip a bigger hole in his jeans, then you'd feel better. Never mind the fact that whatever pain you inflict on him would come back to you, at least this time, you tell yourself, this time you'll see it coming, this time it's going to be your choice.
But of course, things don't go your way. Because of course this man's reflexes were quick, catching you and twisting your arms in such a way that they were now behind your back, immobilizing you. His grip is strong, almost painful, but you don't care. You've had worse and frankly if he hurts you, then that would be the best wakeup call he could have. Because you've been so careful over the years and he probably didn't even know you existed, how strong this link between you two is, and if he breaks your arm then you'll get to laugh in his face when the same thing happens to him.
"What the fuck is your problem?" He growls out.
"You are!" You bark back, pulling against his hold. He only tightens his grip to an almost bruising extent, and you feel yourself smile when he lets out a hiss. "Painful, isn't it?"
"What the heck are you doing?"
"Pretty sure you did that, big guy."
And he's quiet after that, probably confused, you can't tell with him standing behind you, but you feel him test his hold on your arms, varying the strength of it. And it hurts, sometimes, but you let him figure that out on his own. When it goes on for too long, you take matters into your own hands. You twist your wrist so that you can pinch the skin of your forearm and he yelps, releasing you.
"Stop that." He says with a sour look on his face.
"You stop it," you retort childishly. He obviously doesn't appreciate your tone, but you don't care. You have bigger problems, like the fact that he looks like he's leaving for the night. Which isn't good news. "You're going out again aren't you."
He turns his nose up. "What's it to you?"
And you really want to hurt him, but again, you can't, which is getting more frustrating the longer you're in the same vicinity.
"Do us both a favor and don't get your ass kicked, will ya?" You gesture to the bruise on the side of your temple, the hit you felt knocking you out of your seat while you were working. You had seen stars, almost missed a deadline because of it.
You don't give him a chance to respond, reveling in the almost guilty look on his face, and you march back to your door, unlocking it with little difficulty, thankfully. You don't know what you'd do if you somehow messed that up in front of him.
It's only when you're in the comfort of your living room that you realize that you left your groceries on the floor outside.
"Asshole."
…
Jason doesn't realize how lonely he's been until he had someone else's welfare to think about.
Back then, before…before, he had a partner, a family, and he made sure they didn't get hurt, tried his best not to get hurt either if only just so they don't worry about him, have to take care of him when he can't do it himself. And, it was good, back then, he remembers how nice it felt to have people to depend on and to be depended on as well.
But it's been so long. And he's been on his own for years, the people he worked with were nothing more than colleagues, employees, only there because they were beneficial to him and vice versa. Now, recently, he's been going out without caring about what happens to him, not really. Yes, he'll make damn sure that no low-level goon gets the best of him, and he won't let the likes of Batman's ex-rogues get away without a fight, would make damn sure that if he's going down, they're going down with him, but he's only human and although there was a time he felt like after all he's been through, he was invincible, maybe even thought that he could live forever, he has a clearer mind now, a better grasp at reality.
Not the best, but thankfully better than before.
Which is why after a moment of confusion, of disbelief, of denial, he can now admit what his mouse of a neighbor is to him, what she's supposed to be, and he's trying to be better now, doesn't want to hurt innocent people, so he's a little more careful at his job because of it, because of her.
Which is a good thing, all things considered. He dodges quicker, that's for sure, thinks of better, sneakier ways to subdue criminals, to keep the fight from getting too big, too chaotic, and really, it's all he can do to avoid the worst of injuries. He really can't say the same for his fists. The guns are more efficient, sends a better message, but really, when someone gets too close, punching the daylights out of them is more of a reflex than anything.
Bruised knuckles are ten times better than a black eye or a shot to the knee so he's not going to be picky about it, tells himself that she would know that it could be worse.
And for the past few weeks he's been good, comes home whole, the heavy-duty stuff in his first aid kit mostly untouched, but he's not made of stone. When he gets shot in the arm, he bleeds. A lot.
It's really the voice of Alfred in his head that forces him out of his sofa to get the first aid kit from the bathroom. It says a lot about his injury, the amount of blood he's lost, that that wasn't his first instinct when he got back. Really, he's just so tired that all he wants to do is go back to sleep.
And although he isn't psychic, doesn't know shit about what his future holds, he knows that this isn't how he's going to die, alone in his apartment, swimming in his own blood, so, he moves, sluggishly, but he's further from the sofa than he once was so that's progress.
It's the series of knocks on his door that stops him halfway through his journey. He thinks to ignore them, that whoever's outside is going to grow tired, probably think that he's not even home, but the knocks continue, there's an insistence to them, a demand that he open the door.
And Jason would hate for that noise to be in the background while he patches himself up, thinks that it would probably make things worse somehow, agitate him. So, he drags himself over, angles his arm in a way that the person on the other side won't see it, and opens the door with a glare.
It's her. The mouse.
"About time," she says by way of greeting, pushing past him easily. Jason sees that she has her own first aid kit in her hand and her arm is wrapped in bandages. It's the same arm as his, almost like looking in the mirror, only he's still bleeding all over his floor.
And maybe, maybe that's why she's here. She knows he needs help, knew the minute he got hurt, and she could have ignored it, dealt with her own injury, and call it a day. Yet she's here now.
And Jason sags in relief, glad to know that he isn't alone tonight.
…
It would have been easier to pretend he was still some stranger on the other side of your link, some faceless figure, if he wasn't so nice to you.
But he just had to leave new groceries by your front door. He just had to fix your broken lock when he saw you struggling with it the other day. He just had to glare down the creepy tenant on the fifth floor, the one who looked at you for too long whenever you passed by, threatened him, told him to mind his own business, to not bother you.
He just had to be careful.
It doesn't escape your notice that it's been a while since you've been hurt, since you've felt a punch in the gut, a hit to the head. So long that your bruises have finally had the chance to fade and your skin looks almost like it did before. It's never going to be the same, time cannot heal the scars, but at least you're no longer black and blue.
That's why when you're jolted out of sleep with a scream inducing pain, you know something's wrong. The blood no longer scares you, no longer makes you sick, but your hands still shake when you gage the damage, clean it up, and wrap it. And it's supposed to end here. There's nothing you can do now but go back to sleep, hope that you're not woken up by another mystical attack.
But you can't. The apartment next door is quiet, empty, and you find that you won't be able to rest until you know he's back.
So, you don't care about the ruckus you're making in the early hours of the morning. You don't care that the parents down the hall are glaring at you through the crack of their door, the sounds of a baby crying are quiet compared to your knocking. You don't care. Because he's on the other side of this door and he could be dying and no matter how angry you were, are at him for getting the both of you hurt, you can't just leave him now that you know he's right there.
"I have so many questions," you say when you've finished your wrapping. It took longer than you would have liked, but he aggravated it on his way back from wherever he was, and you had to make sure that it wouldn't get infected. You don't know what would happen to you if it did. "But something tells me I won't like the answer."
"Smart girl," he rasps out. He's tired, that much is obvious, but he doesn't let himself rest. He watched you the whole time you worked, probably making sure that you did it correctly.
"But I feel like I deserve it. You don't know how it was like, getting hurt without seeing what it was that was attacking you."
And it's obviously the wrong thing to say. Because although he wasn't relaxed, at least he wasn't angry. He seemed all too happy to let you patch him up, probably delirious from the blood loss, unable to turn you away, but now that he's no longer bleeding all over the floor, he has the strength to glare, to scowl. And you should probably be scared. But you know he won't hurt you. Can't. So, you stand your ground.
"Are you in some sort of gang?"
"I don't have to answer you."
"I don't think you work for the police. You have that lawlessness to you. So, what is it? Drugs? Mafia? One of those costumed freaks outside on the street?"
"Shut up."
"You don't look like a follower though. I doubt you're some goon. Maybe you're new, been training for this moment. Are you some up and coming villain here to take over Gotham now that Batman's de—"
And you choke, his hands wrapped around your neck, squeezing. It's not enough to kill you, no, of course not, because then that would be counterproductive on his part. It's just supposed to scare you, to keep you quiet, the way his fingers tighten. And you think that the connection you share somehow dampens the effects the receiver gets from the original source because he doesn't look the least bit affected by his hold. That, or he's been through worse. Which wouldn't surprise you.
You really should have kept your mouth shut. The original plan was just to take care of him and leave, a sort of repayment for the groceries, the door, the creepy tenant, but you're angry, have been angry for so long. Because all his good deeds these past few weeks don't erase the hurt you've experienced the past two years. Old feelings of resentment bubble to the surface and you don't care that your life is in his hands right now.
"You don't know anything, little mouse." His words are low but the stillness in his apartment makes it easy to hear him, to feel the impact. "You think just because we have some voodoo link, I won't hurt you?"
"You won't kill me."
"No, of course not, mouse. But I can make you regret ever speaking to me like that." His grip tightens slightly. "You think I'm scared of a little pain? I've crawled out of hell myself."
And you imagine that this sneer shakes people to the core, the way it twists the simple letter on his face. But you have the same thing on yours and you feel pity instead. Because along with all the anger, there is hurt, and sadness, and confusion, and loneliness.
Because this link was supposed to be a gift, a miracle. At least that's what the books said, the old folktales, and it was, it was something to celebrate, to cherish. Until the years tainted it, mangled its magic in such a way that something that was supposed to be, had potential to be, love left you broken.
"D-don't underes-estimate me." You say between struggled breaths. "Y-you may not ha-have se-en me b-but I, I was there, t-too."
You don't expect to be let go so you crumble to the floor, knees taking the brunt of your fall. You see him twitch slightly but other than that, he seems fine. Physically. He's staring you down like he doesn't know what to do with you, what to make of you, and you can't blame him. You don't know what's happening either, what's going to happen. Because everything's a mess and you don't know if the two of you are tied together because you're supposed to be together or you're supposed to ruin each other.
"It—It wasn't my fault." He grits out like the words are painful to say, like they're tearing through his vocal cords. "I, I didn't choose to be tortured."
And you want to say that neither did you, but you have enough tact to keep quiet because this, this is one of those things that you've wondered about for so long.
"You think you understand, but you weren't there, not really. You didn't see these monsters, what they did to me. You didn't see the looks on their faces. They—they were angry with me, hurt me for things I didn't do. And for the things I did, they did so much worse. And, and they were happy to do it. Glad that I couldn't fight back, that I wasn't in my right mind, that I was bound. Helpless. For all my training, I couldn't do shit."
"So don't you dare put this on me, mouse. I'm not to blame here. I'm as much a, a victim as you are." he spits the word out like he hates the fact that it's the truth, that it's a part of him as much as anything. Because you can see now that he's built to fight and although you don't know him, not really, not at all, you know that he was made to protect. That for all his anger, his glares, his scowls, his brute nature, he was someone who could do so much more, that he was someone who once never thought of hurting anyone who didn't deserve it.
And maybe it's the link, maybe it's the way you can see him clearly now that his walls have been kicked down, burned, but you can see why his presence, the very idea of him existing somewhere in this world, once brought you comfort, peace.
And you remember.
You remember the writings on your skin, the way they tickled with every stroke that appeared on your your arms, the palm of your hands. You remembered the lists he'd make, the little reminders. The doodles you can imagine him doing in class when he simply couldn't be bothered to pay attention. You remember the quotes, the poems, the song lyrics. And you wonder how you could ever think that someone who was so gentle, who seemed so kind, could ever think to hurt you. And you think that you always knew about him, but never once did you make yourself known. You never wrote back to him, never completed his songs, never drew anything for him.
And you think that although he had kept you company, you had left him alone.
…
Jason expected the tears. He has that effect on people he's threatened, verbally attacked. But this, this is different.
Because there's something almost childlike to her crying, the way she curls up and just sobs, screaming like she can't find the words to express whatever it is that she's feeling inside, the frustration, the hurt, the anger. And, Jason understands, knows what it's like to just want to scream at the world because it's done nothing but hurt him. But he's never had to luxury to do so, not really, could never bring himself to openly sob, let his emotions out as freely as she does.
Because it's a sign of weakness. It shows that there's a breaking point. That some things can be too much.
And he's jealous. Jealous that she can be weak, that she can break, that she can show that there is only so much she can take. So, he lets her. He lets her cry in the middle of his apartment until she goes hoarse, until there's no voice left in her, no tears, only harsh breathing, and the shudder of her shoulders to show that she's hasn't passed out on him.
"I'm sorry," she whispers when she's finally calmed down. She hasn't moved from her spot, from the little ball she's made herself into, and Jason thinks that maybe she can't look at him.
"You're not the one who did this to us," Jason says, feeling exhausted. It's been a long night and all he wants is to just go to sleep. Lately he's been too tired to dream or, at least, too tired to remember his nightmares, so he's been getting some rest. It's not much, but it's better than before.
"Neither did you. So, I'm sorry I blamed you." She looks at him now. Her cheeks are soaked, her hair and the mask stick to her skin but she doesn't do anything about it. "This link, this connection, I thought it was like a fairytale come true."
And Jason snorts. Because he once thought so, too. When he was younger, he had found a book in Bruce's library about links like this, the different varieties, the way it brought people together. It was nice knowing that there could be someone out there specially for him, someone who would love him. Because for so long he went without anyone on his side, without anyone who wanted him. And the idea that someone in the universe was made to love him? Well, he couldn't be that lucky.
But he wished he was. He really wished that he was part of that one percent that had this link.
And here she is, his little mouse, and he's done nothing but hurt her. Even if he didn't want to, didn't mean to, the damage was done. To both of them. And Jason has to wonder if a link can break, if the people on either side were too hurt, too angry, too broken to be put together.
"I bet it looks like a horror story right now."
"I think I could have loved you," she begins, and Jason feels what little of his heart that's left twinge, ache. "I wanted to love you. But, but the pain…it was so much. I was so scared. And I didn't know what was causing it, not really. You had your monsters. I only had this connection to you."
She pushes herself up to sit, to look at him without her hair in her face, without tears in her eyes. And Jason, Jason doesn't know what to do. Because what can you do when someone tells you that they wanted to love you, that the thing you wanted the most, the thing you prayed for as a child, was right there in front of you, broken?
"I'm, I'm sorry," Jason whispers, not knowing what else to say. He's sorry that he wasn't careful when he was Robin, he's sorry that the Joker put them through torture, he's sorry that even when he got out, he only fought harder, didn't care what happened to him as long as he got his revenge. But again, it wasn't, isn't his fault. Not all of it, really. He didn't know she was there, that she existed. "Why…why didn't you try to contact me? If, if I knew you were there… I…"
I would have been careful. I would have fought harder. For the right thing. I wouldn't have been alone.
"It's not your fault. Don't, don't apologize. I…I should say sorry—I am sorry." She traces the skin of her arm with her fingers in an almost comforting manner. Like how you'd stroke a puppy, lightly, gently, with love.
"When you grow up and no one wants to listen to you, you start to think you don't have anything important to say at all," she explains. "I was happy when I found out you existed. I, I didn't know who you were, of course, but I was happy you were somewhere out there, you know? I just, I didn't want to scare you away with…me. No one really wants to stay with me."
"What was the universe thinking, putting us together?" Jason breathes out. "What? We're both fucked up that's why we're perfect for each other?"
"Misery does love company," she says with a shrug.
But she doesn't look as hopeless as Jason feels right now, doesn't look betrayed. Because Jason thought this link was supposed to be good, pair him with someone who was going to love him in a way that he's never felt before. Unconditionally. But how can she love him when he's hurt her? How can he love her when there's no love in him to give?
It all just seemed like another middle finger the world just loved to send his way.
"Maybe we aren't supposed to be fucked up together," she says breaking the silence, taking Jason out of his thoughts. "Maybe, maybe we're supposed to heal. Together."
And Jason hasn't been one half of a duo in so long and, and he's so tired. So tired of all the pain, the anger, the loneliness. And here's someone the universe is saying could love him, is supposed to love him, and all Jason really wanted was to be loved, to be seen, and he's broken, she crumbled to pieces right before his eyes, but maybe together, they can build something, make something that would turn all the ugliness they have into something beautiful.
After Part II
No matter how magical the link seemed, how the stories described it as something that brought two people together, made people fall in love, you and Jason aren't friends. Not yet.
You don't hate each other, don't glare, or spit out poisonous words at one another, but you aren't friends. It's hard, after everything, to be anything more than neighbors, but at least you aren't strangers. Not anymore. You can't pour your heart out, scream into the heavens in someone's apartment and remain strangers.
So, neighbors.
It's an interesting relationship to have. In all your years living in Gotham City, you don't think you've ever looked at your neighbors let alone talk to them in the hallway, have them help you bring your things up the staircase when you run into each other in the lobby. And. It's nice. After being on your own for so long, it's nice to have someone welcome you back when you've been gone, to ask how you've been even if it's just a question to fill the silence, to seem polite.
It's nice to know Jason, to have someone make you feel that you aren't alone.
…
It's late.
You've always found that you work better in the night, that editing videos with all the lights turned off, with nothing but Gotham's city noise to keep you company, was so much easier than it was in the daytime. Maybe it's because you know no one would disturb you this late, that you wouldn't receive any phone calls or expect to answer emails at this time so you can work uninterrupted, get into the zone of putting videos together, find out the best transition between clips, to make them more interesting, more engaging. Or maybe it's the aesthetic of being dressed in your pajamas, headphones on, sitting on your swivel chair in a way that you can't do in an office that makes you think that this, this is how an editor should work.
Either way, the point is that you're awake and maybe that's why he comes to you, drags himself through your open window, landing on your floor in a heap.
It's a miracle that you don't scream.
"Jason?" You ask dumbly, scrambling to grab your mask from your table, hiding your face from him. It seems almost fair seeing as he's currently concealed by a red helmet. "Is that you?"
"Hi there, mouse," he groans, stretching out on your floor, hands petting your fluffy rug. "This is nice. Where'd you get this?"
"I ordered it online—What's happening? Why are you dressed like that?"
"Just took care of some business. Nothing to worry about." But the way he hasn't moved from his spot on the floor makes you worry anyway. "You got some ice here?"
"Sure, let me—" And it hurts. You feel it when you stand, the way your ankle throbs when you put your weight on it. You didn't notice while you worked, too focused on adding animation to the video to make it funny, to emphasis a joke, but now, now it hurts. It's not blinding, not to the point that you can't walk. It's the link, you think. Whatever injury Jason has, you get the dampened version of it, which says a lot about how much pain he's really in, what he isn't showing you. "It's broken, isn't it?"
"Nah. I doubt it. I just landed wrong."
"You don't normally make that mistake," you say.
"I'm only human."
And it's the way that he says it, the edge in his tone, that makes you drop the subject. You limp out your room and make quick work getting the things you need to ice and wrap both your ankles. When you pass by the mirror outside your room, you pull your mask down to check if Jason has any other injuries he isn't telling you about. Luckily his helmet shielded him from most of the damage, but it seems like he's bit his lip. You lick the blood off your own before slipping your mask back on.
"I can do it myself," Jason says when you reach for the clasps of his boots. You see the guns he has strapped to his thighs but think that like any gun wielding person you see in Gotham, it's none of your business. "Mouse. Stop."
"Let me help you." you say, suddenly tired. Your own ankle is nagging at you now, your position on the floor isn't doing it any favors, and you wish you had at least finished your draft because you don't think you'll be getting back to your computer tonight. "Please, Jason, let me at least do this."
"You're hurt, too."
"Not as bad as you."
And, finally, he lets you take care of him. And you think that it's been a long time coming. That you were always the first person to know when he was hurt, when he needed help, and finally, finally you're here to do so. It's not much, he'll definitely be better off at a hospital, but something tells you that he isn't going to go to one even you have to drag him there yourself. So, you do your best. He helps you remove his heavy-duty footwear, and you wince at the swelling.
"This is more than a bad landing," you say, icing the ankle. You have a timer for twenty minutes already counting down on your phone.
"It's two years' worth of bad landings."
You know that can't be true, that there's more to that statement. That the weeks you've been bedridden because you couldn't walk was because of his monsters. That wherever they kept him, they made sure he couldn't leave. But you keep quiet, knowing that Jason doesn't do well when prodded for answers, that he'll tell you things on his own time.
"Well, you better decide what we're watching this week because we're not leaving the bed for some time."
And Jason laughs, a low chuckle that makes a shiver run down your spine. You look at him through your lashes and you hate that you can't see his face right now, that you don't know what he looks like when he laughs.
"Now, mouse, if you wanted to get me into bed, you only had to ask."
"Oh my God. Shut up. You're the worst." And your glad that he can't see your face either. That he doesn't see how affected you are by him.
"You love me."
He doesn't mean to say it. You see the way he stiffens after the words leave his mouth and you don't have to see his face to know that he's cringing, grimacing. And you should ignore it. Act like you didn't hear him. It's the polite thing to do. You'd probably want him to do the same if the tables were turned.
But, at the same time, you think that maybe, just maybe, this is a chance. That maybe this link between the two of you hasn't twisted in such a way that it can't go back to how it was before, that it can still be fixed, cleaned, brought back to its former glory.
"Not yet," you tell him quietly, almost like it's a secret, something that only the two of you should know. "But I could, Jason Todd. I want to."
…
"Hey, you didn't forget the dog food, did you?"
"How could I? Your reminder took up my entire forearm."
"I wanted to make sure you got my message!"
"Well, I did. So, congrats. What do you need dog food for? I thought mice only ate cheese."
"Haha. Very funny. It's for the puppy that stays by the back door. She makes me want to cry."
"Oh. You should have said so. I could have gotten some toys, too."
"And a bed? And treats? Wait, I'll write it down."
"Paper! Write it on paper!"
…
Jason hears the scream in his dream.
It breaks through the scene, distracts him from what's happening, and it tears him out of the dream almost violently. He shoots up from his place on his living room floor, his breathing quick, gasping, almost panicked, and he has to tell himself—out loud so that it's real, that it's not just wistful thinking—that it's over, that it's all over and he's free. That by some miracle he's okay, he's safe.
But the screams weren't from him, weren't caused by his nightmares. It's coming from next door, his little mouse's apartment, and he's moving before he knows it, practically tearing out his door in the process to get to her.
(It's a good thing that her apartment is practically baby proofed, her table's corners guarded with soft padding, because Jason hip checks into one in his rush. It's something he's been meaning to bring up for a while, how her apartment is carefully designed to keep her safe from those small accidents people have with their furniture—stubbed toes, bumped hips, pinched fingers. He doesn't want to be cocky, to think that this thing between them is more than it is, that the link is just that, a connection, doesn't dictate what they are to each other, not really, but he wants to think, believe that maybe, just maybe, she did it for him. That she tries her best to not get hurt so that he wouldn't either.)
She's awake when he reaches her room, knees to her chest, hands covering her face, shoulders shuddering with every exhale. She looks smaller like this, somehow, more vulnerable, and Jason, Jason has never been good at handling things that were fragile, breakable, but he wants to try.
He thinks that she was with him in hell, and she survived, so she won't fall into pieces just from his touch.
But honestly, it's Jason who's having a hard time reaching out. It feels like he's going to fall into pieces because it's been so long, too long since he's touched somebody without it hurting. And maybe, maybe it would be the same for her, maybe she'd rather he just stay in the same room, comfort her with his presence, maybe he'll even find the right words to say.
But he remembers the way her fingers trace over her skin when something's bothering her, when she's distressed. Thinks about how she grabs hold of her own hand, squeezing it to ground herself. And he thinks about how his writings used to bring her comfort, how she said they always made her feel less alone.
So, he grabs a pen from her table and slowly, carefully, writes the first thing he thinks of on his arm.
I'm here for you
I'll always be here
…
"So, you edit videos for…vloggers?"
"I do commercials for small businesses, too. But yeah, vloggers."
"Vlog…gers. Video bloggers."
"It's not that strange."
"Why would you want to watch what people do in their life?"
"I don't know… maybe it's entertaining to see how people live outside Gotham City? I edit for a Metropolis vlogger. I saw Superman in the background of some of her shots."
"I just don't get it."
"You watch reality TV."
"That's only because I lost the remote and you know it."
…
It's easy to forget with how he carries himself, confidently, dangerously, like he's bigger than everyone else, that Jason slouches, that he walks with a hunch in his shoulders, that his back curves in a way that can't be comfortable.
It's not so bad when he wears his brace, when there's something to support him, but some days, some days he can't bring himself to put it on. That he's just so tired from the night before—maybe even consecutive nights when things in Gotham City get too hectic, when the bad people get cocky, in over the heads— that he just chooses to be in pain. Or he just can't help it. That maybe staying on the floor, on top of his new rug that you ordered for him, was better than moving.
Which is frustrating. But it's not like you can wrestle him into one when he doesn't want to wear it. You learned quickly that you can't force Jason to do anything, that it's a surefire way to end the day in a bad mood, so you think that there must be another way to help him because no matter how much he brushes it off, no matter the fact that pain is something he's used to, he doesn't have to deal with it.
"No, mouse. No drugs." Jason says weakly when you kneel beside him, warm compress, massage oil, and some pain relievers in your hands. The internet said it should help. You even looked up some stretching exercises.
"You sure?"
"Definitely. I hate that shit."
And you don't ask. You think that it's related to his monsters, to those two years, so you tuck the pills into your pocket and gently coax Jason back on his stomach. It would probably be better if he were on a bed, someplace more comfortable, but he's never been able to relax on one, not really. He'll sit with you, sometimes long enough to finish a movie, but he'll never stay, never let the pillows cushion his head, never tuck himself under the duvet.
Jason visibly sags in relief when you apply the warm compress on his back, lets out a low groan. His eyes flutter close, and you think this, this is what he looks like when he's at peace, when he feels safe and, well, warm. You think that Jason Todd deserves to rest, that he of all people needs a break.
"How is it you're not in pain?" He mutters out after a few minutes, one eye cracking open to look at you.
"Maybe it's like a loophole in the link," you say. You move the warm compress away when the timer rings. "Like how you don't feel my period cramps."
"Are they really that bad?"
"Nothing compared to what we've been though, no. But they're inconvenient. How are you feeling?"
Jason stretches a bit, and you hear a pop. He lets out a sign, melting into the rug once more. "Better."
"You think you can get up? Want to put on your brace?"
"It's better if I do."
"I'll go get it."
You don't remember when Jason's apartment started becoming familiar. You think that it's normal to think so, that your apartment has the same layout, but it's different. You know Jason's apartment, every nook and cranny of it, the things he keeps on display and the things he prefers you don't know about, or at least see.
You know where he keeps his medical equipment, all the places where he's tucked a first aid kit, where he keeps his everyday braces, the ones he has for his back, his knees, his bad ankle. They're different from the ones he wears to "work." The more heavy-duty ones are in the room you try to stay away from, scared that you might touch something the wrong way, set something off.
You know how he likes to keep his books organized, putting away the paperbacks he's forgotten to tidy up when he leaves, making sure the bookmarks don't slip through the pages. You know how he likes to put his groceries away, how he organizes his pantry so that the items close to expiring are in the front, so they don't get forgotten, don't go to waste.
What you don't know is how long ago you and Jason have moved on from simply being neighbors, how long it took for you to know his life as intimately as you do now, to know how he lives in his little world on the other side of yours.
"What do you say we get out of here?"
Jason asks when you come return to the living room, still lying on his stomach, not in a rush to move, to disturb the comfort he's found himself in.
"Like, outside?" You look out his open window, see that the sun's behind the clouds but it's still bright. It's been a while since you thought Gotham as bright, having lived in its shadows for so long. "I heard the park has been renovated."
It reopened last week and you've seen nothing but good news about it online. People were excited to see something nice, something new, untouched by the incident.
"We can," Jason begins, pushing himself off the floor. You reach out to help him, but he holds up his hand, stopping you. Somethings, he prefers to do by himself. "But that's not what I'm talking about."
He looks nervous. Almost shy. Which is cute if not a little unnerving.
"How about we move? Move out of this apartment?"
"Together?" You're surprised that you're not opposed to this idea. In fact, you like it. A lot. "That's, uh, are we ready for that?"
"We're at each other's place all the time anyway and I'll feel better knowing you're safe. With me." He scratches the back of his head, eyes darting away from you, blush crawling up his neck. "This place is a shithole, mouse. We can get some place better—better plumbing, better ventilation, better security."
And you smile. "Getting sick of the cold showers, huh?"
"I just wanna feel clean, mouse. I miss hot water."
"Well, if you put it that way."
And Jason, you always thought Jason was good-looking, beautiful in that rugged way of his, but when he smiles, looks at you like you've given him something he's always wanted, he's breathtaking.
…
"So, how do you propose we move our things?"
"You have a car in the garage don't you? Why don't we just use that?"
"Oh yeah? Who's going to drive it?"
"You? Mouse, it's your car."
"No. It was my dad's. I don't know how to drive."
"How can you not know how to drive?"
"I'm barely out of high school, Jason. Why can't you drive?"
"Bruce and Alfred never got around to teaching me."
"Well, I guess I'll have to look up moving companies then."
"…You're, you're not underage, are you, mouse?"
"I'm nineteen. Twenty this August."
"Oh. Good, good. Same."
…
This, this is difficult.
The bed. He's not used to it. There was a time when he was excited about it, after living on the streets for so long, the bed at the Manor was godsend, never believed he'd ever touch something so soft yet firm with such a high thread count. He imagined that his old bed was something Goldilocks looked for, the exact bed baby bear had.
And there's no doubt about it. This bed in their new apartment is good, comfortable, one of the best that they could afford. It's just, Jason can't sleep on it, can't get himself to relax, to allow his body to accept the comfort. Because it's been a long two years with nothing but wood or concrete to pass out on. Jason's even found himself hanging on a meat hook once or twice, dozing off from the blood loss, the beatings. And maybe back then he'd give anything to be back on his bed, even the one he had before he was on the streets, the old lumpy mattress with the springs sticking out.
But now, now all Jason wants is to move to the living room floor, to sleep on the rug they brought over.
"Jason?" She asks from outside her bedroom door, voice sleepy, barely above a whisper. She has her hands up to cover the lower half of her face, probably not expecting to see Jason out this late at night. "Is that you?"
"I have to ask, mouse, what would you do if it wasn't me?" Jason asks from the shadows, from his place on the floor in front of their sofa.
"Scream. Then you'll come out and beat the intruder's ass." She shuffles closer, her bedroom slippers muting her footsteps. "Are you okay?"
And isn't that the million-dollar question? Jason thought he was. He thought he was getting better. He thought he's moved on from the worst of what's happened in the abandoned wing in Arkham Asylum. He thought he's moved on from that Halloween, moved on from the Arkham Knight. Yet here he is, on the cold living room floor, unable to fall asleep in his own goddamn bed.
"Y'know, I never thought about it, but this is pretty comfy."
All of a sudden, she's next to him, the throw blanket over her shoulders, corners held up to cover her face. She's made sure that there's still space between them, that she doesn't sit too close, but it's enough, enough to feel her warmth, to know that she's there.
"It sort of feels like a sleepover, doesn't it?"
"Have you ever been to a sleepover, mouse?"
"Don't be rude. You know how much people scare me."
"Not so much anymore though, right?"
And although he can't see it, he knows she smiles. Because she's still his little mouse, still a bit skittish around strangers, but she's trying, she's getting better at meeting people's eye, at returning greetings. She's even made friends with the kid across the hall, helps her with her homework sometimes.
"Not so much, no, but I live in fear of the water bowl trick."
"What's that?"
"It's the worst. I see it in movies all the time. So, you wait for someone to fall asleep first, right? And you warm some water…"
Jason doesn't realize what she's doing until it's too late. Doesn't realize the way the gentle tone of her voice lulls him to sleep, her steady speech providing some comfort he didn't know he needed, wanted. And Jason never really liked the silence, not like before, no longer found comfort when all he could hear were his own thoughts. So, this little story, some nonsensical tale about warm water and waking up in a wet bed, allows Jason to relax, allows him to succumb to his exhaustions, allows him to sleep.
…
When Jason wakes in the morning, the first thing he realizes is that he feels well rested, his nightmares decided to give him a break for once, finally let him experience what it's like to not wake up tired. The next, the blanket she was using was now thrown over him, tangled in his legs. Last, she's cooking.
It's nothing extravagant, nothing like the breakfasts he's had at the Manor once upon a time. But it's enough. Jason's been having trouble with food again. Some days it's hard to stomach the heavy stuff, the greasy kind of food he used to salivate over when he was younger. He's glad that she somehow knew this, predicted that he needed something light after last night.
And he's grateful. Thankful. Thinks that this, this is what he read about in those books all those years ago. Thinks that this is what the link promised him.
…
"I know it's none of my business but…"
"But?"
"But you should know that, that it's okay. It's okay to show your face around me."
"I, I didn't think you'd want to see it."
"I have it on my own face, mouse. It's not like it's going to surprise me."
"I know. I, I just thought it would be harder to look at when it's on me."
"Mouse. You're always going to be easy on the eyes."
"Flatterer."
"It's true. Just, think about it, okay? I mean, I'm no stranger to masks. I get it. I just wanted you to know that it's okay. You're okay. With me. I, I'd like to see your face if you'd let me."
…
It's quiet tonight.
Gotham, for once, is quiet in a good way.
It's almost like everyone decided that tonight, tonight was going to be a break from, well, everything, and for that, Jason is grateful.
He's tired. He's been tired for so long. And it's nice that he gets this moment of peace. With her. In the quiet.
And it's different than usual. Because although it's quiet, Jason's thoughts aren't hounding on him, aren't reminding him of what he's done, what's been done to him, aren't telling him that this peace he's found with her is temporary, that this link they have is too weak after all its been through, that sooner or later it's going to break and she's going to leave. Because of course she's going to leave him if there's nothing tying them together. Because they always leave. Because why would anyone want to stay—
And.
And Jason can finally tell his thoughts to shove it, to go back in that dark corner of his mind and to stay there. Because he knows, he knows now that this connection is stronger than they thought, that no matter how much they went through, no matter the bruises, the scars, the trauma, it only got stronger, only held them that much tighter. And Jason knows that she isn't going anywhere, that she's here to stay. With him.
"I think this link is getting stronger," she says in a whisper, almost like she's afraid to disturb the quiet. "I can hear your thoughts from here."
"Oh yeah? What am I thinking?"
And she smiles, a shy little quirk of her lips that makes Jason want to shield her from anything and everything that can threaten to take it away from him. Because he earned that smile, longed to see it, and if he could keep her smiling, keep her happy, keep her at peace, then he'll know he's doing something right.
"Why don't you tell me what you're thinking and I'll let you know if it's the same thing I know."
And what is Jason supposed to say? Is he supposed to tell her that after so long he now feels safe? Warm? Wanted? Is he supposed to tell her that he's dreamed of her since he was a child, that he's longed to have someone out there who was meant for just him? That the universe saw the two of them and thought that there is no way that they should not be together?
And Jason thinks that the answer is yes, yes, he should tell her that. Because she deserves to know. But, but can he really? Is he really capable of the feelings he has swirling inside of him? He's been angry for so long, hurt for even longer, believed that he was broken. Could someone like him feel this way about her?
"Hey, Jason, why are you crying?"
He thinks of the way she was once curled up in his living room, screaming, tears running down her face. He remembers thinking that she cried in almost a childlike way, the kind of cry you do when you don't have the words to express everything that's in your heart. He remembers being jealous. Jealous that he couldn't do the same.
But maybe, maybe he can. Maybe that's what he's doing right now. Maybe the child in him just couldn't sob openly the way she could. Maybe, just maybe, the child in Jason could only cry quietly, could only cry without gaining attention so he wouldn't get into trouble.
And isn't it a relief that when the tears slide down his cheeks, wet the pillow he's lying on, she doesn't scream, doesn't get angry. She only coos, speaks to him in a gentle way, in a way that makes him know that this, this is okay.
"It's okay, Jason. You'll be okay."
"Can, can I, is it okay for me to feel this?"
"Feel what?"
"Because, for…for so long, all I wanted was to be loved. And, and I thought that I didn't deserve it, that after everything I've done, no one could love me and…" The words are difficult, almost painful to say, but he has to, he has to try because she has to know. "And I thought maybe, maybe I was too fucked up, too broken to love, but mouse. This, this feeling. These feelings I have for you, what else could it be? How can someone like me feel this way? How is it even possible?"
And she's quiet. Thinking. She wipes his tears with the soft pad of her thumb, traces his cheeks like he could break if she pressed too strongly. And it took a while before he allowed her to touch him like this, allowed her to treat him with such kindness. Because he's gone too long without it and it scared him. But now, now he looks for it some days. Craves her touch, the warmth, the kindness. And he revels in it.
"I think," she begins, her voice shaky, like the words are trying to come out all at once and she's trying to get control of them. "I think you are love, Jason. For so long you had to be tough, you had to be cold and hard and unfeeling, but I think, I think if you were only given the chance, you would have been nothing but love."
"I was made to fight. To protect."
"No, Jason, you were built to love."
And there's no way he can keep it to himself now. No way that he can keep it from pouring out when she tells him that, looks at him like that.
"I love you," he rasps out. "Is that okay? Is it okay to love you?"
"It's more than okay, Jason. I love you, too. So much." And she laughs, a weepy sort of laugh, but she looks happy, so happy, and Jason has a hard time believing that it's because of him, that he can make someone as happy as she is right now. "Even without the link I think I would have found you and I would have loved you. You make it so easy to love you, Jason. And I love you. I love you. I love you."
…
When Jason wakes up, the first thing he realizes is that he's in bed. He'd fallen asleep next to her, wrapped his arms around her in his sleep, pulled her close so that her back was pressed against his chest. It's a first. Sleeping in bed. Sleeping with her. The next, he realizes that he's in love. So, in love that it almost feels like a dream, but he knows dreams and this, this isn't one of them. This is real. Last, he's okay. More than okay, really. He's finally happy.
a/n:
the conversation about jason not knowing how to drive is inspired by scaryscarecrows post on tumblr
also jason's broken ankle and bad back is from lananiscorner on tumblr as well
